Posted on 5/6/2015 by Daddy Will in gay gay men grief loss death illness

I threw this together for Jack's and my San Francisco friends and extended families. We've been visited by some pretty harsh reality and profound sadness regarding the very grave condition of a beloved member of our community. I prefer not to name names, or post his photo. Though this is a tribute to him, I've no desire to use the schazenfreude of his situation to promote myself. And, if you have no clue who I'm talking about, this is just my testimonial or homage to the inevitable loss that we all face in life. Regardless of our beliefs, or lack thereof. There remain times when we all pray for a miracle.


OK, I need to come clean here.

I have any number of activities I could be doing today,  several required domestic chores and obligations, as well as any number of "elective" pleasures I could be indulging in. Not to mention that there are even a handful of extremely attractive buddies I could be doing.

I'm back on track with my diet and workout program, have accomplished few little projects that required skills I didn't know I had.  My depression and anxiety are at bay.   I'm my generally optimist, content, and positive self, full of faith and hope, and filled with gratitude for what is my life.

But the truth is, I'm experiencing a certain level of melancholy and sadness.

This is not about self-indulgent self-pity. It's just about the fact that there are things beyond our control that are not only difficult to accept, but impossible to approve of.

I think many of us here in San Francisco are dealing with this in the last several days. We've had a brush with reality this week, delivered in the manner of a grave prognosis that resulted from what we're to believe was an rather routine surgical procedure performed on a member of our community.  A gentleman that is a friend to many and at least an acquaintance to even more of us here in the city.

Men of my era and myself are no strangers to loss.  Hell, we faced an onslaught of loss it the 80's and early 90's that is unfathomable today. It was loss on a wholesale basis, Costco sized portions of grief. Every day was like being kicked in gut when you heard that yet another friend had been "diagnosed."  In fact, it seems that for several years I just remained bent over, ready to vomit.  The grief became so much a part of life that it had a way of leveling out all other emotions. We did our best to remain animated, to go through the motions, to attempt to fool ourselves into looking towards if not a better future, at least some end to the present manner of things.

Little by little, we began to see the light of hope, many experiencing it firsthand in their own survival.  We began to rebuild, to bring life back to our social structure.  We still had some of our silly and frivolous ways, but we were changed.  I know if you're like me, even those you may have once perceived as foes you were able to see as dear friend, whether they had passed or were very much alive and encountered on the street.|

Life went on, people still came out and joined the community, people still moved away or died.  Many of us that had become somewhat reclusive began to step back out into the light of day, or the safe darkness of the night which in the past was our playground, our safe place.


Many, like myself have gone on to live in two worlds.  I live with the memories visited upon me by the ghosts of my past, as well as creating new memories with fellow survivors and new friends.  My experience has allowed me the curse of gut wrenching grief, as well as the blessing of appreciating the preciousness of life.   My days are filled with joyful experiences, and when you see a tear in my eye, it's not a tear of sadness so much as a tear of joy, thinking of somebody long gone that would have enjoyed the many changes that have come to past.

In fact, now I've come to the place where many of my contemporaries are succumbing to the natural process of aging.  They're having hips and knees replace, heart valves reamed out and restored.. prostate issues, hell, I suppose even erectile dysfunction could be considered a luxury if it's age related.   I personally almost embrace the fact that even when I feel like I have to pee even when I'm actually in the act of pissing itself. I've  resigned myself to the fact that my stream of urine generally comes on at about the time I stuff my junk back into my pants.

Having me piss on you would not be considered a Golden Shower, and hardy a Water Sport, unless you consider slow Chinese Water Torture a sport.  Yeah, I'll piss on ya, one drop at a time.

And as far as ejaculation?  I haven't hit the ceiling fan in years.  When I blow my load it has all the erotic impact of a urinary discharge.  And I've abused steroids for so long that my testicles long ago atrophied to the size of raisins and then seemed to take their leave altogether.  My scrotum is the actual size of a real teabag at this point.  If I want to wear a cock ring I have to use a staple or duct tape to hold it on.

I still wake up stiff in the mornings, just that it's no longer my Johnson  but my many other joints.  But, I almost always wake up laughing, even if it's to laugh at me attempts to get erect, as in stand straight.

Life is pretty fucking wonderful, but not so wonderful that I'm immune to sadness.  Not so wonderful that it hurts to lose a fellow that I only wish I'd had a chance to know better.

I'm going to allow myself to feel sad today, to grieve what seems to be an impending loss.  I'm praying for a miracle in my own Atheist/Buddhist way, ever hopeful, but yet pragmatic.


I can feel sad and melancholy today because I know I'm not alone.  I have a city full of friends, acquaintances, and brothers in the form of total strangers that are feeling sad as well.

Right now I'm going to hug my cats, count the countless blessings in my life. Realize how fortunate I am to have an amazing husband that is first my best friend, brother, soul mate, partner and provider in the purest sense of the words.

I'll notice that our oldest guinea pig Angus Peabody has developed a cataract in one eye, and is getting somewhat elderly.  I'll take a moment to pick him up, hold and stroke him, even though it pisses him off and he'll snap at me.  I'm selfish, I'm doing it for me, because I can, because he's still here with us, part of our home and family.  But, in so doing, there are countless faces that will pass through my mind. The faces of lost friend, lovers, mere acquaintances, and even a few old enemies, and think of what I'd give for the opportunity to hug the one last time.  Poor Angus, I wonder if he'll ever reach a plane of existence where he realizes that he was a surrogate for my memories.

Go ahead, it's ok to feel sad today.


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