The month of May is always one of those nature anomalies that, no matter who you are or where you live, forever conjures up the same pastoral imagery: wildflowers abloom, the closure of another school year, nesting birds chirping noisily in the trees and, always, sunshiny, beautiful weather overseeing a grandeur of gardening here to stay through Labor Day.
May is every year’s fairytale month
Just this very morning I counted the explosive number of potted plants coming into flower on my balcony, sweatily pondering why I spend three solid hours, daily, maintaining such an Edenic paradise high up here in the Texan sky (I’m at that tricky gaydom age where one must take up improbable hobbies entirely separate from those previously practiced in the past: i.e., porn addiction, penis-preying and partying poolside).
Excellent plastic surgery can, of course, deliver an entire mirage of delusional youth. But alas — even with regular Botox and planting one’s balcony in begonias, reality distractions these days are, at best, only short-term diversions from a long-term ugliness now accruing in every crack. All avenues of volunteerism are suddenly being eradicated quicker than one can say, “Goodbye, Meals on Wheels.” Everything involving even one scintilla of empathy, L’Orange seems hellbent on erasing just as fast as he can.
Protected sea habitats now welcome fishing trawlers. Our national forests have turned lumberyards, and all medical/science research is suddenly taboo. And then, of course, our Felon in Chief’s wackadoodle obsessions with nonsense — from berating low-flow showerheads, to changing the geographical names of large bodies of water — belie the undercurrents of America’s newly pernicious hatreds, with the LGBTQ community being the beacon of MAGA’s favorite.
Trump’s packed Supreme Court revived his ban on transgender troops after he’d already scrapped nearly $900 worth of earmarked research into the health of the LGBTQ community, “abandoning studies of cancers and viruses that tend to affect members of sexual minority groups and setting back efforts to defeat a resurgence of STDs,” according to The New York Times. “Of the 669 grants canceled by the National Institutes of Health, nearly half of them related to LGBTQ health,” ending studies on antibiotic resistance, undiagnosed autism in sexual minority groups and certain throat and other cancers that disproportionately affect those groups.
And, it goes without saying that any further HIV research is history. What we don’t already know now about HIV, we’ll never know. All further research into PrEP is kaput. Work on all other sexually transmitted illnesses have equally been terminated.
So, the HIV epidemic is going to explode all over again. I lived in New York City during the 1980s and am old enough to remember the walking skeletons covered in lesions. Hard to believe we’re headed back there, yet already young researchers in sexual diseases are abandoning ship in droves.
But nothing quite puts into focus a higher power being on your side than, say, experiencing the unanticipated explosion of your two right tires after striking construction debris in the middle of a busy highway and still managing to simultaneously maneuver your car safely to the side of the road whilst achieving bodily injury to no one. Involuntary reflex take the reins, but so severe was the blood pressure spike that I handled, it decided to handle me back that evening. Suddenly I noticed my computer’s keyboard going blurry; the following morning I began walking like a drunkard. Then I put my shoes on the wrong feet, wondering why they hurt so much.
A visit to a neurologist seemed in order — good luck snagging any immediate neurology appointment via cold-calling!
But I’m blessed with a son-in-law whose greatest virtue is the possession of an utter, shame-free fearlessness when it comes to handling medical crises: “Screw waiting around forever to get an appointment,” he scoffed. “Howard, lemme grab my keys real quick; better, always, to just show up at their office and dare the fothermucks not to see you.”
Hence, only upon my son-in-law’s insistence did our commandeered neurologist indifferently grant me permission for an MRI, squeezing my appointment in as his last patient on a Friday afternoon. Impatiently, they were already turning out the lights just as my veins were being injected with iodine dye.
The weekend silently passed, then Monday, then Tuesday. Still, no word back from our neurologist. No news seemed good news, and the keys on my computer screen were already gradually coming back into focus. Must have been just nothing.
Then came Wednesday. I was standing in the middle of Walgreen’s when the call came in during what had started off as just another day of errands. A panic-stricken voice trembled, “Uhm, Mr. Russell, this is Dr. _. You came to me last week for an MRI.” His voice sounded as though experiencing some difficulty getting enough oxygen. “Mr. Russell, no need for you to panic, sir, but you’ve had several strokes, and I highly recommend perhaps heading to the nearest emergency room. Immediately.”
These aren’t exactly words one typically ever expects to hear. Thank Heaven, I’m completely immune to panic at my age. The sheer volume of death knells I’ve previously triumphed over within my lifetime embody a veritable grab-bag of disconnected horrors ranging the gamut rendered those words into carrying about the same urgency of weight as, oh, “No need to panic, sir, but the troops are running low on quinine.”
I sighed, “So, what am I supposed to say to admissions when I show up at the ER?” This query seemed to utterly stump Dr. Do-Little: “Just, er . . . just tell them you’ve, er, had several strokes, and they’ll know what to do.”
Luck that Wednesday was on my side; the Baylor ER was closest with their crackerjack neurological team, second to none. “Wanna see your brain?” they asked me, pointing to a TV screen. Aghast, I inquired, “What’s that bright white Harry Potter lightning bolt there on the top right side?” Bemused, the staff chuckled, “Why, that would be your stroke, Mr. Russell.
But, don’t you worry, you’ll be good as new again.”
And true to their word, three days later I walked out the door. Miracles ain’t for sissies.
— Howard Lewis Russell
Remember, we’ve some biggies coming up in June next month, not only in the observances of Gay Pride but also Juneteenth, Father’s Day, national Moonshine Day, Rocky Road Ice Cream Day and Hug-Your-Cat Day! Send me anything and everything you got, guys, to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.