E. W. Shannon @ewshannon - Tumblr Blog

Racist Glitter

A new memoir piece on my site:

https://ewshannon.com/racist-glitter

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9/11 + 20

by: E. W. Shannon

I can still remember that day twenty years ago. That day when my old hometown and my childhood memories became buried under a layer of dust and human remains. The day when my partner would drive the twelve miles down to my office in south Phoenix to give me a hug and lay eyes on me, so he knew something in the world remained constant.

Those thousands of people dying, the World Trade Center coming down, the wreckage in the Pentagon, or the scuttled attempt in a field in Pennsylvania would not be the most shocking thing to me that day. Shock came that afternoon when people had taken a breath and the skies no longer hummed with commerce. At the time, I worked in trucking, an industry primarily employing more conservative people, where George Bush's win had been met with joy after eight years of Clinton, who they hated. Before 9/11, I knew there were differences in opinions in American politics, but I was unaware of the great chasm that existed in my own country.

"It's bad that it happened, but if it had to happen anywhere..." or "The only place that deserved it more would have been California." Those were the sentiments repeated aloud by my coworkers. Over the last twenty years I keep seeing people say how they miss 9/12 because we were all united, but from where I stood nothing could have been further from the truth. It wasn't men in planes that took away my sense of security that day, it was my fellow Americans.

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https://ewshannon.com/a-free-cardboard-box

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America wakes.

Did she dream of better days?

Or just more nightmares?

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Being Helped

On November 25th, I broke the pinkie and ring finger on my left hand while riding my bike. Actually, that's not true, I broke them hitting the concrete. There wasn't much pain at the time, but I did have to do something uncomfortable: ask for help. I called my partner and ask him to collect me (and my bike). He took me to urgent care where they confirmed the breaks and outfitted me with a comically large cast. On December 10th, the doctor inserted four pins (two per finger) and they remained in me until January 4th.

Other than the intense pain after the insertion of the pins, the only other discomfort I experienced was asking for help. Suddenly jars and Ziploc closures lay just beyond my abilities. Food preparation also presented many hurdles. I could no longer cut vegetables or even manipulate some of my heavier pans and lids. I felt awful having to ask my partner to stem and halve Brussel sprouts, dice onions, open cans, and retrieve pots and pans from the depths of our cabinets. He also became my driver for a month, an activity he's not terribly fond of in the best of circumstances and probably even less so with me in the vehicle.

One day, I forget what prompted it, he gave me a little gift of words, "Finally get to pay you back for all the times you've driven me to doctor appointments and procedures." The first thing that popped into my mind was, "Why does he feel like he owes me? I was happy to do those things." The word 'happy' made me pause. Indeed, I had been happy to drive him to those appointments and not just because he's amusing coming out of the effects of twilight anesthesia. (Once, on the way home from a back procedure, he told me the same story three times like I was sitting on hold with the oddest recording playing.) As I scrolled through my memory, remembering taking care of my last partner, my grandmother, various free yoga classes I've taught to charity volunteers, and other volunteer opportunities I've taken part in, I remembered the feeling of happiness associated with each one. And not just happiness, but happiness and fulfillment.

Suddenly I no longer felt guilty for asking for help. My partner has volunteered for countless charities since I've known him. He is one of those people who still holds a feeling of service to others as being a normal part of daily life, not just something done during the holidays. He's even found a way to continue volunteering during the pandemic while keeping socially distanced. He understands the feeling of contentment gotten from helping others. Who am I to deny him that feeling?

Sometimes I wonder if our constant need to monetize everything has made asking for help harder. There is no payment for help, there is no reciprocal relationship inherent in helping others, if you help a stranger, someone you will never see again, the only thing you can expect is that joyful feeling of helping and possibly a "thank you." And it's a good thing, can you imagine bargaining with a stranger from inside your burning house as they stood holding a ladder? "Venmo me twenty dollars and I'll put the ladder up to your window, thirty dollars and I'll hold it steady." I fear the concept of uninhibited help is the last thread tethering the human species to a moral center.

I don't recall anyone ever teaching me to ask for help as a child. Stop-drop-and-roll, stranger danger, say 'no' to drugs, and only I can prevent forest fires, but never the concept of asking for help. I first remember "volunteering" for something when a family I was spending the weekend with drafted me into taking part in a beach clean-up in the Hamptons. At first, I was less than thrilled (my general mood in my teenage years) to spend part of my weekend picking up trash, but once we had our section completed there was a glimmer of pride shining through my thick teenage angst. Of course, at that age you don't have the wherewithal to look at both sides of the equation and figure out somebody had to ask for volunteers.

So, if you need help, ask for it knowing you are giving somebody the opportunity to feel connected to something other than social media for a moment and a positive self-image to look back on when the world might tell them otherwise. It's part of what creates community and part of what builds compassion, two ideas lacking in the world today. Remember this quote from Kate Northrup: "Having a need and needing help is not a sign that you're weak, it's a sign that you're human."

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Why would a search for “lean pockets” on the Albertsons app give me Tampax?

Is “lean pockets” a euphemism I don’t know about?

A story poignant for World AIDS Day:

Dick Jokes and Death

by E. W. Shannon

Fredo, my partner, grew sicker as the minutes ticked passed. At only twenty-seven and in the twenty-first century, evidence of AIDS had permeated every part of his body because old straight white male doctors had spent a year trying to diagnose everything else. In September he saw a gay doctor who diagnosed him in minutes. The person who had been jogging in August rested in Intensive Care in November.

At this point in the disease's progression Fredo could no longer take food orally. As he ebbed in and out of lucidity the nurse came to me, his medical power of attorney, and said it would be necessary to insert a nasogastric (NG) tube to feed him and administer oral medications.

I had reservations about this. Only a few days prior, we had a discussion about tubes. The unanimous decision being, 'no tubes.' It's easy to say 'no tubes' when the patient is in the middle of a rally, but when the patient is unconscious, losing body mass, and is your greatest source of love, it's a different story. Naturally I gave consent, remembering the old saying about it being easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

A nurse ushered me out of his ICU room to a waiting area just on the other side of the wall from his room. Two more nurses went into the room as I tried to psychically reach Fredo on the other side of the wall and apologize for the personal violation about to happen. Suddenly I heard Fredo yelling and gurgling at the same time as the nurse tried to pass the tube up his nose and then snake it down his throat. Not only did Fredo's body try to reject the foreign object, but Fredo's conscious (well, what remained of it) also undoubtedly tried to reject the prolonging of suffering. Surely by this point his body, his mind, and the universe had had some sort of discussion about his impending return to the ethereal.

I'm not sure how many attempts had to be made to administer the tube, but every gurgled scream felt like razors aimed at my insides.

Finally, his nurse came out and said I could return to the room. When I entered, another nurse smiled and said something to the effect of, "Well, that woke him up."

The third nurse in the room paused as she exited. "Yeah, he's not real thrilled with us. But then nobody ever is after that procedure." The way Fredo glared at her, she must have been the one doing the inserting. If he hadn't been so frail, he probably would have jumped out of the bed and choked her to death with the ample supply of plastic tubing hanging off of him.

His eyes then reverted to me. The anger coming out of him made me step back and bump my head against the aluminum door frame. He paid no attention to the nurses on either side of him as they repositioned him and adjusted all his tangled bedding and tubing. He just seethed and stared at me.

After fluffing all his pillows, they left Fredo and I alone. His blue eyes tried their best to kill me with whatever metaphysical energy they could muster. I stayed pinned against the cold aluminum door frame at the end of his bed. He furiously wrote on the dry-erase board he used to communicate. He turned it around with such force I felt a slight breeze pass. He pounded on it with the end of the marker to make sure he had my attention. On it he wrote: "WE SAID NO TUBES!!!"

I knew I had betrayed our decision, but I also knew why I had done it. Despite having reconciled everything in my mind, I still felt horrible. First, I had woken him up in probably the most unpleasant way possible. Second, I had agreed to the procedure without first stating my reasons to him. I decided the best way to get through this would be to calmly state my case for having a plastic tube rammed down his throat.

I sat on the edge of his bed, took his hand in mine, and stared into the bluest eyes I had ever seen. They were the blue you see in the Caribbean if you dive into the water, swim down as far as you can hold your breath, and then look back at the sun.

"I agreed to the feeding tube because you need to be able eat and the nurses have medications they need to give you orally. You now have food, water, and air. You have everything you need to live. And of course, my love."

He rolled his eyes and looked down at all the tubes connected to his body. An IV in his right arm for fluids, oxygen tubing in his nose, more IV tubing in his left arm, a tube snaking out from under his gown to a bag of urine, and now the NG tube taped to his nose. He wrote some more on his white board, "What kind of tube does the love come in?"

As deadpanned as I could, I replied, "Average sized. Some say slightly above."

He shook his head and gave me the biggest smile I had seen on him in weeks. I had forgotten how big he could smile and how good it made me feel to make it appear. I kissed him on his slightly feverish and clammy forehead. It would be the last smile I would ever see on his face. The fact the last thing that made him smile was a bad dick joke never ceases to give me pleasure.

The next morning, he would take his last breath and make me smile for the last time in his existence. I know it sounds odd. It wasn't a smile without tears. As his heart stopped and, then, his breathing, I looked up at the clock, made a note of the time, and smiled. He had given me, the one who loves number and word puzzles, a numeric palindrome to remember him by. 5:11 on 11/5.

In the last twenty-four hours of his life I had managed to make him smile and he had managed to make me smile. We had both found little holes in the clouds to let a little light through. While there is still a lot that haunts me about his death, it's those minute rays of light that tamp down the darkness.

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Feel sad for people dying alone with Covid, but don’t forget the generation of gay men who died alone w/o FaceTime, or even an RN brave enough to hold their hand. At least Covid affected everyone.

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