When my mom walked up to the door, I could tell something was not right. "What's wrong?" I asked her. "Uncle La died," she said. Though she said the words, they didn't register in my mind. It was like someone telling me that 1 + 1 = 3. I could hear it, but it just didn't make sense. Perhaps what didn't make sense the most was that I never got to say good bye. When I was in Atlanta this past June I didn't get to see him. Usually a visit with Uncle La is a priority whenever I go to Atlanta. I didn't stress about not getting to see him because I figured I would just visit him next year. It never crossed my mind that there wouldn't be a next year.
My kids don't understand the significance of my relationship with Uncle La. This is the man to whom, in addition to my own dad, I sent a father's day card almost every year. Flamboyantly and true to his previous life as a majorette, Uncle La came marching into our lives when I was about 15 years old (what else might you expect from a former male baton twirler?). My parents were divorced (or they might have just been separated) and my mom was a mess. A 'hot mess' as Chelsea Handler might describe her. She was uneducated and away from her family and she had 2 kids to raise without the help of her ex (or soon to be ex) husband. After bouncing around churches for a couple of years, we landed on the steps of First Baptist Church of Atlanta and my mom found her sanctuary. She joined a bible study with a motley crew for members, but this motley crew became our family and our rock for the next several years. Mainly, they were my mom's rock, but mine and my brother's by proxy. Had it not been for this unlikely assortment of God's children, I am quite certain that a) my mother would have been institutionalized and/or b) my brother and I would have been placed in foster care.
I don't remember all the people, but everyone in her bible study was like a character in a play. There was the older, conservative white couple who were the mom & pop of the outfit. Before moving to Africa to become missionaries, they led the group, opened their hearts and home and centered everyone. They kept the compass pointed in the right direction. There were some musicians and street performers, their son and his girlfriend (a bi-racial couple; still a pretty big statement in Atlanta, GA in the mid to late 80's), my mom (the single mom hanging on by a thread) and a medley of born-again, reformed gay men. Larry fell into this latter category. These men were no longer 'living in the life-style'. One was a hair-dresser who was HIV positive, the other lived with his grandmother and was on disability for 'chronic fatigue', the young guy who had just been starting to experiment with his new, gay identity, a married 'heterosexual' florist and then there was Uncle La.
Uncle La had grown up in a conservative Christian home in North Carolina. He had 2 sisters and one brother and I think his daddy might have been a baptist preacher (even if he wasn't ordained). I'm not sure when Uncle La came out of the closet (though I don't think they make closets big enough to have held Uncle La), but the whole world, especially the part of the world that includes bible belt North Carolina, had to have been mighty suspicious when in high school Larry started throwing the baton for the marching band. Sometime after college he moved to Atlanta and began his career as a female impersonator. Legend has it that Larry was the best female impersonator in Atlanta in the late 70's/early 80's with a pretty lucrative career. Gays and straights alike would come to see his show. When he had his first heart attack at age 35, Larry suddenly called up his old friend Jesus and left the bright lights of transgender entertainment. He hung up his dress and his tights, shelved his heels, feather boa and wig and grabbed a bible and never looked back. That's how he got to the bible study. His first near death experience caused him to reevaluate his entire life.
If my mom could have had a second husband, I would have wanted it to be Uncle La. But, b/c my mom was a 'hot mess' and more likely, b/c Larry didn't suddenly become attracted to women, they never wed. However, they were always as close as husband and wife or brother and sister. La called my mom, Tia. He knew her weaknesses and frailties like no other. He was the first person that I remember teasing my mother and her actually laughing. He made her laugh at herself. A thing that she had not been able to do. It was like a valve on a pressure steamer. He came along and started telling a few jokes and the situation was no longer as intense as it had once been. I don't know what my brother and I would have done without Uncle La. He taught us how to love her despite her blemishes and to actually love the spots that we had once found to be unsightly. He brought us laughter when there wasn't a whole lot about which to laugh. Every Sunday after church we'd go eat at Mick's. He introduced us to Oreo Cheesecake. There was a whole host of restaurants we'd go to and in each and every one, they all knew Larry. He was loved everywhere he went. It was like walking into a place with a celebritey. "Oh hey Larry! Glad to see you. Who do you have with you today?" And, I don't think I am looking at everything through rose-colored glasses, but it always seemed like he payed the tab.
Larry was a big man. Well over 6 feet tall and probably some 300+ lbs, physically, he took up a lot of space when he entered a room. But, even if he had been a wee little man, his personality could have filled a mansion. It was not possible to stop laughing when you were in his presence. I'm not talking about giggles, but gut-busting, pee your pants, laugh until you are crying and it hurts kind-of laugher. Though he had left his life on the stage, he was still always an entertainer. He was there through so many milestones in my life (and if a recovered homosexual can be a positive male role model, then that is precisely what he was for my brother); prom, high-school graduation, going off for my junior year of college in London (he bought me a box of Godiva chocolates which I exchanged for a red plaid robe that I still have today and I preferentially wear over all others in my closet), medical school graduation and my wedding (he did a reading). Though we never could get him to come visit after our wedding, we always visited him when we were in Atlanta. When I was interviewing for a residency spot at Emory, I went swimming and took a nap at his apartment. When I was pregnant with my oldest son he took us to his favorite Chinese restaurant. He drove out to my dad and step-mom's house when my boys were young to celebrate my oldest's 2nd birthday. I still remember the Bob-the-Builder outfit he bought my son. That same trip, we crashed in his apartment again, this time with the boys (one of my favorite pictures of the boys is on Uncle La's chair). He always met us out; Mick's, McDonald's, Cudzew Cafe, Mexican restaurants, Cumberland Mall (Larry's one bedroom apartment was full of crystal frames and figurines, but his refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water and Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream). Once he went with us to the Chattahoochee River and waded into the water with the kids. Then he took us to Target to buy Crocs for all 3 of my kids. The last time I saw him was last summer(2007) at his favorite Mexican restaurant. He took my kids to eat ice cream at Baskin Robbins afterward. When my 5 year old (at the time) decided to take a leak in the potted plant outside the shop, Larry told him that someone was going to cut off his weiner. This made my son cry b/c he didn't grow up with Uncle La. I remember feeling a little bit angry with him b/c he made my son cry.
I didn't get to see him on this most recent visit because I was crunched for time and I got lazy. I could have driven out to see him the nite that I arrived into town, but I hadn't seem my dad yet and my dad didn't want to drive into town to have dinner with Larry after a long day at work. God, what I would do to go back and change that decision. He left town to go see his mom in North Carolina the 2nd or 3rd day I was in Atlanta. For the first time, our paths didn't converge. I should have known something was going to happen. Larry was a big man and he enjoyed life. Sure he had heart disease and high cholesterol and high blood pressure and sure he took his medication, but there was no 'lifestyle modification'. If he wasn't having sex, he sure was going to eat. Eating was the one carnal desire that he could satisfy. Even after some cardiac surgery and additional hospitalizations, he still kept on eating exactly what he wanted to eat. I don't think it was a death wish so much as a lack of concern for things of this world. Even though Larry didn't necessarily take care of the his 'temple' (his body), he loved Jesus like no one's tomorrow. Jesus had walked him down some roads and Jesus was Larry's best friend. Larry walked the talk. He was almost always singing some Baptist hymn. That's about the only thing that makes this whole thing bearable; knowing that Larry is in heaven loving every minute of it and making the angles fall down and bust their wings with laughter and Jesus himself is probably wiping away tears from laughing so hard. I know that when it's my turn to go, he is going to run and greet me at those pearly gates and there is no one else (other than God himself) that I'd rather have greet me as I am enter into Glory. I'm going to miss the hell out of you Uncle La and Atlanta is never going to be the same, but save me some Oreo cheesecake and save me some good jokes. And if I forgot to tell you how much I love you the last time I saw you, maybe only now, when you are up in heaven, you can fully comprehend how much I loved you and how much your love meant to me. Take care of all the people down here who need it. Good bye Uncle La, good bye.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Clickin'
Wow, I've been lazy lately! I've been spending far too much time making those bead designs that require ironing. It's completely addictive and has consumed just about my every waking moment for the past 3 weeks. I sit there like an idiot or a trained chimp picking out tiny beads and putting them on a peg board. It's about as mentally stimulating as watching static on the tv, but I just can't take my hands off those tiny beads.
When I was in Pennsylvania, my 10 year old niece and I went to Michael's to buy more of these beads and it was though we had landed in wonderland. It was almost too much to bear; aisles and aisles of crafts that needed to be purchased and completed. We filled our cart up to the rim and then I came to my senses as I approached the cash register, realizing that there was absolutely no justification in spending 3 digits on shit that I was just going to throw away or that would sit in my spare bedroom (like my scrapbooking stuff, knitting yarn/needles and pictures to be framed). I'm becoming frighteningly similar to my grandmother and her nursing home posse and I'm skirting dangerously close to applying jewels and rhinestones to my jeans and putting angels on sweatshirts and sending them to everyone I know as Christmas presents.
Today my 4 year old daughter told me that she just couldn't control herself and that she needed to be trained. This was in reference to our new puppy. Puppies are small and cute and she wants to rub their cold, wet noses. I think she might be right. The dog needs to be trained, but so does she. We hired a dog trainer to come over to the house and show us the correct way to get the dog house-trained but we might need to hire a girl-trainer that can show us how to manage our daughter.
My husband and his sister are watching the movie Hostel. I think the basic premise of the movie is college graduates get murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They love to watch slasher flicks. I don't have the stomach for it and I'm a huge chicken. I can hear them complaining because no one has gotten dismembered and they are already 10 minutes into the movie. "This movie sucks! Didn't people get killed right away in Saw?" They opted for this over the Olympics. Lee is in a bad mood and nothing makes him feel better than watching people suffer, especially if it is particularly violent and people are being tortured.
He (Lee) has been working in the ER this month. Working there can make you a sadistic person. When you are taking care of the dregs of society you start to view everyone with disdain; the grocery store clerk, the person who won't let you merge into traffic, your wife and children. Sleep deprivation intensifies your emotions so something that might seem mildly irritating on a normal day, on a sleep deprived day might push you to become justifiably homicidal. The other nite, while the rest of us slumbered, he took care of 29 acutely ill patients in a 12 hour period. We are talking about heart attacks, strokes, altered mental status. It was him, one 3rd year medical resident and a first year medical resident. You leave there, the hospital, at 7 am (or more realistically, at 7:30-8 am) and you are supposed to immediately mainstream yourself. You might have just finished intubating (putting a breathing tube into) someone with pneumonia so bad that he can't breath for himself, sent someone with a possible stroke to the CT scanner, or taken care of the same drunken bum for the 118th time, but you have to walk out of there and act like the world is a balanced place. Last Wednesday nite he had a patient that would only talk to him and agree to medical treatment after conferring with the Holy Spirit. "Holy Spirit, is it okay if I get an IV?" "The Holy Spirit said no, you can't draw my blood or put an IV in my arm." "Sir if you don't let me put an IV in your arm, we are going to have to call security and they will tie you down so we can put an IV in your arm, so you might want to check with the Holy Spirit again." "Alright, I checked again and this time the Holy Spirit said it was okay."
Last month, Lee was taking care of the patients on the in-patient service in the hospital. These are the patients who have been hospitalized for various and sundry reasons. He was making rounds by himself one day and he asked a guy with AIDS why he stopped taking his HIV medications. "Well, I was at work and these people kept messing with me and then I started clickin' and theys started clickin' and then they was clickin' and I was clickin' and we was all clickin'. Click, click, click, clickin'. You know what I mean? We was clickin'." I wonder if he wrote in the patient's chart. Diagnosis: clickin'. And I wonder what the treatment might be.
I've been having a hard time the past couple of days because I don't know how to handle disapproval. Judgment is damaging. We all do it, judge. "How can she let her kids watch that movie, play that video game, listen to that music, etc..." It is so much easier to condemn someone elses actions/intentions than to analyze our own lives. It gives us this weird sense of superiority. By devaluing someone else, we somehow feel validated. "If they are wrong, then I must be right." I think we are the harshest with our own families, our siblings & parents or our spouse's siblings and parents. Then we feel like we have to rally our cause and talk to other family members to get them onto "our side." "Can you believe what so and so is doing (or can you believe what they did)? What are they thinking?" When you become the one who is being judged then all of the sudden you realize that it is a bad idea. Suddenly you want them to walk in your shoes, to see the world from your perspective. I have to admit that when someone I love judges me, I don't know what to do. It has taken me a while to go to God about this one, to finally realize that the only thing that really matters is His judgment of me. And as sad as I might feel about someone's disapproval of me or my actions, I still need to choose to love them and realize that God will take care of the rest. And if I go to Him first, if I honor Him, then nothing else really matters. It all goes back to keeping my eyes on Him. If my eyes are on Him, then the waves won't overpower me and drown me. But the minute I take my eyes off of Him, then I start to drown. If I keep my eyes on Him then there is no reason for me to keep 'clickin' with everyone around me.
When I was in Pennsylvania, my 10 year old niece and I went to Michael's to buy more of these beads and it was though we had landed in wonderland. It was almost too much to bear; aisles and aisles of crafts that needed to be purchased and completed. We filled our cart up to the rim and then I came to my senses as I approached the cash register, realizing that there was absolutely no justification in spending 3 digits on shit that I was just going to throw away or that would sit in my spare bedroom (like my scrapbooking stuff, knitting yarn/needles and pictures to be framed). I'm becoming frighteningly similar to my grandmother and her nursing home posse and I'm skirting dangerously close to applying jewels and rhinestones to my jeans and putting angels on sweatshirts and sending them to everyone I know as Christmas presents.
Today my 4 year old daughter told me that she just couldn't control herself and that she needed to be trained. This was in reference to our new puppy. Puppies are small and cute and she wants to rub their cold, wet noses. I think she might be right. The dog needs to be trained, but so does she. We hired a dog trainer to come over to the house and show us the correct way to get the dog house-trained but we might need to hire a girl-trainer that can show us how to manage our daughter.
My husband and his sister are watching the movie Hostel. I think the basic premise of the movie is college graduates get murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They love to watch slasher flicks. I don't have the stomach for it and I'm a huge chicken. I can hear them complaining because no one has gotten dismembered and they are already 10 minutes into the movie. "This movie sucks! Didn't people get killed right away in Saw?" They opted for this over the Olympics. Lee is in a bad mood and nothing makes him feel better than watching people suffer, especially if it is particularly violent and people are being tortured.
He (Lee) has been working in the ER this month. Working there can make you a sadistic person. When you are taking care of the dregs of society you start to view everyone with disdain; the grocery store clerk, the person who won't let you merge into traffic, your wife and children. Sleep deprivation intensifies your emotions so something that might seem mildly irritating on a normal day, on a sleep deprived day might push you to become justifiably homicidal. The other nite, while the rest of us slumbered, he took care of 29 acutely ill patients in a 12 hour period. We are talking about heart attacks, strokes, altered mental status. It was him, one 3rd year medical resident and a first year medical resident. You leave there, the hospital, at 7 am (or more realistically, at 7:30-8 am) and you are supposed to immediately mainstream yourself. You might have just finished intubating (putting a breathing tube into) someone with pneumonia so bad that he can't breath for himself, sent someone with a possible stroke to the CT scanner, or taken care of the same drunken bum for the 118th time, but you have to walk out of there and act like the world is a balanced place. Last Wednesday nite he had a patient that would only talk to him and agree to medical treatment after conferring with the Holy Spirit. "Holy Spirit, is it okay if I get an IV?" "The Holy Spirit said no, you can't draw my blood or put an IV in my arm." "Sir if you don't let me put an IV in your arm, we are going to have to call security and they will tie you down so we can put an IV in your arm, so you might want to check with the Holy Spirit again." "Alright, I checked again and this time the Holy Spirit said it was okay."
Last month, Lee was taking care of the patients on the in-patient service in the hospital. These are the patients who have been hospitalized for various and sundry reasons. He was making rounds by himself one day and he asked a guy with AIDS why he stopped taking his HIV medications. "Well, I was at work and these people kept messing with me and then I started clickin' and theys started clickin' and then they was clickin' and I was clickin' and we was all clickin'. Click, click, click, clickin'. You know what I mean? We was clickin'." I wonder if he wrote in the patient's chart. Diagnosis: clickin'. And I wonder what the treatment might be.
I've been having a hard time the past couple of days because I don't know how to handle disapproval. Judgment is damaging. We all do it, judge. "How can she let her kids watch that movie, play that video game, listen to that music, etc..." It is so much easier to condemn someone elses actions/intentions than to analyze our own lives. It gives us this weird sense of superiority. By devaluing someone else, we somehow feel validated. "If they are wrong, then I must be right." I think we are the harshest with our own families, our siblings & parents or our spouse's siblings and parents. Then we feel like we have to rally our cause and talk to other family members to get them onto "our side." "Can you believe what so and so is doing (or can you believe what they did)? What are they thinking?" When you become the one who is being judged then all of the sudden you realize that it is a bad idea. Suddenly you want them to walk in your shoes, to see the world from your perspective. I have to admit that when someone I love judges me, I don't know what to do. It has taken me a while to go to God about this one, to finally realize that the only thing that really matters is His judgment of me. And as sad as I might feel about someone's disapproval of me or my actions, I still need to choose to love them and realize that God will take care of the rest. And if I go to Him first, if I honor Him, then nothing else really matters. It all goes back to keeping my eyes on Him. If my eyes are on Him, then the waves won't overpower me and drown me. But the minute I take my eyes off of Him, then I start to drown. If I keep my eyes on Him then there is no reason for me to keep 'clickin' with everyone around me.
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