The Beauty of Life’s Presence (Blog #376)

8:19 AM | Dallas Airport

This morning I woke up at a quarter to five, normally the time I’d be going to bed. And whereas I can’t say that I sprang to life, I managed. After eating breakfast, I was miraculously able to fit all my clothes, electronic devices, and toiletries (including all my creams, pastes, and lotions for my various skin issues) into my luggage. My dad drove to the Fort Smith airport, and the check-in process was quick and seamless, one of the few advantages to living in a small town. Well, there was one snag. My granola bars, all twelve of them, were individually wiped down and checked for explosives residue by TSA. The guy who performed this health-food pat-down actually did so with a serious look on his face, as if he, like Sherlock Holmes, were going to uncover some ill intent of mine by fondling my raisins and nuts with his blue-gloved hands. It took everything in me, including my faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, to not roll my eyes.

Like, I’m not going to hijack the plane, sir, I’m just watching my waistline.

The flight here to Dallas went well. The plane itself, operated by American Airlines, was a puddle jumper, but since the seat next to me was empty, I felt like I was flying first class. The coffee was lukewarm, like those Christians God wants nothing to do with. He and I had the same thought–I will spew you out of my mouth. The miniature pretzels came in a bag that said, “It’s crunch time.” Cute, right? The Biscotti biscuits, made overseas, didn’t have a calorie count on the back of the package, so I made up my own–zero.

Now I’m in Terminal B at the Dallas airport, drinking hot coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts and charging my phone. The flight to Memphis should be boarding soon. As I’m typing, my hands are shaking from lack of sleep and the fact that they’ve been shaky a lot lately. It’s probably “just one more thing” or–more likely–an inherited condition. (Thanks, Dad.) I’m sure the coffee doesn’t help. Earlier I made a lap around the terminal to get the lay of the land, and no one–including the hot TSA agent with biceps as big as my thighs–looks happy to be here. I know we take things for granted, but come on, y’all–we’re flying!

3:56 PM | Memphis

I spoke too soon. Earlier when I said, “We’re flying,” I meant to say, “We’re sitting on the runway for two hours!” Y’all, our plane had a problem with the steering mechanism, which I guess is important. Anyway, it took a while to fix, then we had to wait longer because someone got pissed off (I assume) and wanted to exit the plane. What do you do? In my case, I tweeted American Airlines about it, suggesting they give everyone on board free alcohol. Believe it or not, they responded, like, we’re sorry you’re having a bad day.

But no free alcohol. (For a link to my Twitter account, which I’m trying to use more often, click here.)

Also, I found out I was wrong about the number of calories in Biscotti biscuits. The correct number is 120, not zero. What a drag–what a serious drag.

When I arrived in Memphis, the public relations firm I’m working for this week transported me and a few other journalists to our respective hotels. Arriving at the Hotel Napoleon in downtown Memphis at one, I decided to kill some time (that is, eat some pancakes at the Blue Plate Cafe) until the official check-in time at three. After the pancakes, I walked Main Street, stopping at a used bookstore and the National Civil Rights Museum (the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated). The museum itself was closed today, but there were still a lot of people outside looking up at Room 306, where the murder took place. It felt like sacred ground, everyone quiet or speaking in hushed voices.

Now I’m settled into my room, and y’all, it’s swank. There’s a sliding barn door between the sink area and the shower, and a mirror with a built-in light that makes my skin look radiant. The hotel is new (a year and a half), so everything is up-to-date and modern with USB wall plugs and shit like that. I’ve got the room to myself and a couple hours to kill before dinner (our first official group activity), so I’d like to catch a nap. It’s been a long day, and I imagine it will be an even longer week, albeit a fun one. More later.

10:45 PM | Memphis

OMG, y’all, I’m stuffed. After my nap, I met the group for dinner at Blues City Cafe, and it was SO good. (Everyone else had ribs and catfish; I ate steak because I’m that guy.) Also, I’m not just saying that because I’m sort of being paid to promote everywhere I’m going. I’m doing that elsewhere (and meaning it), but this is still my blog. But seriously, so great. There was live music, and just, well, the south and its food. Also, the waitress gave us a handwritten note, thanking us for being there. It said, “The beauty of your presence was my pleasure.” This reminds that each person truly is beautiful, if we only stop to notice.

After dinner I wandered around Beale Street and visited with some of the folks who work for the company that brought me here. One of them was even kind enough to walk me back to my hotel when I was ready to leave so I wouldn’t get mugged. Talk about a gentleman!

So far everyone I’ve met has been really great, kind, interesting. I was stressed getting here, but now that I’m here, I’m thrilled. It’s good to be out-of-town.

It’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3.

Earlier this evening I got the results of my latest blood work, the blood work the immunologist ordered. I’m not doctor, but everything (except my tetanus antibodies) came back within range. When I told my dad, I said, “At some point, I wish they’d find SOMETHING wrong.” But what do I know? Some of the levels were right on the line, so maybe there is something to “fix.” I should hear from the doctor in a day or two with his interpretation. But it is frustrating, not feeling well and seeing test after test that says I’m perfectly fine–on paper. I swear, it’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3. You know just as well as I do–something ain’t right.

While looking around Beale Street, a necklace I often wear, a spiritual necklace of sorts, broke. Specifically, the chain broke. I felt it give, then the pendant on the necklace just rolled across the floor like one of Elvis’s records, bumped right up against a display full of shot glasses and t-shirts. According to the group that gave me the necklace, this is supposed to mean something (not good), like–I don’t know–stay away from booze and rock and roll. More likely, if it means anything, it means I could pay more attention to my spiritual life, which I’ve admittedly had “an attitude” about this last year. I truly do believe that the beauty of life’s presence is everywhere–in a good meal, in the face of a stranger, in the sound of the blues. All of this is sacred ground. There’s not a square inch of the universe, including you and me, that isn’t. But I know that when I don’t feel well, when life is “challenging,” that’s when I lose that connection. That’s when my chain breaks. That’s when I don’t see life for what it actually is–love, baby, love.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to become who you were meant to be, it's absolutely necessary to shed your old skin. Sure it might be sad to say goodbye--to your old phone, to your old beliefs, anything that helped get you this far--but you've got to let go in order to make room for something new.

"

Have You Seen a Gay Man Pack? (Blog #375)

I have been adulting all day–paying bills, dealing with credit cards, sending official letters regarding medical bills and car accidents. I hate this stuff. However, I’ve also been teaching dance, which I love. But then I’ve also been doing laundry and packing to go out-of-town tomorrow, and I hate doing laundry and packing. Well, I guess I’m indifferent about it. But in the process of packing I realized I left my only pair of tennis shoes in Dallas a few days ago, and I hate that. Also, I have to get up early to go to the airport, so that’s another hate.

I’m ready to scream.

As a species, gay men don’t travel light.

Really, I’m just stressed. I thought I was going out-of-town for five days, returning for one, then leaving again for four more. But I found out today that the two trips I’m taking (to Memphis and Hot Springs) are literally back-to-back. I’m going from one place to the other, which means I have to fit ten days worth of clothes into a small carry-on bag. Y’all, I realize I’ve been living as a minimalist this last year, but–HELLO–I’m still GAY. Have you SEEN a gay man pack? As a species, we don’t travel light. Seriously, I could fill my carry-on with hair products alone. Currently my bag is filled to capacity, and I STILL have clothes in the dryer.

I’m going to have to pray about this.

About forty-five minutes ago I went to Walmart to look for a replacement pair of tennis shoes. This was a waste of time. Not that they didn’t have plenty of shoes to choose from, but none of them were the right brand. Again–I’m a stuck-up homosexual. I thought, I’m desperate, but I’m not THAT desperate. I’ll make do with my Polo boat shoes. Even if they hurt my feet, at least they’ll look nice. I realize this line of thinking is in direct opposition to yesterday’s post about the inside mattering more than outside. I make no apologies for this. As Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes.”

Surely I’ll find a way to make it work.

Now I’m trying to talk myself down from a ledge. I still have some packing to do and also need to take a shower. Oh, and sleep–I need to sleep. I’m telling myself that the upcoming trips are going to be great. Regardless of how much rest I get tonight or what clothes I end up taking, I’m sure I’ll have a fabulous time. Plus, if I need a new pair of shoes or anything else, I’ll find a Target or a shopping mall. I’m also worrying about how to do my job (travel writing) on the trip AND continue this blog, but I’ve obviously found a way to make this blog work so far, so surely I’ll find a way to make it work again. Like tonight’s blog, some of my posts may be shorter. (And that’s okay, Marcus.)

Also, some posts may conclude abruptly.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff.

"

When It Comes to Luggage and Bodies (Blog #374)

Today I am worn out. I feel tired behind my eyes. Additionally, my skin is acting up, and the muscles in my neck are tight, tight, tight. I’ve said these things before, but I say them again because I’m about to go out-of-town for several days on a writing gig and am worried about how my body will handle the busy schedule. So I’m giving it a pep talk even as we speak. Hang in there.

Not the most original pep talk, I know.

The occasion, the writing gig, is a travel-writing trip to Memphis. Y’all, this is my first-ever travel-writing trip, but it promises to be a pretty sweet deal. Basically I’ll get flown to Memphis, put up in a hotel, fed twice or more a day, and bused around to local restaurants and attractions along with several other journalists, the understanding that we’ll all go home and write about the city and the things we saw for our respective media outlets. (I’m officially writing for a local magazine I used to work for and not my blog, but I’m sure I’ll talk about my adventures here as well). Actually, I have two travel-writing trips planned back-to-back, so I’ll be running around the region for the next week and a half. This will be the most travel and work I’ve required of myself since my immune issues flared up six months ago, which–again–is why I’m worried.

Hang in there.

In preparation for the trip, today I spent three hours shopping for carry-on luggage. One bag, specifically. Y’all, what a chore, finding something that was the right price, the right size, the right color, had the right number of pockets, and also looked cute. I went to five stores before finally narrowing it down to two at Academy Sports–a bright red and black hard case and a navy canvas with small, red accents. I really, really wanted the hard case. Not only was it cheaper, but it was perfect on the outside. HOWEVER, I went with the canvas bag (by Coleman), since it was good enough on the outside and perfect on the inside (deeper storage and a compartment for wet clothes). So once again, remember–when it comes to luggage and bodies, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Last night I dreamed that my car was being repaired at a garage. The hood was up, and I was working on the engine. I guess I was a mechanic, but I didn’t know exactly what to do. Then another mechanic appeared (as if by magic), and we worked on the engine together.

You’re exactly where you need to be.

Y’all, of all the dreams I’ve had the last few years, this one excites me the most, since cars in dreams almost always represent the physical body. The engine, I think, represents my immune system, the thing that makes my body run smoothly. Me and the mechanic, then, would be me and my doctors, indicating that I’ve finally landed in a place where things can be fixed (in the dream, the garage). Alternatively, the dream could simply be about the direction my life is going and the fact that I’m currently working on the stuff under my hood (my insides), the stuff you can’t see but that really runs the show. Either way, I’m hoping the message is the same–Hang in there. You’re exactly where you need to be. Don’t worry. You’ll be back on the road in no time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our struggles unearth our strengths.

"

Any of Us Can Stumble (Blog #373)

Last night I went out dancing in Dallas with my friend Bonnie to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the blog. The evening culminated about two-thirty in the morning at an all-night diner where the above picture was taken. I hesitated to post it because I think I look “clearly drunk,” but then again, I was. Not that I was falling down or anything, but I was certainly feeling good and loving life. Bonnie and I joked that the multi-colored squares on the wall behind me were reminiscent of The Partridge Family. I kept thinking, Come on get happy. Oh wait–I already am.

Honestly, the reason behind my happy expression wasn’t just the alcohol. Bonnie and I spent the evening dancing with some of God’s most mysterious and precious creatures–gay cowboys. The bar we went to is called The Roundup, and if you’ve never been there, it’s like stumbling into a roomful of unicorns–that is, two-stepping, line-dancing homosexuals. It really is a happy thing to see, a dance hall full of not only homos (which I can say because I am one), but also lesbians, heterosexuals, and even the occasional drag queen–or, as I like to call them all, people.

Last week when my mom asked me what I would be doing in Dallas, I said, “Dancing with gay cowboys.” I said it in passing as I was walking out of the living room and down the hall, but I could hear my dad say, “Judy, one day you’ll learn to not ask so many questions.” I tell this story because I almost didn’t write about my time at The Roundup on tonight’s blog, thinking people might prefer not to know that dancing, homosexual herdsman even exist. But Bonnie referred to gay clubs as “a sacred space,” a safe space where everyone is welcome and encouraged to dance with and show affection for anyone they want who’s mutually interested, and I think it’s important for people to know that happy places like this can be found.

In the south, even.

It really was a great night. There was two-stepping and line dancing until twelve-thirty or one in the morning, then “club” music until two. Everyone I met was really kind, and even the two people who turned me down for dances were nice about it. I say that, but I’ve been a little hung up on the rejections today. It’s always challenging to put yourself out there, ask a stranger to dance, then get turned down. But what a great thing to put yourself out there, ask a stranger to dance, and have them say yes. And that was definitely what happened more often than not last night, dancing with enthusiastic partners who said, “Let’s dance again later.” Like, people seemed to like me. Hell, I even had one lesbian hold me so close while I was following her that I can safely say I got more boob action last night than I ever have before. (Also, it didn’t change a thing.)

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me just before we left the hotel to hit the dance floor.

For as “up” as I was last night, today I’ve been coming down. Mostly I’ve been tired, since we were awake until five in the morning and were supposed to check out of the hotel by noon. Plus, although I haven’t had a hangover today, I’m sure my system is still “processing” all the beer (and late-night chicken and waffles). You know how it is when you overdo EVERYTHING. My liver’s probably thinking, Who left this guy in charge of intake? Lastly, I’ve been reminded this evening (now that I’m back home) that despite the fact that I danced with multiple unicorns last night, all of my problems still exist. Within two hours of walking in the door, I had bills to deal with, an Amazon order gone wrong, and a website backup issue that took an hour to correct.

You can regain your balance.

While working on this blog, I’ve been looking through last night’s photos, trying to reclaim the joy I felt when I took them. I keep thinking, Come on get happy. But I realize you can’t make yourself feel any differently than you do. What goes up must come down. Last night as I was dancing with a guy named Fred, he was spinning-spinning-spinning me. After a few beers, it was honestly a challenge, but I was able to keep my feet under me. Still, when I finished spinning, Fred had to steady me just so. “I saw your eyes start to wobble,” he laughed. I guess this is what today and life lately have felt like–disorienting. But I’m reminded that, especially with a little help from my friends, I can regain my balance. I can stumble, any of us can stumble, and still continue this dance.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"The truth is right in front of you."

There’s a New Sheriff in Town (Blog #372)

Currently it’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and my friend Bonnie and I are in her car, Carlotta, en route to Dallas to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the blog. The plan is to go out to dinner, then go out dancing. The day itself is cloudy and rainy, but I have sunshine in my heart. I’m excited to party and pat myself on the back for all my hard work, something I don’t do very often (believe it or not). Also, I’m excited that Bonnie is here. More than any other person, I think, she’s the friend who’s appeared on the blog the most. So this seems fitting.

Before we left today, I went shopping for a new outfit–well, a pair of shoes and a shirt–for tonight. Y’all, I’ll post pictures later, but I actually bought stuff with bright colors, something fun. I figured as long as I’m going dancing in a city where I don’t know anyone, I might as well feel confident and stand out. When I told Bonnie about my purchases, she said, “I could go all ‘Marcus Coker’ on that.”

“Like, what do you mean?” I said.

“Well, you used to have a lot of fun clothes, but you got rid of them. You’ve spent the last year wearing gray and black–utilitarian clothes–while you were busy doing your inner work. Maybe you’re ready to start wearing playful things again, now that the outside can truly match the inside.”

Good stuff, huh?

I think Bonnie is right. I’ve joked before that my clothes have been dark because I’ve been in mourning. On some level, I guess this is true. In a lot of respects, I consider “the old me” dead. Not only does my life look different on the outside, but it certainly looks different on the inside.

Last night I dreamed about a (former) friend who has a lot of unhealthy behaviors. They’re passive aggressive, a people pleaser, and often addicted to one substance or another. As much as I’m able, I don’t judge them for it. As my therapist has told me more than once, I’ve “rocked those strategies” plenty of times in the past (plenty). This is how my therapist often refers to actions, behaviors, and habits–strategies. What I like about this perspective is that it allows me to step back and more objectively look at how I’m handling the situations in my life, asking myself, “Is this behavior, this strategy, effective? Is there a better way to go about this?”

Anyway, in the dream my friend and I were on a trip, and they were on the phone, running the show. However, they’d forgotten something I thought was important (and fun), my bicycle. And then–kind of out of nowhere–I slugged them in the face. All of a sudden they were on the ground, their nose bleeding, no longer on the phone, no longer running the show.

Violent, I know. Not the best dream to wake up to. Still, I think the dream was really positive. To me it communicates that my subconscious has finally had enough with unhealthy behavior, both from myself and others. There’s a new sheriff in town. A different, healthier part of me is running the show now, and it clearly means business.

Talk about a reason to celebrate. (Also, watch your noses.)

I want a new life.

Perhaps in addition to representing mourning, my dark clothes have also represented and communicated the idea that I’m serious–I’m haven’t been playing around over here with regards to my personal growth, my mental health and the health of my relationships, and this blog. This feels true to me. I’m grateful for my past, but I want a new life, a different, healthier, free-er, more playful life. I want it with every fiber of my being, so much so that I’m willing to spend the rest of my life working toward it. If I can help it, I won’t settle for less. From what I’ve experienced of freedom so far, it’s worth every serious effort. So you go inward and you grit your teeth. You change your behaviors and what you’ll accept from others, even getting violent (figuratively speaking) if you have to. Then when most of The Hard Work is over (since it never actually ends), you buy a new outfit, jump in the car with a friend, and find a way to party and celebrate the start of your new life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Patting yourself on the back is better than beating yourself over the head.

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Unshakeable (Blog #371)

Today I feel uncomfortable in my skin. I have a dry patch on my elbow, and my knee is itching for no apparent reason. A couple other areas are red, slightly inflamed. Part of me thinks, maybe I could try a new diet, become a vegan or something like that. Another part of me, a bigger part of me, thinks, Fuck it. I’m tired of not having answers about my physical body and tired of waiting. Tomorrow I’m going out-of-town to dance and celebrate the one-year anniversary of the blog with my friend Bonnie, and tonight I freaked out thinking I needed to buy a new outfit, at least some shoes and a t-shirt. Finally I decided, Fuck that too.

So now I’m doing laundry. With any luck, tonight’s blog will be short and simple, and I’ll be able to get some rest.

Yesterday I picked up a printed copy of “year one” of the blog from a local printing shop. I used a website to get all the posts arranged in chronological order, so it’s quite literally a day-by-day account of my life for this last year, the majority of my actions and emotions down on 350 front-and-back pages. At some point, I’d like to re-read all the posts word-for-word, but I did flip through them casually yesterday, scanning the pictures, catching a few sentences here and there. It was the weirdest thing, to see my life on paper and have a concrete record of my thoughts. So many memories and feelings came rushing back. Good days and bad–I was there for every frickin’ one.

I was there when I found a possum in my pillow.

Whenever I write for this project, my goal is to somehow, someway, end on a high note, to say something encouraging to myself and others. I don’t mind saying this is a hell of a lot easier on some days than others. Some days, like today, I’d really just prefer to crawl in bed and pass out, escape. But after looking back at several posts yesterday, I’m grateful for all the long hours I’ve put into this project. I’m over-the-moon if other people get anything out of it, and I also now see it largely as a love letter to myself. Y’all, it’s one thing to read encouraging words that came from someone else, and it’s quite another to read the encouraging words that came from your own heart and soul. There’s nothing like it.

If you want to cry, you should give it a whirl.

Honestly, since making it to the one-year mark, I’ve thought about throwing in the towel. Just like I’m tired of not feeling well, I’m also tired of working so hard and pouring my guts out. I go back and forth on my decision to keep going. Some days I’m gung-ho; other days, ho-hum. On ho-hum days, days like today, it’s hard to sit down at the keyboard. I think, Come on, here we go again. Earlier tonight Bonnie asked what I was going to write about today, and I said, “I truly have no idea.” Even when I started tonight’s blog, all I could think about was how frustrated I feel, and–believe it or not–a large part of me wishes I could talk about something else. I’d much prefer to sit down every night and “fake it,” be funny, or tell everyone (as my dad says), “If I were any better, I’d be twins.” But then again, that wouldn’t be completely true, nor would it be true to the project.

One other cool thing about having a written record of the last year is that–because it included good days and bad–I’m able to look back now and see that I somehow made it. There were a lot of high points, and even on the worst days, days when I felt uncomfortable in my skin or didn’t have a new outfit, I survived. More often than not, I was surrounded by friends or family, and–most importantly–I was always there. That’s probably one of the biggest takeaways from this last year, learning to support myself more, realizing that even in the midst of suffering there’s a part of me that’s unshakable and always up to the challenge, this still, small voice that says, “Go easy on yourself. Get some rest, baby. Things will look different in the morning.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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Pump the Brakes, Junior (Blog #370)

Oh hey, it’s three-thirty in the morning, and I’m so ready to go to bed it’s not even funny. To be clear, in the above photo I’m yawning–not writhing in pain or having an orgasm, although I personally think it looks like some combination of the three. Anyway, I just got home from my friend Justin’s house. We decided to catch up after I taught a dance lesson this evening and somehow got stuck in a six-hour-long conversation. (We both like to talk and both like to listen.) At two-thirty, right about the time Justin began talking about world politics and the fabric of society (I’m not kidding), my brain started shutting down. Then I thought of the blog. “I’ve really got to go,” I said.

Now I’m at home, trying to string two thoughts together. For as difficult and challenging as yesterday was, today was a gem. A decent night’s rest did me a world of good, and yesterday’s daunting troubles seemed to have shrunk down to manageable sizes with a little slumber. This afternoon I saw my therapist, and when I told her about yesterday’s visit to the immunologist and subsequent phone conversation with the insurance company of the guy who read-ended me last year, she said, “It was a lot of information.” I laughed and said, “Yes, it was A LOT of information.”

This is one of my therapist’s deals I’m not sure I’ve talked about before. She often refers to things that happen as information or data. Like, if I met someone I really liked, and they stopped returning my messages or let it slip that they hate children, my therapist might say, “That sounds like an important piece of information.” What I like about this way of looking at things is that it’s neutral. It doesn’t judge a behavior or situation as right or wrong, but simply as a fact (he lied to me, the doctor said we needed to run more tests, the insurance company offered me a low sum of money to settle). Also, it implies that as we gather more information, we can (and should) adjust our behavior and attitudes accordingly (I’m moving on because I don’t date liars, okay–getting a diagnosis is going to take longer than I thought, I may need to speak up for myself or consult an attorney).

Anyway, I guess yesterday was information overload, more important facts than I could handle at one time, too many adjustments to make. What I’m learning in situations like these, to borrow another phrase from my therapist, is to “pump the brakes, Junior.” In other words, when I’m overwhelmed, I absolutely have to slow down. In terms of my health, no matter how much I want an answer, I have to be willing to adjust to the speed of the situation. My therapist said it was a matter of patience, which she said was a tough muscle to work out, but absolutely worth the effort. “I hate being a Debbie Downer,” she said, “but you’ll probably be working on patience for the rest of your life. It’s just the way life is.” She paused. “But it does get better.”

I guess pumping the brakes and patience go hand-in-hand. I’m usually rushing around, thinking I need to find answers “now,” but what I like about these ideas is that they suggest I don’t have to hurry. Rather, I can take my time, take in new information, and adjust accordingly. Now it’s four-ten in the morning, and part of me is “rushing” toward my typical thousand-word word count. But my eyes are heavy, and my ears are starting to itch, historically a pre-cursor to my breaking out in hives. (I just took some Benadryl, so I should be fine.) Still, I know I need to respect this “information” and adjust my behavior. I need to pump my brakes and cut tonight’s post short, trusting that I’ll still get to wherever it is I’m going even if I have to move a little slower to get there.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You know when someone crosses a line. You may not want to admit it, but you know.

"

Tired of Being Strong (Blog #369)

Today has been a long, long day, and I’m over it.

This morning I saw the immunologist I’ve been waiting to see for three months. Uh, I guess it went well. The staff was superior, and after listening to me recount my somewhat long list of health problems, the doctor’s nurse said, “You’ve come to the right place.” Then I talked to the doctor. Again, I guess it went well. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole conversation, but he essentially said that “on paper” I’m healthy. “Your bloodwork is pristine,” he said. I’m pretty sure that was the word he used–pristine. Of course, I don’t actually live “on paper,” and I haven’t felt pristine for a while now. In fact, I’ve felt perfectly un-pristine, and–some days–quite shitty, thank you very much.

This is where things get “interesting.”

The doctor said that some people have what’s called (I think) a functional immunodeficiency, that things look good on paper but don’t quite cut the mustard in the real world that you and I live in. “It’s possible that your immune system is quirky,” he said. Quirky–that was the word he used, that was the explanation he gave me, the closest thing I got to a diagnosis. Quirky. I thought, Okay, I’ve been going through hell these last six months, and you’re telling me that my body is just weird? Exactly how is this supposed to make me feel better?

Clearly, I’m disappointed. Granted, I’m glad I don’t have a fatal disease, that I was just “born this way.” And there is this–the doctor ordered more bloodwork. “Let’s test your lymphocytes,” he said. “We’ll also test more of your antibodies in order to get a baseline for where they are. Then I want you to get two vaccines (tetanus and pneumonia). Four weeks after that, we’ll re-test your antibodies to see how they’re responding to the viruses.” Looking back, I can see that the doctor was really thinking (he’s obviously highly intelligent), actually making a plan to figure things out. But here’s what I heard at the time–more waiting.

“If we do find something wrong, you could get injections every month, but you probably wouldn’t want to do that,” he said. (At this point, I probably would. I’d try anything that would possibly help.) “Either way, the knowledge would be good to have–it could change how aggressively you treat future infections.”

My shoulders slumped. “So just ‘hang in there’ for now?” I said.

“It’s all you can do,” he said, then walked out of the room.

After leaving the doctor’s office, I spent the rest of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon trying to comply with his instructions. First, I went to a local lab and had my blood drawn. Then I went to a pharmacy to get the vaccines, but they didn’t have one of them. (Apparently there are two different pneumonia vaccines, and some places are picky about which one they’ll administer.) So I went back to my doctor’s office, and they found another pharmacy that had what the doctor ordered. But because of a kerfuffle with my insurance, the pharmacy said I’d have to pay out-of-pocket, a total of two-hundred dollars. (My insurance was up at the end of March. I was “technically” re-enrolled the next day, but not “actually” re-enrolled.)

Again, on paper, things are fine.

Well, thank God and all the saints, I have a friend who reads the blog and has been helping me with this insurance situation over the last week. So I called her, and she said, “Let me see what I can do.” Y’all, she spoke with someone who was able to escalate my re-enrollment, and it was done in three hours. That being said, the pharmacy won’t have my updated information until tomorrow. Plus, even when they get it, my insurance won’t cover the pneumonia vaccine because I’m not a senior citizen. This just means more hoops to jump through, asking my doctor to fill out a request for prior authorization and (of course) waiting up to five business days for the insurance company to reply.

I think I’ll add this to my resume–Marcus Coker, Professional Hoop Jumper.

As if all this weren’t enough for one day, I spoke with the insurance company of the guy who knocked the shit out of me and my Honda Civic eight months ago. Naturally, they’re offering me peanuts for all my time and trouble, acting like they’re doing me a favor by throwing a few dollars in my direction, adding that I just had some soft tissue damage and was practically back to my old self in no time. “I’ll be the judge of that,” I said. “This was a major disruption in my life, and if you want to settle this, you’re going to have to do better. We can talk later. For now, let’s go back to our corners.”

Y’all, I’m proud of myself for speaking up, but I absolutely hate shit like this–confrontations, arguing about money. Talk about being slammed twice. First there’s the trauma of the accident, then there’s the trauma of dealing with the insurance company. No wonder no one wants to be an adult.

The next thing I knew, the world was upside down.

By the time I got home today I was worn out, so I took a took a nap. Honestly, I don’t think it helped much. Waking up, I still felt overwhelmed. So I meditated and fell apart. Crying, I remembered being being in a car accident when I was a kid. My dad, my sister, and I were broadsided. It was our fault, but the next thing I knew, the world was upside down. Our Honda Accord had rolled two-and-a-half times. I remember trying to unbuckle my seatbelt thinking we were going to blow up, that we were all going to die, but we didn’t. Instead, we went to the hospital, my sister and I riding in the back of the ambulance next to the guy who hit us. He was on a stretcher with his neck braced. It was a long night, but the three of us went home without anything broken, just a few stitches among us. I don’t know about the guy. Personally, I was so bruised the next day that I couldn’t walk to the bathroom.

Also tonight I remembered the day my dad left for prison. I was fifteen. He self-surrendered in El Paso, and my grandpa and a family friend drove him down. After they left our house, I went in the backyard and cried. What else are you supposed to do in a moment like that? I remember the sun shining. I also remember feeling deeply alone. Later that day another family friend stopped by to see Dad, and I said he was already gone. The guy–whom I’m going to call Sam Jackson–said, “Well–if you need anything, just call Sam Jackson.” The last part–just call Sam Jackson–he stretched out like a song, like a jingle for a television commercial. I’ll never forget it. Then he walked away too. I never heard from him again, nor did I ever call him. What would I have said, “Uh, hi, Sam. This is Marcus. I need a father.”?

Now it’s one in the morning, I’m completely exhausted, and there are still tears running down my face. Joseph Campbell says when you follow your bliss, doors will open for you where there were only walls. I need a door to open. For the last few hours I’ve been trying to tell myself that everything is going to be okay, that it’s good news that nothing with my immune system is glaringly wrong and it’s also good news that I’ve finally found a highly intelligent doctor who’s willing to help me figure things out. Likewise, I keep telling myself that I’m lucky to have friends who are attorneys and insurance adjusters who are willing to help me navigate this car accident claim. (I talked to two of them today.) I keep telling myself I’m not alone. But still there is this feeling, this very old feeling, and I’m not sure how to shake it.

We think of hope as something pristine, but hope is haggard like we are.

So much of me–so very much of me–is tired of being slammed around by life, tired of waiting, and oh-so tired of being strong. I imagine a lot of people feel this way, fed up with hanging in there. We think of hope as something pristine, something that never waivers. But I’m coming to believe that hope is haggard like we are, giving up one day, refusing to give up the next. For me, hope looks an awful lot like a bruised child who learns to walk again, a teenager who somehow survives the worst day of his life, or a grown man who looks back upon that worst day and remembers both his tears and the shining sun that dried them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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I don't think anyone came to this planet in order to get it right the first time. What would be the point?

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An Inflammation Whose Cause Is Unknown (Blog #368)

Today I went to Walmart to refill a prescription and got distracted by some hair products that were on sale, buy one, get one free. I didn’t end up buying anything, first because I wasn’t impressed with the selection, second because Ben Franklin said, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” So even though I don’t really have a job right now, this afternoon I earned seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents (plus tax). That’s better than minimum wage. Impressive, I know. Anyway, the description for one of the Redkin products said it was for “highly distressed” hair. So now I’m going to start describing myself this way whenever I “just can’t,” telling even total strangers when they ask how I’m doing–

“I’m highly distressed. And you?”

I’ve been partially dragging ass all afternoon–not at my best, not at my worst. When I woke up this morning I had two voicemail messages waiting for me–one from the insurance company of the guy who rear-ended me just over eight months ago and one from the office of my immunologist, whom I’m supposed to (finally) see tomorrow for the first time. The doctor’s office was simply confirming my appointment, and the insurance company said they were ready to start discussing a settlement. (When I called back, they didn’t answer.) I’m excited and nervous to talk to them, just as I’m excited and nervous to talk to my immunologist. In both cases, I’m ready for all this shit to be over and to have the worst (I hope it’s the worst) behind me. At the same time, I’m worried things won’t go “my way.”

He said this with a straight face.

Last week, after having been through hell with a rather personal skin rash, things calmed down dramatically when I changed my laundry detergent. I’d been to see my dermatologist and told him I thought my detergent was the problem, but he guessed psoriasis or “possibly cancer.” He said this with a straight face. (Do they not teach bedside manner in medical school?) So he removed a chunk of my skin and sent it off to be examined. (I picture a guy in a white lab coat asking a piece of my scrotum, “Where were you on the night of January 3rd?” Of course, my scrotum would answer, “Home alone, as always.”) Anyway, earlier this week my doctor’s nurse called with the results.

“The lab says it’s ‘an inflammation whose cause is unknown,’ and the doctor says he’d like to see you again in a month. Until then, continue using the cream he prescribed.”

“Well, okay,” I said, “but I changed my laundry detergent, and the problem is almost completely gone.”

She paused. “You may have found the cause that was unknown.”

My thought–Yeah, except for the fact that since I told the doctor about the detergent, the cause wasn’t actually unknown.

Okay, y’all, I really hate to say this, but everything my poor personal skin went through may have been worth it for this one phrase–an inflammation whose cause is unknown. Just as I’m considering referring to myself as “highly distressed” on bad days, I’m also considering referring to this last year (or even my entire life thus far) as “an inflammation whose cause is unknown.” Like, everything’s been going wrong and falling part–I’m all worked up over here–and no one can tell me why.

Why? There’s a loaded question, like one the frickin’ universe NEVER answers. (Read the Book of Job if you don’t believe me. The gods are NOT in the habit of explaining themselves.) Earlier today one of my friends on Facebook commented on yesterday’s post and referred to everything I’ve been dealing with and challenged by lately as my “dark night of the soul.” This is a term first used by St. John of the Cross, and–according to the dictionary on Google–refers to “a period of spiritual desolation suffered by a mystic in which all sense of consolation is removed.” I’m not sure about the mystic part, but the rest sounds about right. Not that I haven’t had any consolation through my recent trials and tribulations, but many days it’s felt like that scene in The Princess Bride in which our hero, Wesley, has been nearly mauled to death by an ROUS (rodent of unusual size) and the prince’s henchman nurses Wesley back to health, pats him on the shoulder, and says, “The prince and the count always insist on everyone being healthy before they’re broken.”

Thanks for the–uh–consolation?

A new life doesn’t come without the old one first being burned away.

Broken. Spiritual desolation. The dark night of the soul. Talk about highly distressing. That being said, these are explanations, or at least a way of looking at things, that I can handle. Find someone you admire, someone who is strong and kind and spiritual, and I’d bet seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents they’ve endured a dark night of the soul. I don’t like it, but this seems to be “the way things work” down here. So maybe this inflammation’s cause isn’t truly unknown–maybe it came along to help turn me into a stronger, kinder, more spiritual person. Joseph Campbell says, “We must be willing to let go of the life we imagined so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” Surely a letting go of this magnitude doesn’t come without a few dark nights. Or, as taught by the story of the mythological phoenix, surely a new life doesn’t come without the old one first being burned away.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Authenticity is worth all the hard work. Being real is its own reward."

A Whirling Planet Full of Wonder (Blog #367)

Last weekend while I was in Tulsa, my friend Frank gave me a 2009 High School Musical calendar (I have a relatively mild crush on Zac Efron), and when I got home I hung the calendar above my bed. It’s opened to Zac’s picture, of course. There are actually a few pictures of Zac for the month of February, one really big then a few smaller ones–like a collage. One of the smaller pictures has “some girl” staring at Zac all googly-eyed, and my friend Kara said I should paste a picture of my face over hers, like, staring at Zac “longingly.” For a moment, I actually considered it. I’m almost forty years old.

Since my door is normally closed, my dad just saw the calendar for the first time tonight. It was so cute. He said, “Is that a picture of you?”

“Uh, no–thank you–that’s Zac Efron.”

“Well you’re better looking that he is!”

Y’all, I realize parents are supposed to say stuff like this to their children, but it seriously made my day–well, more like it made my five seconds, since then my dad immediately said, “I don’t have my glasses on.” I haven’t been able to get these two phrases out of my head all night–“You’re better looking than he is,” and “I don’t have my glasses on.”

Talk about blowing up the balloon of my ego then letting all the air out.

Parents.

Last night I did a Facebook Live video (my first ever) to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my blog (the blog you’re reading right now). First, to anyone who tuned in live or watched later–thank you! It was really fun, and getting to interact with several of you and read your comments truly made my day.

For anyone who missed the live video that’s interested, here’s a copy of it (22 minutes). Toward the end I read yesterday’s one-year anniversary post. Also, when I tested it for this post, I had to “hover over” the bottom of the video to un-mute it after hitting play.

After wrapping up last night’s video, I attended a swing dance in Fayetteville. One of the people I danced with last night, another guy, said he’d only been dancing a couple of months. He had the biggest smile on his face all night. Later I told someone else that I remember feeling that way when I first started dancing, that I was a little jealous of beginners because they are “all joy” and not focused on whether they’re doing something right or wrong. They’re not comparing themselves to others. Not that being a “seasoned dancer” means you can’t have fun. Last night I had as much fun as I’ve ever had, mostly–I think–because I’ve gotten more comfortable in my skin this last year. It’s not as if I don’t notice who dances “better” or “worse” than I do–I just don’t care as much anymore. I’d rather have fun.

With the exception of a two-hour get-together with my friend Kara, I spent the entirety of today reading a book called Here Is Real Magic (A Magician’s Search for Wonder in the Modern World) by Nate Staniforth. A memoir, the book is largely about the fact that as we grow older and fill ourselves with facts and figures (knowledge), we lose touch with the beautiful, awe-inspiring, wonderful world around us. Nate, a magician, says this is the magician’s job, not to trick or deceive people, but to help bring them into the present moment and remind them of the mystery of life. As spectators we’re curious how magicians perform their tricks, but, as Nate says, not all questions have to have answers.

To read a beautiful quote by Roald Dahl and the introduction to Nate’s book, click the preview button below.

Y’all, the book really is glorious–a lovely story wonderfully told. I don’t say this about many authors, but Nate is an excellent writer–I read the entire book today, cover to cover, and for all my reading, that rarely happens. Two days, maybe. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this wonder thing today. A friend of mine posted some videos of us dancing last night, and I’ve been watching them over and over. Part of me, the critical part, notices what I don’t like–my posture, the way I shape my arms, the fact that I’ve been sick lately and was completely out of breath after one dance. But I keep telling myself that in that moment, I was like that beginner dancer having fun–a smile on my face, content to simply be alive and (quite literally) kicking.

I’ve had a fascination with the planets lately, and driving home from my get-together with Kara today, I got this picture of the planet earth. It was like I was looking at it from outer space, this big ball with billions of people with their feet glued all over its surface. They say there’s no up or down in outer space, but if there were, clearly the people in the northern hemisphere would be facing “up” and the people in the southern hemisphere would be facing “down.” Thanks to gravity, no one feels like they are “right-side up” or “upside down,” but my point is still the same–WOW, what a world we live in.

What a beautiful world indeed.

Since working through a lot of my personal shit this last year, I’ve actually been having thoughts like these more and more. I’ll be driving along and think, My God, that mountain is gorgeous, or even, Look at that lightbulb–what a great thing–what did people do before lightbulbs? I guess children have these thoughts all the time. For them, the entire world and everything in it is new, bright, and beautiful. When someone gives them a compliment, they don’t have to question if it’s true–they know that they too are beautiful. Beautiful–full of beauty–this is how I’m slowly coming to see the world and all that is in it, including myself. And what a beautiful world indeed, a whirling planet full of wonder, where up is down and down is up and people can dance together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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