Children's Hospital

The first piggy bank I remember was shaped like the old Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. “Primary” is the Mormon program for children under age twelve. The LDS church founded Primary Children’s Hospital in 1922. 

When I was a child growing up in Vancouver, we participated in “Pennies By The Inch,” which has been described as “the nation’s oldest grassroots fundraiser.” Each year all the kids in Primary received our own cardboard hospital piggy bank. We were supposed to save enough money by our birthday to donate a penny for each inch of our height. It didn’t seem weird to send pennies a thousand miles away to another country. We knew Children’s Hospital is a special place for kids with special health challenges, wherever they are. 

I never met anyone who was treated at Primary Children’s Hospital. But it felt good to send my pennies to Salt Lake, just in case. As Marlo Thomas says about St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, “Give thanks for the healthy kids in your life, and give to those who are not.”

As a parent, my faith in Children’s Hospital has grown even more fervent. My first paternal vigil was at Seattle Children’s Hospital in 2005. When Eleanor was a month old, her infant gastric reflux spiked. Whole bottles of formula ended up on her fathers, and she stopped being her happy self. Our pediatrician assured us this was perfectly normal reflux. But it kept getting worse. Eventually we took her to the walk-in clinic. They immediately sent us across town to the emergency room at Seattle Children’s Hospital, where Eleanor was diagnosed with pyloric stenosis.

 

The pylorus muscle connects your stomach to your intestines. Sometimes the valve gets stuck a few weeks after birth. Anything you try to put into the stomach just comes back up. In the old days, infants with pyloric stenosis soon died. Fortunately, surgeons figured out how snip the pylorus and get things flowing again.

 

It took three days before Eleanor was hydrated enough for surgery. My parents came down from Bellingham, and my sainted ex-mother-in-law Judy flew in from Nebraska. Before the surgery, the nice Korean-American surgeon explained to us what was about to happen. Then he and Eleanor disappeared behind the ominous doors, and the rest of us went around to wait on the other side.

An hour later, Eleanor and the surgeon came out through the happy doors, and she began her swift and complete recovery. We went back to another eleven months of ordinary infant reflux and pediatrician visits, never again begrudging the vomit-stained clothes.

My next trip to Seattle Children’s came six years later, and involved mysterious bacterial pneumonia. I drove to the hospital. Eleanor took a helicopter.

Eleanor, Kamryn, and my ex had taken the train home after visiting Judy in the Midwest. After Oliver and I picked them up in Seattle, Eleanor began writhing in pain in the backseat. By the time we got to the Whidbey Island ferry she was burning up. We drove straight to the hospital on the island instead of going home. The doctors pumped Eleanor full of antibiotics, then put her on a helicopter to Seattle Children’s. 

It took a few days in the hospital to bring down Eleanor’s fever. We missed seeing the Broadway tour of “Aladdin.” I gave our tickets to a friend from Seattle Men’s Chorus; he gave Eleanor an oversized Tinker Bell balloon from the hospital gift shop. 

Here’s the key passage from the story of Eleanor’s pyloric stenosis surgery:

“Eventually we took her to the walk-in clinic. They immediately sent us across town to the emergency room at Seattle Children’s Hospital.”

Our upstairs neighbor in Seattle was an ER doctor at Seattle Children’s. When I complained about Eleanor’s melodramatic helicopter ride from Whidbey Island, she said “If you showed up in my Emergency Room with chest pains or a gunshot wound, I’d sent you straight to the grown-up doctors at Harborview.” Likewise, whenever a pediatrician or parent in the Pacific Northwest faces a life-or-death situation, they want their patient at Seattle Children’s.

Last spring my son Oliver started having weird stomach problems. Every four or five weeks he would develop symptoms resembling food poisoning – 24 hours of nausea and vomiting, but without a fever. We talked with our pediatrician and stayed in monitoring mode. 

When Oliver experienced more intense symptoms in November after just a two week break, we skipped school and went to the Urgent Care clinic. The doctor ordered an X-ray and labs. She described some of the potential causes, from stress to cancer to Crohn’s disease. Instead, the nurse called that afternoon to say the X-ray images showed alarming signs of intestinal blockage. CT imaging confirmed Oliver had a bowel obstruction.

The good news is a blocked intestine can be fixed with a one-time surgery. As I learned during Eleanor’s first visit to Seattle Children’s, the bad news is your child will die without surgery. The scary news is emergency abdomen surgery has only a fifty percent survival rate.

If Oliver needed surgery, we wanted it to happen at Seattle Children’s. Our pediatrician and I spent the next few weeks folding bureaucratic red tape into holiday bows. Oliver’s insurance approved a referral to the Seattle Children’s Gastrointestinal Clinic – but the first available appointment was in April. Meanwhile, we watched for a return of Oliver’s symptoms. My friend Dr. Ken did his pediatric residency at Seattle Children’s. When I described the test results, Dr. Ken echoed our local healthcare providers:  “it’s probably not an emergency emergency right now, but if symptoms return or pain he should go to the ER right away!” Not just any Emergency Room – everyone told us we should go directly to the ER at Seattle Children’s if Oliver’s fever spiked. 

Eventually someone looked at Oliver’s X-rays. On Friday, December 6, as I was heading up to Canada for Vancouver Men’s Chorus’s (and Taylor Swift’s) last three concerts, I got a call from Seattle Children’s. The told me Oliver could skip the Gastro Clinic. Instead they scheduled us for a surgery consultation in Seattle on Monday. 

Oliver and I met with Dr. Steven Lee, the Korean-American Chief of Seattle Children’s Surgery Division. Dr. Lee told us Oliver needed surgery as soon as possible. A week later, Seattle Children’s called to tell me Dr. Lee would be performing Oliver’s surgery on December 30. 

After thirty years in gay choirs, a handful of songs inevitably reduce me to tears whenever I try to sing them, such as the coming out anthem “Michael’s Letter to Mama”; the AIDS-era funeral staple “I Shall Miss Loving Him”; and the homesick ballad “Un Canadien Errant.”

This year Vancouver Men’s Chorus closed the first act of our holiday show with a Cher song: “DJ play a Christmas song, I wanna be dancing all night long.” The chorus repeats the words “that’s the only thing I want this year” as if in a trance. When we began rehearsals in September, Cher felt like a total bubble gum number, just like our Dolly Parton encore “Baby I’m Burnin.’” Then I saw Oliver’s x-ray report, and realized my son needed abdominal surgery to save his life. 

Since November, I’ve been unable to sing or hear “DJ Play a Christmas Song” without weeping. I don’t know what Cher is wishing for on the dance floor. But all I wanted for Christmas last year was a surgery appointment at Seattle Children’s. 

Oliver and Papa’s story continues in “Abdomen Whisperer”

Heaven Together

We chose my daughter Eleanor’s name even before I watched her birth nineteen years ago.

 

Three and a half years later, I got a call from the State social workers asking if we would take a girl from the foster system who was sixteen days older than Eleanor. We weren’t fond of her birth name, which had already been used by another family member as a boy’s name. Instead we chose “Rosalind,” which I thought was another strong woman’s name.

 

My son was a year old when he arrived from the foster system. We’d already used our top two boy names (“Graeme” and “Henry”) on failed adoption attempts. This time around “Oliver” was everyone’s second choice. My first pick was “Cameron”; my ex favored “Emerson.” So we put all three names into a hat and let Eleanor draw.

Rosalind came out as queer in middle school. A couple of years ago they identified as nonbinary, so we learned to change pronouns. They said “Rosalind” felt wrong and too girly, but they hadn’t chosen a new name yet. Instead they finished high school with the nickname “Lynn.”

 

Earlier this year, Lynn came into my room and asked “Papa, how do you feel about the name ‘Emerson’?” (Apparently Lynn didn’t remember Eleanor picking “Oliver” out of the Sorting Hat.)

 

I smothered a laugh. I told Lynn my ex was fond of “Emerson” because he liked Thoreau, Emerson, and the American transcendentalists. But I’m more of an English-y English Major. Plus I find Emerson too patriarchal. 

 

Lynn thought for a moment. “How about ‘Cameron’?”

 

This time I laughed out loud.

I’ve been waiting my whole life for a child named Kamryn. (That’s how they spell their name.)

 

I was ten or eleven years old when I saw my first musical. It was a touring show at Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Theatre called Saturday’s Warrior. After the Broadway successes of Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar, a group of musicians from Brigham Young University attempted to translate Mormon culture into musical theater. Saturday’s Warrior is about a family resisting worldly temptation and trying to get back to heaven together.

 

The curtain opens on what Mormons call the “Pre-existence,” the period in our souls’ eternal progression before God created the physical universe. After kicking Lucifer and all the fun angels out of Heaven, our spirits wait around to see who will end up with the hot bodies when we arrive on Earth. Or as the Wikipedia plot summary for Saturday’s Warrior begins: 

 

While waiting in the pre-mortal Life to be born, a family of eight children promise each other that they will always be there for each other (“Pullin' Together”). The youngest, Emily, is afraid that when her turn to be born comes around, their parents will be tired of having kids, and she won't be born into their family. The oldest, Jimmy, promises Emily he will personally see to it she will be born into their family. Julie—the second-oldest daughter—and Tod—another spirit in the pre-mortal life—promise each other that, while on earth, they will somehow find each other and get married (“Circle of Our Love”).

 

Saturday’s Warrior is Mormon folk art, loosely based in church doctrine but deeply intertwined with Mormon culture. And an intense spiritual experience. Ever since I saw my first musical, I’ve always had the same vision of the family I was supposed to build when I came to Earth:  I’m going to have twins. I’m going to have one of each. The other person has a blur for a face. Vancouver is home.

 

Five decades later, I sing in Vancouver Men’s Chorus. Bear and I can see Canada on our walks. My parents live across town. I’m a disabled gay single father. And I have the best daughter, son, and child in the world.

After people find out I grew up Mormon, they often ask if I know David Archuleta, the earnest and talented American Idol alumnus and BetterHelp spokesperson. This March, David shared a personal video after releasing his newest single (and showing up online in numerous shirtless photos):

 

“When I came out I also left my church, and when that was made public I didn’t hear from my mom for a few days,” Archuleta says to his friends in a car in the video he shared. “I thought, oh no, she's probably so upset with me but then she sent me a message saying that she also was stepping away from the church.”

 

“She’s like, ‘I don't wanna be somewhere where you don't feel welcome and if you'’re going to hell, then we’re going to hell together,’” he continued. “So the song is based off of that and it’s called ‘Hell Together.’”

 

Although I don’t know David Archuleta, I’ve known a lot of gay Mormon Baby Boomers, and fellow gay Mormon Generation Xers, and gay Mormon Millennials like David. Many endured similar experiences, and some didn’t survive. Change will come eventually. Maybe Gen Z is different. But I don’t need the church to change anything, because our Mormon family has always found a way to support each other. 

My brother Doug died last year from spine cancer. In my eulogy at the Mormon church in Bellingham, “Fathers and Brothers,” I summarized our heritage:

 

When my sister-in-law posted the announcement on Facebook letting folks know Doug had died, I was moved by the outpouring of comments. Three or four repeated words stood out:  “Nerd.” “Smart.” And “funny.” I realized that’s what the comments would say for all four Leishman brothers.

 

The other words Doug’s friends repeatedly used to describe him on Facebook were “family” and “father.” Fatherhood is at the center of all my brother’s lives. That is the great gift our parents gave to each of their sons, and now to each of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

 

Church policies and meeting schedules come and go, but the fundamentals are eternal, like the familiar Mormon slogan “Families are forever.” I recognize “forever” is way too long for some families. But not for us.

Fathers and Brothers

My brother Doug Leishman died on April 25, 2023 after enduring spine cancer for the last six years. Doug asked that each of his brothers speak at his memorial. This is what I shared at the Mormon church in Bellingham on May 16, 2023.

I’m grateful for this opportunity to meet together as Doug’s family and friends. Gatherings of our extended family always have one very obvious impact on me and many other Leishmans, including Doug. After listening to everyone’s stories, I forget how to pronounce my own last name. It will take several days to switch back from Lishman to Leashman.

 

Leishman is an ancient Scottish surname. It’s been pronounced the same way for hundreds of years, since before Shakespeare and the King James Bible. But our branch of the family met the Mormon missionaries in Scotland during the 1850s. They sailed across the ocean and walked across the prairie. When they reached Utah, Brigham Young sent them north to settle Wellsville, in Cache Valley. They became a peculiar people, and developed a peculiar dialect. “Roof” became “ruff.” “Creek” became “crick.” And “Leishman” became “Lishman.” That’s how my brothers and I grew up pronouncing our last name.

 

When I began my professional career, I made a conscious choice to introduce myself as “Roger Leishman.” Just like I don’t say “crick.” But we don’t make a big deal about pronunciation, and respond politely to anyone regardless of how they say our name. Except for “Leischman,” of course.

 

Like Doug, on days like today we are all “Lishmans.”

When Kyla posted the announcement on Facebook letting folks know Doug had died, I was moved by the outpouring of comments. Three or four repeated words stood out:  “Nerd.” “Smart.” And “funny.” I realized that’s what the comments would say for all four Leishman brothers.

 

Folks often remark on how much we resemble each other and both our parents, but they struggle to put their finger on the specific similarity. Folks would say we are even more similar in our personalities. Especially my sisters-in-law, and our children.

There are differences. Yes, we’re all nerds, but Doug is the Dungeons & Dragons nerd. We’re all funny – but Doug is the master of sarcasm.

On the wall at my parent’s house there is a framed series of pictures of the four Leishman Brothers. The same series of photos hangs on the wall in my living room. They were taken a few years ago near Lake Whatcom. It was the only time when the brothers, parents, and grandchildren were all in the same place at the same time. So we hired a photographer. 

 

There are four pictures in this series. In the first picture Roger, Doug, Brian, and Warren are all smiling appropriately for the camera.

 

In the second picture, Doug has a quiet grin. He is sticking his finger into Warren’s ear.

In the third picture, Warren has his finger in my ear, and everyone is grinning.

 

In the fourth picture, the brothers have all burst into laughter. 

 

If you look close, you can see differences between the Leishman Brothers. Warren went bald early. I’ll always be the oldest, and the gay one. And as Brian is quick to point out, he is the tallest brother.

 

A couple of months ago, I had the opportunity to drive to Kamloops with my parents. Doug looked about the same as the last time I’d visited:  lying in a hospital bed on his stomach in the corner of the living room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Before we drove back to Bellingham, I reached in for a goodbye hug. I was struck by how thick and curly Doug’s hair had gotten. And still so dark. 

 

Technically, I am now the least bald Leishman brother, and Warren is the least grey. But I think we should retire the hair titles with Doug as champion.

Gatherings like this are important because we can help each other remember the real Doug.

I often find it a challenge to recall stories from the past without a picture or something to remind me. Faces are especially hard. Last month when my parents called to let me know Doug had died, I lay in bed weeping because I couldn’t remember what Doug looked like before cancer.

 

Doug spent the last few years of his life being seen from a strange angle. Spine cancer prevented him from walking or lying on his back, so we only saw him lying on his stomach. That’s how I noticed his dark curly hair.

 

I knew if I got out of bed and walk into the living room, the pictures on the wall would help me remember laughing together with Doug. But I wanted to conjure the memories on my own. Eventually I was blessed to remember two images of the real Doug.

The first memory was from the spine floor at Vancouver General Hospital. A year and a half ago, Doug was paralyzed by a new tumor in his neck. He was airlifted from Kamloops to Vancouver, where two separate teams of surgeons worked from both front and back, removing the cancer and reconstructing his vertebrae. Doug spent the next hundred days at VGH.

 

I sing in Vancouver Men’s Chorus, which rehearses on Wednesday evenings. Each week I would drive up early and spend time in Doug’s room. He was propped up on his back in a hospital bed. It’s the only time in the last few years when I got to look Doug in the face. It also gave me the opportunity to sit down and spend hours talking with my brother, sometimes with other family and sometimes just the two of us.

 

We discussed our challenges living with cancer and with PTSD. But mostly I remember sitting together face to face with Doug, and talking about what it means to be a father.

Spine cancer targets the parts of the body that signal pain. In addition to dealing with Doug’s underlying symptoms, his healthcare team always focused on making him comfortable. Greedy pharmaceutical companies and irresponsible doctors have created the terrible opioid epidemic that is ravaging our communities. But modern opioids are also miracle drugs that make it possible to endure to the end.

 

While Doug was at Vancouver General, three separate teams were responsible for the opioids in his IV drip, his pillbox, and the little pump installed in his chest. I happened to be visiting the hospital when the pain management teams realized not only were they not communicating clearly with each other, but they were using three incompatible measurements to track dosages. One team would give Doug enough medicine for him to sit up all the way for a meal. After a few minutes they would have to crank the bed back down for him to rest, which would react with the medicine from the other teams. Sometimes Doug would overdose. And then they would start over.

 

While visiting the hospital, I also observed the laborious process of putting Doug in a wheelchair. I listened to presentations about grueling rehabilitation programs at inconveniently located facilities. 

 

After more than three months at VGH, Doug was finally stable enough to leave the spine floor and return home. When I visited Kamloops with my parents a few months later, there was no sign of the elaborate rehabilitation programs we’d heard about at the hospital. Instead, Doug used every ounce of his energy to spend as much time as possible with his family. His world was tiny:  a bed in a corner of a living room. But Doug’s world was as large as eternity because he was at the center of his family.

As I lay in bed last month grieving, I remembered a second image of Doug, from a couple of summers ago. It was the height of the pandemic. Nothing was harder for our family than the Canadian border being closed for the first time since the War of 1812. Doug was stuck in a bed in Kamloops, and my parents and I were stuck in the States. 

 

Like everything else, the Mormon temples closed. But by a miraculous convergence of circumstances, Katie and Christian were able to get married in my parents’ backyard in the strangest Mormon wedding ever. I will always remember the last time I ever saw Doug walking:  he staggered down the aisle, holding on to his daughter, the happiest man and the proudest father in the world.

 

Besides “nerd,” “smart,” and “funny,” the other words Doug’s friends repeatedly used to describe him on Facebook were “family” and “father.” Fatherhood is at the center of all my brother’s lives. That is the great gift our parents and now Doug and Kyla have given to each of the “Lishmans.” 

Church policies and meeting schedules come and go, but the fundamentals are eternal, like the familiar slogan “Families are forever.” I recognize “forever” is way too long for some families. But not for us. 

 

When I was young, the president of the church was David O. McKay. He delivered a similar message, but with more words in it:  “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” (It was the Mad Man era – our ad slogans were longer than my kids’ generation, just like our attention spans.)

 

My brother Doug lived a successful life when it comes to what really matters. I hope we can all remember and be inspired by Doug’s example.

Douglas Todd Leishman

1967-2023

 

Anesthesia

Eleanor at Whidbey General Hospital with bacterial pneumonia

(pre-helicopter ride to Seattle Children’s Hospital)

Facebook can be horrifying. 

 

Several years ago, a friend posted a cheery selfie from his sunny hospital bed after a surprise appendectomy. A day later, someone else posted the report to Facebook that our friend had died from complications after surgery.

Eleanor after hip surgery

In February, Eleanor had a sports injury that didn’t heal. In October, she had arthroscopic surgery to repair a labral tear in her hip. I sat in the waiting room, trying to read or write while my daughter was under general anesthesia. 

I am not a superstitious person. But I didn’t post a picture to Facebook until after it was all over.

Eleanor spitting up

My first paternal vigil was at Seattle Children’s Hospital in 2005. When Eleanor was a month old, her infant gastric reflux spiked. Whole bottles of formula ended up on her fathers, and she stopped being her happy self. Our pediatrician assured us this was perfectly normal. But it kept getting worse. Eventually we took her to the walk-in clinic. They immediately sent us across town to the emergency room at Seattle Children’s Hospital, where Eleanor was diagnosed with pyloric stenosis.

 

The pylorus muscle connects your stomach to your intestines. It’s the valve at the opposite end of the stomach from the esophagus. In something like one in a thousand babies, the pylorus closes completely a few weeks after birth. Anything you try to put into the stomach just comes back up. In the old days, infants with pyloric stenosis soon died. Fortunately, a century ago surgeons figured out how snip the pylorus and get things flowing again.

 

It took three days in the hospital before Eleanor was hydrated enough for surgery. When she was finally ready, the surgeon explained to us what was about to happen. Then he and Eleanor disappeared behind the ominous doors, and the rest of us went around to wait on the other side.

Eleanor before stomach surgery

My friend Michael is a distinguished anesthesiologist. I met him when we served together on the Seattle Men’s Chorus board. Although Michael isn’t a singer, he traveled with the chorus on our successful Rocky Mountain tour. So did one-year-old Eleanor. Over the years, Michael has given his Facebook thumbs-up to countless pictures of my daughter as she’s grown into a graceful and confident young woman.

 

Michael is an avid traveler with long legs and an aversion to flying coach. Although I’ve been immobilized by parenthood and disability, I’ve traveled vicariously as Michael and his husband Ron voyaged across the globe. Michael regularly posts pictures to Facebook showing his legs happily extended in First Class, or begrudgingly squeezed into an economy row. Last month we saw a picture of Michael’s legs comfortably resting on a British Airways flight to Barcelona. He and Ron were on their way to board a cruise ship for a trip around the world in celebration of their 42nd anniversary.

 

The next day, Facebook reported that Ron suddenly collapsed and couldn’t be revived. As Michael himself reported, “The sad news has already been mentioned, but I’m devastated to say that with no warning, the Husband suddenly collapsed and couldn’t be revived by the valiant efforts of the Spanish paramedics. I’m now dealing with the local medical examiner, the US consulate and at least one funeral home. A million thanks to those who have reached out already.”

 

Michael is a social creature with countless friends. Ron was quieter. I mostly knew him from references to “the Husband” in Michael’s Facebook posts. However, I know anyone living and traveling together with Michael for decades will see wondrous things. Ron had a wonderful life, then a sudden death in Barcelona.

 

Michael managed affairs in Spain then returned to Seattle – terribly alone, yet surrounded by friends. Michael’s next Facebook post said “I’m absolutely gobsmacked by the outpouring of support and affection from hundreds of friends and family.” 

Eleanor after stomach surgery

Last fall I sat in another waiting room while our next-door neighbor operated on Eleanor’s nose to correct a deviated septum. (Another sports injury, don't ask.) Afterwards I came back to sit with her as she emerged from anesthesia. I had to sit for a while – they wouldn’t let her leave the building until her blood pressure came down. The nurse spiked her IV drip with a couple of different hypertension medications, to no avail. So she gave Eleanor a hit of fentanyl. 

 

It was eye-opening. For me, not Eleanor – I watched as her eyeballs rolled back and her blood pressure immediately dropped. In the car afterwards, Eleanor said she hated how the fentanyl made her feel, and she never wants to try anything like it again. 

As a parent, I found nose surgery provides a wonderful “Just Say No” moment.

Eleanor before last year’s nose surgery 

At Eleanor’s recent hip surgery, I was invited to the pre-op area as the nurses got her ready. Her handsome surgeon stopped by, too focused on business for the kind of charming chit-chat we enjoyed during our introductory meeting a few weeks before. 

 

Before returning to the waiting room for another paternal vigil, I also met the anesthesiologist. His spiel was soothing, but a little too polished. He told us the odds of complications were one in 250,000, and said Eleanor was at less risk during surgery than during her car ride to the hospital.

 

Never tell me the odds. As I observe Michael grieve the sudden loss of The Husband after forty-two years together, I think of my sister-in-law in Canada, who sleeps on the couch across the living room from the hospital bed where my younger brother is confined by Stage IV spine cancer. And I watch my parents across town growing old together as they celebrate their 60th anniversary next year. 

I’ve been a failure with romance myself. By most measures I’ve been a failure with everything else. Instead, I’ve poured my heart into fatherhood. 

 

Wherever we find love, probability is not destiny. Life is fragile and precious, with no guarantees. And no day but today.

Eleanor before this year’s hip surgery

I recently read Pathological: The True Story of Six Misdiagnoses by Sarah Fay. The New York Times Book Review described the book as a “fiery manifesto of a memoir.” Like other critics of what has been called the “Mental Health Industrial Complex,” Fay challenges two dangerous aspects of modern psychological treatment. First, too much weight is given to the Diagnostic & Statistical Manual’s taxonomy of specific mental disorders. The DSM began as a helpful resource for practitioners. Unfortunately, its rigid categorizations can take on a life of their own, usually without the support of valid data. Rather than being seen as individuals, patients are reduced to labels and insurance codes. 

Second, market forces and Big Pharma have corrupted medicine. Pharmaceuticals became the default answer to every mental health question, causing numerous disasters including the opioid epidemic. In Fay’s case, her fifth psychiatrist prescribed Zoloft along with a new diagnosis. No one knows what powerful drugs like Zoloft and Prozac actually do to the human brain. For many individuals – including Fay and me – Zoloft offers magical relief to various debilitating symptoms. For other individuals in similar circumstances, the same drug may have no effect.

 

I was lucky. As I wrote in “Breaking the Glass,” I like to compare Zoloft to cartoon dynamite. The most alarming effect of amped-up stress had been on my temper around the kids. Every little mess was making me uncharacteristically angry. On medication, my fuse feels a few inches longer. Just enough to avoid explosions.

 

When Fay’s next psychiatrist gave her a new diagnosis, he insisted she end her reliance on Zoloft, because the drug was no longer indicated as part of standard treatment. Fay gradually tried reducing her dosage. But every time she approached zero she was wracked with horrifying withdrawal symptoms. She needed to stay on Zoloft to avoid side effects she never experienced before someone prescribed Zoloft for one of the six serious DSM diagnoses she received (none of which involved traumas or triggers). 

 

Eventually Fay took control of her own treatment: 

 

“I found the right combination and dosage of medications, which is like finding the slimmest of needles in the largest of haystacks at the end of a rainbow after winning the lottery.”

Eleanor after being airlifted to Seattle Children's Hospital

For years, I relied on the maximum dosage of 200 milligrams of Zoloft daily. A couple of years ago my amazing Bellingham physician Dr. Heuristic and I agreed it was time to taper down. I plateaued at 100 milligrams for a few months. Then I made it down to 25 milligrams. However, every time I considered letting go completely, some new life crisis erupted, and I would lose my nerve. 

 

This year began with the usual stress at home and in the world, plus crises and/or disasters in several of my ongoing legal matters. Nevertheless, I decided it was time to let go of Zoloft. Fortunately, unlike Fay, I didn’t experience withdrawal or side effects. 

 

In his classic treatise on trauma and its effects, The Body Keeps the Score, psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk levels some of same criticisms at his profession that Fay addresses in Pathological. Dr. van der Kolk observes “people have always used drugs to deal with traumatic stress,” and recognizes pharmaceuticals are an essential treatment tool. Nevertheless, in the particular context of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Complex PTSD,

 

Drugs cannot “cure” trauma: they can only dampen the expressions of a disturbed physiology. And they do not teach the lasting lessons of self-regulation. They can help to control feelings and behaviour, but always at a price – because they work by blocking the chemical systems that regulate engagement, motivation, pain, and pleasure.

 

Since my PTSD diagnosis, I’ve spent thousands of hours meditating. Through writing I’ve learned to think clearly. I’ve finished a broader and more substantial psychology and neurology reading list than most grad students. Bear and I walk six or seven miles every day. I had a 3.7 Wordle average in November. I spend as much time as possible in Vancouver with my chorus brothers or walking on the Stanley Park seawall. I’ve placed my family at the center of everything. 

 

After letting go of Zoloft, I was able to open myself up to tears of joy and sorrow. Of course, this also means that my emotions are more vulnerable to stress and triggers. I’m an unemployed disabled gay single dad who lives across the border from home. Every day I deal with triggering conduct by abusive lawyers. It should come as no surprise that even with the benefit of my shiny set of mental tools, my family has observed some fuse-shortened emotions lately.

 

I don't want to go back on Zoloft. So Bear and I are going for another walk.

True Stories

Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine

I'm all ears, take your time, we got all night

Show me the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled

Show me who made you walk all the way here

     “Chosen Family,” by Rina Sawayama

 

This week Vancouver Men’s Chorus performed our first post-covid concerts at Performance Works on Granville Island. Our theme this year is “R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Celebrating Women’s Music.” VMC’s intrepid Music Selection Committee and our stable of skilled vocal arrangers curated a marvelous collection of songs, mashups, and medleys. 

 

An evening of gay men singing songs by and about women requires a little extra context. Our conductor Willi asked for volunteers to introduce several of the numbers with personal stories about their connection to particular songs. For example, Lenny explained how his generation made “Secret Love” a gay anthem, sharing how he grew up going to Doris Day movies with his mother and recognizing he had a crush on Rock Hudson. Basil, who immigrated to Canada as a child from Yemen speaking neither English nor French, introduced the “Empowerment Medley” with the story of aboriginal Australian singer Thelma Plum, who wrote “Better in Blak” about her experiences with people “trying to take the colour from the conversation.” And Mark closed the first act by convincing the audience – as he had convinced the Music Selection Committee – that a medley called “Great Shoes” would work. (It does, spectacularly.)

Elton & Rina singing "Chosen Family"

Rina Sawayama is a young queer singer-songwriter who was born in Japan and raised in Britain. Last year MTV News described her song “Chosen Family” as “the budding queer anthem uniting global fans.”

 

At one of the last rehearsals for “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” the conductor announced that no one had volunteered to introduce “Chosen Family.” Willi asked if anyone had a story to share about their connection to the song. Three of us came forward. 

Yogi’s story is about how he came from Indonesia to Vancouver at 18 knowing only two words in English. Now he’s a pillar of the arts and queer communities, and President of VMC.  

Paul's story is about how he and his husband Gerry moved to Vancouver from the U.K. and found a home with the chorus. Two years ago, Gerry died of cancer in Paul’s arms, surrounded by friends from VMC.

Here’s my story:

 

When I was a kid, one of my friends was teased about being adopted. I remember her telling the bully “Your parents had to take you, but my parents chose me.” 

 

Thirty years later, my partner and I had the opportunity to adopt a baby girl, who we named Eleanor. Next we adopted Rosalind and then Oliver from the foster system. My daughters are now 16, and my son is 13. Several years ago my ex disappeared from the picture. So I’m a single parent raising three kids alone – an amazing job that typically is seen as “women’s work.” 

 

During middle school, my daughter Rosalind came out to me in a text. Actually two texts. The first said “Papa, just letting you know I've been going to the Queer Student Alliance after school.” Her second text said “Don't make a big deal about it.”

 

Last weekend was the high school’s first Prom since Covid. My daughter Eleanor went with her cute nerdy boyfriend. She looked radiant in a sequined Marilyn Monroe dress. Rosalind looked awkward but completely herself in one of my tux jackets. Her goth girlfriend wore a black dress. Rosalind and her goth girlfriend rode to the Prom in a lesbian classmate’s car, together with my daughter's gay boi best friend – a classic skinny twink, with Timothée Chalamet hair. 

 

The morning after Prom, I went into Rosalind’s room and found the four of them asleep on her king-sized bed – three lesbians and a twinkie, half naked and all intertwined. It looked like the dancers’ dressing room backstage. 

 

Our next song is by Rina Sawayama. She’s a young queer singer-songwriter who was born in Japan and raised in Britain. You may have seen the video of her singing a duet with Elton John of this song, which is called “Chosen Family.”

 

I had to wait and grow up and join a gay chorus before I found my chosen family. As a PFLAG father, I’m thrilled my daughter is already finding hers. 

Paul introduced “Chosen Family” at our opening night performance on Friday, which meant he also gave his speech at the dress rehearsal in front of the guys the day before. I drew both the matinee and evening shows on Saturday. 

 

After the concert Friday, I stayed overnight in Vancouver at a friend’s place. On Saturday morning I walked along the seawall around Stanley Park practicing my remarks. I wanted to be able to speak directly to the audience without notes. I choked up every time I said “As a PFLAG father, I’m overjoyed my daughter is already finding her chosen family.” I tried repeating it 20 times in a monotone, without any decongestion. Fortunately it’s the last sentence.  

 

Back at the theatre on Saturday, there wasn’t time for me to do a run through. Backstage between acts, Willi asked if I was ready. I told him I expected to make people laugh and cry, including myself.

My speech at the matinee Saturday was a success by the most important measures:  I made it to the end without a PTSD meltdown, and numerous people said “I never knew you were so funny, but I hate you for making me cry.” 

 

As with the speeches, chorus members share some of the solos, including the duet in “Chosen Family.” Dan and David, a recently married couple, were scheduled to sing the duet Saturday evening. During the break between shows, Dan complimented me on my presentation at the matinee. “But could you make it a little longer?” He explained that David is one of the dancers, and needed a little more time for his costume change before singing “Chosen Family.” 

“Chosen Family” comes at the end of the second act, right before the finale. So I had time to ponder. Where could I add a couple of extra jokes? Did I have anything else I wanted to say? 

 

I was jealous of Paul’s remarks because he drew an elegant parallel between “chosen” and “biological” families. I already had covered “chosen” and “adoptive.” Wouldn’t it be even cooler if I added “biological” too – like landing a triple axel? 

 

As I was seeking inspiration, I looked down and saw my rainbow “PFLAG LOVES YOU” wristband. I’m not just a PFLAG father, I’m a PFLAG son, too. So I decided to acknowledge my parents by telling the story of how I got my wristband. 

 

This turned out to be a mistake.

Performance Works is a cabaret space, which underscores the difference between matinee and evening audiences. As usual, the afternoon crowd was smaller and quieter, with a higher proportion of blue hair. In contrast, the evening show was sold out, and the raucous audience took advantage of the bar both before the show and during intermission. The vibe resembled a combined bachelorette party and tea dance. 

 

Public speaking with a hot crowd is always more fun for everyone, but it can be unpredictable. I didn’t expect “I’m a single parent raising three kids alone” to be a big applause line, which threw off my timing. When I reached the new story about my PFLAG wristband, I choked up. The audience was totally with me, but I could tell they were worried I wouldn’t be able to finish. So was I.  

 

Stand-up is like walking a tightrope – losing your balance can be perilous. As lesbian Australian comic Hannah Gadsby wrote in her recent memoir Ten Step to Nannette, when a stand-up confronts trauma, the process can also resemble therapy. The speaker’s job is to guide both herself and the audience safely through the punchlines to catharsis. 

Fortunately, with the support of my family and the chorus, I’ve made immense progress with both PTSD and social anxiety. Although my speech Saturday evening triggered more of my stammer than at the matinee, we arrived home.

Here’s a smooth version of what I was I was attempting to say when I lost my composure at the Saturday night performance. I can’t even type the words without tears in my eyes:

 

It’s Pride month. Last week I was at the Starbucks near the high school with my daughters. Rosalind slipped this “PFLAG LOVES YOU” wristband on me. “PFLAG” stands for “Parents & Friends of Lesbians and Gays.” Someone had left a bunch of wristbands at Starbucks in a rainbow-trimmed basket. 

I told Rosalind my mother probably made the basket. 

 

I was thirty before I came out to my parents. My mother spent the next twenty-five years tirelessly serving on the board of our local PFLAG chapter. She sewed the fifty-foot rainbow flag they carry in the Pride Parade – and made all those baskets full of PFLAG wristbands. Even before I adopted my children, I was already blessed with the best family anyone could have chosen.

I thought I wasn’t ready to tell the story behind these stories publicly yet. But after the matinee Saturday, I posted a copy of my remarks to the VMC group page on Facebook, together with a bunch of Prom pictures. When I logged back on to Facebook after the evening show, I discovered that dozens of friends had already “liked”my post. Because I was using my phone instead of the computer, I’d accidentally posted it to my own Facebook feed instead of the private VMC page. By the end of the weekend it was my most popular Facebook post of the year.

 

I’d already shared my speech with Eleanor, Rosalind, and her queer Prom posse when I got their permission to tell our story to the concert audiences. But now that my remarks were out there in writing, I realized I needed to make sure my daughters were cool with the final product.

 

When I got back to the States, I showed Eleanor and Rosalind the published text. Rosalind said “You took out the word ‘goth’ before ‘girlfriend’ – that was my favourite part.” So I put “goth” back in. Eleanor read the speech to her “cute nerdy boyfriend.” He said “I’m not nerdy! I have abs!” 

 

True story.

Read “For Good,” a story about how I become attached to my first dog, 

in the recent anthology True Stories Vol. IV