“Yes, Trudy.”
“It’s important to regain potency by trying to get an erection once your body has had a chance to heal,” the doctor says. “I believe your potency is helped by attaining an erection as soon as possible. It’s called penile rehabilitation.”
“Is there a nice treatment center on the ocean where I can go for that? With a slew of nurse’s aides who all look like Ricky Martin?”
“There are many options for treating ED. Oftentimes, the sensation is there, but...” He turns to Ava. “Pardon my language here... but your orgasm will be dry.”
“Welcome to the desert.”
“Much of your recovery will depend on your attitude, treatment plan and care team,” the doctor says. “Our ultimate goal is for you to be cancer-free, and to live the rest of your life healthy and happy.”
“But not hard.”
“Language!” Ava says again.
“Teddy, this surgery will give you a second chance at life.”
There is a sudden strobing in my brain. I shut my eyes and see John. John with no second chance.
What is the point? Life ends badly no matter the veneer we place on top of it.
When I open my eyes, Ava is staring at me. She gets up, walks over, leans against me and holds up her cell.
“Selfie,” she says. “For Gabe. He wants to see a picture of the new old man in my life.”
Ava snaps a photo and shows it to me.
Ava is young. I am old. She is healthy. I am not. Neither of us is smiling in the picture.
It looks as if we are holding one another up, unsure as to who is the child and who is the adult, eyes stunned by the hardship of our histories, both long and short. I know that, taken in context, her life has not been so tough, and much of her problem is just teenage angst. And yet to be a salmon constantly swimming against the current is exhausting and isolating, no matter the age. I look at the photo. And yet—and yet—our set chins seem to say,Be damned, inhumanity of the world, I will fight on if only the slightest bit of hope remains.
As Ava hits Send, she rubs my back with her free arm and then takes my hand in hers. She nods at me, willing me to try.
And in this child’s eyes, I finally see it: a reason to fight.
“Okay,” I say to the doctor. “I’ll give it a shot.”
OurGolden Gaysperformance Saturday night is one of my all-time favorites entitled “Scared Straight.”
I asked Barry at the last minute if we could rearrange his carefully preplanned performance to do this particular show, and he was shockingly amenable.
“Just this once. Consider it our finale.”
Barry eyed me suspiciously when the wordfinalecame out, almost as if he were hiding something, too.
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you.”
What Barry doesn’t know is that I plan to improvise part of our performance when the time comes.
Barry hates when actors improvise his scripts nearly as much as he hates a man on Medicare. I tell him these aren’t technically his words—though he does update the oldGolden Girlsepisodes to make them even more relevant to today’s time—but artists and old men are sensitive. Don’t change Barry’s words, don’t mess up Ron’s hair, don’t wrinkle Sid’s suits and don’t mess with my mannequins.
And don’t ever rain on a gay man’s parade.
This particular episode has deep meaning to me. It was one my mama and I watched together when she was sick. She wept like a baby. I’ve seen it many times over the years since then.
In the classicGolden Girlsepisode, Blanche’s bachelor brother comes to Miami for a visit, and his sister fixes him up on countless blind dates, only to discover her brother is gay and too afraid to tell her. He goes so far as to tell Blanche he is dating Rose, who is keeping his secret.
