What’s In It For Me?

Posted on April 24, 2011 by

“If you bring in $500,000 to $1 million worth of business there isn’t any part of how you want to be creative that won’t fly here.” shares the owner of an international conference services business I was interviewing with. Why did I feel so afraid during my time with him, his Vice President and Executive Assistant?

I prepared so well for this interview yet I could not string two articulate words together and was not able to give these men any sense of the accomplishments I had accumulated in my business life. As I left their office I wondered, what the hell just happened?

I emailed my friend Joe, who opened the door to this opportunity, to thank him. I shared my disappointment with how I thought it went and apologized for not making a greater impact. He wrote back saying, “Thomas, you’re amazing. I am sure you’re underestimating yourself, we are all our own worst enemies.” I never heard a word from that company.

Being a soul who prides himself on learning, I committed to understanding what happened to me in that office that day. Why was I so afraid?

The phone rang early one morning not long after hell’s interview. Upon picking it up I heard a woman’s voice say, “I’m managing the recruitment efforts for a Directors position at the Dalai Lama Center for Peace and Education and am impressed with your resume. Would you be interested in meeting to discuss the position?”

One of my thoughts was, this is a cosmic joke, the Universe and the Dalia Lama were conspiring to mix me up even more because I was still reeling from such a dismal interview with the ‘power three’ connected to the conference services interview. Why I was so afraid still eluded me.

I’ve had many intuitive whispers in my life that I have ignored. When I first learned of the conference services opportunity that little whisper said, “No.”, very gently of course, but I ignored it. This Dalai Lama opportunity came with a whispered, “Yes.” that was equally as gentle.

So I met with Maggie, from the professional placement firm, to discuss what the Dalai Lama Center was looking for and had a powerful sense I might contribute to something very special. I also noted not being afraid.

Within a week I found myself being interviewed by the CEO and Director of Administration of the Dalai Lama Center and nowhere present was there a sense of fear. The connection was effortless; I could string two words together and was able to share, with great ease, my business experience.

This time as I left the interview I heard, “We may have just found our new Director.” That being a projection I made on both the people who just interviewed me.

How is it that I shifted from a place of fear to a place of ease and effortlessness during an interview without having a sense of how I did it? There had to be something rich for me to learn here and like a dog with a bone I wasn’t giving up until I had the lesson.

Two more interviews would take place with the Dalai Lama Center and both were equally as comfortable. Support from friends and colleagues reminded me to be myself and I spent more time preparing for these interviews than I did for any interviews in my entire working career.

I must admit that there were times when I wanted to make up the story that this process was about getting the job, but a wiser part of me invited me to trust the process – so I did.

On the morning of April 20th the CEO from the Dalai Lama Center called to share that the Board had chosen a candidate with more development experience. I heard myself say, “I’m thrilled you’ve chosen the best person to do the Dalai Lama’s work.” The CEO countered with, “That’s very gracious of you to say.”

What I have not shared was a revelation that took place two days prior to the call from the CEO. As I walked home from the YMCA that day it suddenly dawned on me that I used fear as a motivator to get myself in front of the conference services folks. There was something else I used to get myself in front of the Dalai Lama people.

Motivation comes from a place of fear. It creates an attitude of scarcity and self-concern—“I want to change your behaviour with a reward or incentive, so that, if you meet the targets or goals I set for you, I will meet my own needs and goals.”

Inspiration, on the other hand, comes from a place of abundance, service and love, with no strings attached—“I love you and wish to serve and teach you and help you to grow.”

When we motivate, we serve ourselves first; when we inspire, we serve others first. Motivation comes from the fear inside us; inspiration comes from the love inside us. They are complete opposites.

So what’s in it for me is a lifetime realization that love need be the only inspiration for any work I might contemplate in the world. I’m not afraid anymore.

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That Catholic Quarterback

Posted on April 14, 2011 by

Letting myself learn, through and through, that my shame is not my fault is a tough gift to be with. Its impact on my life is my responsibility, but it’s not my fault.

“There is no way he should be allowed to play football at a Protestant school. All the other Dolan boys attended St. Francis and he should be no different.”

Those were the opening words to Henry Viney’s (the Dean of Canadian Broadcasters), ‘One Man’s Opinion’ on CFCN TV’s 6pm sports segment in September of 1973 in Calgary. I felt this intense pain in my chest after hearing his words.

I became the scapegoat for my family’s incompetency in solving its problems in living – it only knew unhappiness and had no idea how to make things better. Shaming me was ‘for my own good’.

What I could not get as a boy was that my parents were the dysfunctional ones. I knew of no one’s failure but those attributed to me by grown-ups. My only “guidance” was that which helped me feel awful—shame about myself for failing to produce… I repeat, it was not my fault.

On the first day of high school, I stood across the expanse of soccer fields leading to St. Francis. I remember hearing a whisper come into my heart. It suggested, in the most loving way, that this was not the school for me to attend.

Four Dolan boys had attended this school before me and three more siblings were set to grace the halls of this high school after me. Why on earth would I be hearing a whisper not to go here?

I remember speaking to my brother Rick, who had been the only Dolan to graduate from St. Francis. He thought not attending St. Francis and going to Viscount Bennett, a Protestant school, might be a much better place for me to play football. I thought it might be a much better place for me to graduate.

Mom was a convert. She converted to Catholicism in order to marry my Dad and was not the least bit happy about her boy going to a Protestant school. Converts were usually the staunchest of Catholics.

My dear brother Rick was able to get me an appointment with the Head Football Coach at the Protestant School.

I am my memories, my history, my joys and my talents; I am also my experience of shame. There is no escaping any part of myself; my shame experiences are in my neurons and my body cells.

Although I desperately wanted to honour this whisper’s wisdom, the pressure I was feeling from my brother, my Mom, the Dolan legacy at St. Francis, and the Dean of Canadian Sportscasters was overwhelming. Perhaps I should just attend the Catholic school, let the whisper go unheard and maybe the pressure in my chest would disappear.

I would learn decades later that when we are shamed, the primary physical manifestation of that shame shows up in our chests. It all made sense.

I learned not to deny the shame or finesse it, but to face it, own it, and incorporate it into myself. After all, they are only painful memories, not imperious demons. They cannot hurt me again as they did before – though I may believe they can – for I am not as vulnerable as I was when I was smaller. Today, I am not done in by the shaming experiences the world offers me.

I did not go to St. Francis in 1973, for a month, and returned after hearing the end of the Sportscaster’s closing words of that two-minute segment, “That Catholic quarterback has no right playing with Protestants.” Shame had claimed its victory.

A year later, grade eleven. I left St. Francis, played football with the Protestants, graduated in 1977 and watched as no other Dolan’s graduated from there. The Dean of Canadian Sportscasters died, as did his legacy of shame.

There is nothing shameful about shame. I learned it by surviving in the midst of being shamed.
There is a great community of the shamed waiting to dare to trust others enough to be open and vulnerable. Sharing my shame is my way of forming a strong and rejuvenating tie with others.

My sense of shame is a channel of empathy and pathos to the hearts of others. Owning the universality of my shame helps me both cry and lighten up a bit about it. There is no more powerful bond than that of shared shame transformed into a bond of understanding and mutual support for one another’s healing.

Today, I have my shame; it does not have me.

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His Last Words

Posted on April 6, 2011 by

I stared at him while he prepared Easter dinner in Mom’s kitchen in 1989, remembering how much he scared me. Suddenly I found myself standing in front of him saying, “I forgive you.”

My brother Jim, the youngest of the older group of five Dolan’s, spent time in prison on drug trafficking charges. It’s where he learned to cook so well. He was talented, an exquisite writer, drop dead gorgeous and had a powerfully troubled past. My brother John revealed to me the number of police officers that were dispatched to arrest Jim.

I always remember wanting to hang around him and his friends because they all seemed so cool. On top of all that, his teenaged male friends were so cute. That definitely appealed to me as an elementary school aged gay boy. But he was a part of the older group of my ten siblings, and our paths would never really cross.

After sharing that I forgave him, he stepped toward me and said, “I have no idea where you get your strength. You’ve come out, left a marriage and now you forgive me.” With that he turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Sometime in the late 1990’s, here in Vancouver, my friend Nancy said to me, “It must be tough, as a man, not being able to talk to other men about sexual abuse. My women friends and I have been talking about it for ages.” I had chosen to dive into some therapy work related to my experience of sexual abuse.

One of the biggest challenges, as my therapist Jamie told me, in dealing with sexual abuse for gay men is a factor called ‘liking it’. I remember this deep sense of shame mixed with terror as I recalled my feelings connected to being sexually abused. I must have been the one who was bad because sometimes I enjoyed it.

The perpetrator of sexual abuse, especially with a gay boy, often is the only one to know that the boy is actually gay. I remember those horrific whisperings that were so confusing to me. The theme the whisperings centered around was ‘secret’. “Don’t tell anyone; this is our special time,” he always whispered to me.

What I did not know existed was a dynamic of power; that he always knew I was gay and used that against me, in the absence of me really knowing I was gay. So now I had a double secret and he knew that too.

So for a lot of my formative adult years I actually carried three secrets. I was gay. I had an experience of sexual abuse, and I liked it sometimes. There were few cocktails parties I attended that this could be fodder for small talk.

Some weeks after that Easter dinner that Jim prepared, while still living in Calgary I had retrieved a recorded voicemail message from him. It was simple, short and very succinct. “Tom, I’m just calling to tell you I love you.” Although I felt fear hearing his voice, I do remember thinking how nice of him to tell me that. As quickly as the message ended I dialed his number in Victoria, got his answering machine, and simply said, “Jim, I love you too.”

Later that night, at exactly 11:27pm, the phone rang. For some reason I said to my friend Mark, “That’s not good news.”

Sheryl had spent four years with my brother Jim. She and I had never met, but we had spoken on the phone several times. Sheryl’s voice quivered, “Tom, Jim attempted suicide tonight. The doctors tell me he will not survive.”

Suddenly the voicemail message he left made all the sense in the world. I reminded Sheryl, where I read this I do not know, that one of the last faculties to go as our bodies begin to shut down is our hearing. “Please tell Jim you love him. He’ll hear you,” I told her. With that Sheryl hung up.

At 3:53am the phone rang, “Tom, he’s gone.“ I asked, “Did you tell him? Did you tell him you loved him?” Amidst uncontrolled fits of tears, she uttered yes.

As I made my way through the airport in Victoria I instinctively went right to Sheryl. We had never met, but I knew her. She and I would work together in arranging Jim’s funeral.

Sheryl shared some heartwarming and heart wrenching stories about my brother. She opened my eyes to a world he had created with her, her two daughters and their life in Victoria. She also shared that she felt Jim had many secrets. One in particular he did tell her was that he would not live to see his 40th birthday; he died weeks before at age 39.

After meeting at the funeral home and making some arrangements, we took a break and went for a ride. I sensed there were some things I needed to tell Sheryl that might lighten my heart, heal me and reveal to Sheryl some of Jim’s shadows.

Sheryl told me that Jim was immensely proud of me. She also said that I was the first gay person she had ever met. She added a comment that stunned me, “Jim told me one day, not too long ago, that he thought he might be gay or that perhaps he was attracted to men.” She wondered if he’d ever said anything to me.

Suddenly I remembered Nancy’s words, “It must be tough, as a man, not being able to talk to other men about sexual abuse.”

I started to cry and asked Sheryl to stop the car. As I turned to her, eyes filled with tears, I shared this; “Jim sexually abused me when I was little. It went on for a long time, it stopped and then started again when I was in Grade 10.” We sat in silence.

I really had four secrets. I was gay. I experienced sexual abuse. I liked it. My brother Jim was the perpetrator.

I realize today that out of the terror, attraction, secrets and dark shadows of sexual abuse, I learned how to forgive. His last words to me were, “I love you.”

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Rick’s Gift

Posted on March 30, 2011 by

For months I had been telling my wife, Wendy, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue to be married. It seemed, at the time, the only way I could hold off telling the truth of what was really going on for me.

She and I sat quiet on that Saturday morning in March of 1988 in Calgary; it was the blare of a telephone ring that shattered the silence. As I picked up the phone, my Aunt, the most devoutly Catholic woman I have ever known, sharply asked, “Why didn’t you telI me about Rick?” I can still feel the crush of my knees as I fell to the floor.

Within an hour, and accompanied by my dearest friends, I was taken by the funeral home staff to a desperately quiet room. At the front of it lay the body of my eldest brother Rick. He was draped in a white sheet. “Is this your brother, Ricky Bruce Dolan?” quizzed the Funeral Director.

Rick would be the second of ten children, which Dorothy and James (our parents) brought into the world, to die. None of us were around for Mom and Dad’s first, Dorothy, to pass on after surviving only five days. Plus, it was the 1930’s.

Rick was the most accomplished of the Dolan Tribe; that’s the name Mom used to describe her children. He was Calgary’s football star and shone brightest in most athletic endeavours he chose. He was a brother, uncle, nephew, father and firefighter. He also had a secret.

Rick and I, although best of friends, seemed to embroil ourselves in this pretence of who could be the most perfect in the family. Each of us knew exactly what it was that made the chase of perfection so elusive. Yet, it seemed, no one else did.

Rick was alcoholic and I was gay; those were our secrets. The family, like most dysfunctional families particularly with alcoholism, did everything it could to make sure no one knew Rick’s secret. If I had named Rick’s, he might have named mine. With such shame for my gay self, there was no way I’d whisper a word.

I listened to Rick tell me one day; without naming what he was talking about, he said, “You have no idea what it is like to yearn for something you can never have.” I sensed it was alcohol he spoke about. I did know the yearning. Mine was the love of a boy.

When I went to the rooming house where Rick died, after getting the key from the Police, to clear out his things I was stunned to find drafts of a letter he had partially completed to his two sons.

Rick had asked Wendy and I to come visit him at a halfway house just before Christmas in 1987. He shared with me that he had been trying to write to his sons. He simply wanted to communicate how sorry he was for not raising them and to tell them part of his truth about who he was. He did not want to keep the secret from his boys anymore. It would be the last time I saw him.

So here were drafts, practice letters, which I thought he had never finished. My story was that he got really close to sharing a part of himself he hid for so long, but didn’t quite make it. The letters were never completed and never sent, so I thought.

My tale about not wanting to be married intensified after Rick’s death. I wasn’t sure why, but it did. It was so unfair of me, but it was the only thing I thought I could do. It was clear; my secret was still safe, yet one Dolan was dead.

As I grieved the loss of my brother and attempted to make sense of how close he got to finding joy in life, I suddenly wondered about those letters. I remembered him telling me, “I’m going to practice writing them and perhaps one day I’ll mail them.” I had learned not to listen to the promises of an alcoholic. Yet something stirred inside me.

Unbeknownst to me, I was seeking some relief from the torture of pretending to extend the cover up of being married to a woman, and being gay. So one day I found myself calling Rick’s first wife and before I could ask, she said, “The boys received the letter from Rick, just days before you told us he had died.”

When the forensic report came back detailing the levels of every substance in Rick’s body, the one ingredient missing was alcohol. Rick died sober. I was so proud of him.

Rick died finding joy in telling his sons how sorry he was for not raising them and that he was challenged by alcohol. Rick, it seemed, chose joy and told the truth.

It was overwhelming to learn of these additional details and allow their meaning to seep into my heart. What began as a whisper in my head, that perhaps I could come out by telling my truth to the world, was quickly moving to a commitment in my heart.

My big brother told his truth. He did what was the most difficult thing he could ever think of doing. He found joy in his life I thought he’d missed.

I received Rick’s gift. He inspired me to choose joy. To tell my truth. In August of 1988 I sat with Wendy to tell her I was gay. Thank you, Rick. I love you.

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Start at the End

Posted on March 23, 2011 by

With his surgical light blaring right into my eyes and the magnifying glass pressed up against my nose, my dermatologist declares, “We’re going to need the big guns for this.” Part of me thought of some cheesy adult movie title, but unfortunately that’s not what he meant.

Melanoma is the most virulent type of skin cancer and the type most likely to be fatal. That was news I received in September 2009 and two weeks after the ‘big guns’ incident I was booked for surgery on March 23, 2010. Here’s my story.

Some part of me, no doubt a denied part, thought I was better than the rest of the population that had melanoma and I wouldn’t do the whole ‘cancer’s going to kill me’ drama, but I’d lying if I said I didn’t.

Having six months to prepare for the surgery helped, but under it was this fear that given the time from diagnosis – from a potentially fatal cancer – wouldn’t anyone want to move the date up a bit? As it turned out, no one did and I ended up with the perfect amount of time to be with this.

I had this memory of saying, albeit very politely, “no thank you” to an offer of extra SPF for my nose while living on the island of Maui in 1994. It’s not that I think the sun is my enemy; it’s just that I can see how I ignored my inner wisdom, and the friend handing it to me, when it came to extra protection for my skin.

So as I did ‘my work’, relative to living or dying with cancer, I also opened myself up to the clarity this voice of inner wisdom was constantly providing. I choose to befriend it and become a larger listening to this voice of truth – my truth – not ‘the’ truth.

As a little boy it always seemed like my birthday and Christmas took so long to arrive. What I would have given for that dynamic to hold true in relation to my ‘big guns’ surgery. It arrived quickly and I felt somewhat prepared.

With some support in place for myself post surgery I remember something I did, during a meditation the morning of, which would change the course of my life. I allowed a whisper within me to form these words, “I intend to be free of cancer before I return home today.”

With a yummy lunch all packed, clean underwear and a cheery disposition, off I went to day surgery on March 23, 2010.

I was welcomed into the surgical suite by a bright-eyed nurse and two very capable looking plastic surgeons. “These must be the ‘big guns’,” I thought.

With a deep breath and an open mind, I listened to all the details of what they were about to do. Before silently laughing at an image of Pinocchio, my nose was completely frozen.

Its always strange being awake for such an invasive procedure like surgery, but here I was and all seemed to be going well.

In no time, the younger of the two plastic surgeons shared that he thought he’d gotten it all, but would send the sample out for testing. I was told they’d taken a bit of a bigger swipe of my nose so they could test the surrounding cells for any other melanoma – that made good sense to me.

After about an hour of waiting, the surgeon announced they had to go back in to take a ‘little’ more because the surrounding cells were not clear of melanoma. “Are you okay with that?” he asked. My thought was ‘who would say no’ so off we went with round two.

Being somewhat familiar with the drill, the second round seemed quicker. This time, packed with gauze, I reclined in the patients’ lounge to enjoy my organic lunch while the next ‘swipe’ of me went off for testing. I must say dining with other day surgery patients does little to whet the appetite.

Once back in the surgical suite, the other surgeon appeared. This didn’t feel good to me. He shared that they needed to go in a third time. I giggled nervously and said, “Is the reason why Keith (the first surgeon) is not telling me this, is that he thinks I’ll be angry at him?” Dr. Cowan quickly replied, “You’d be amazed the number of people who blame us for the additional surgery we sometimes have to do.” I quickly thought “Who’d be so silly to get pissed off at their surgeon, especially while they’re doing surgery?”

With that, I asked him to grab Keith and this is what I shared with my surgical team, “I am 100 per cent responsible for this cancer. I’m not completely sure how I created it, but it’s mine. I made an intention this morning that I’d leave here cancer free, so please do what you need to do.”

They both looked a little stunned. The nurse held onto my hand and gave it a little squeeze – the story I made up about that squeeze was that she was sending me love.

After a third procedure and with a ‘green light’ from the investigative melanoma police, I was treated to some extensive reconstructive work on my nose. The swipes, all three of them, now lead me to choosing between a couple of techniques to close the gash – I chose the nip and tuck. Even Michael Jackson would be envious.

It has been a year. My nose is completely healed, the cancer gone. Both plastic surgeons, each time I saw them, marveled at my healing. They asked how I did it, I smirked and said, “I chose to start at the end.”

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The Smell of Baked Bread

Posted on March 16, 2011 by

One of the most profound ways I knew I’d be ok, while growing up, was that I could smell the freshly baked bread my Mom had just made. There was not a lot of food for myself and at times nine other siblings but when I smelled bread baking, life was good.

During the last conversation I had with my Mom prior to her dying, she made it very clear she did not want to talk about how she was feeling. Mom was sure about ‘what to and what not to’ waste her breath on.

So instead I asked if she remembered our date, what she called her ‘last date’? She smiled and nodded yes.

In 2006, I had called her from Vancouver; she lived in Calgary and I asked if she wanted to go out on a date. Puzzled, she said to me, “But dear, you’re in Vancouver and frankly I’m not feeling all that well.” I told her I’d jump on a plane and be there in a couple of hours. She said, “Sure. What the hell.”

By the time I arrived at her home she was dressed and ready to go. I received full instructions from my brother on the levels of oxygen in her portable tank and what to do if something malfunctioned.

Mom chose ‘The Keg’. She loved the ‘Surf and Turf’ – so off we went.

We were able to get a booth just inside the restaurant, not too far for Mom to walk. She was in her glory and made it clear to all that tended to her that I was ‘her date’. I felt so blessed to be with her.

As she took the last sip of her rum and coke she said, “You know Kev (Kevin is my middle name), this will be my last date.” I grabbed her hand and thanked her for being with me.

As that memory faded and her smile receded, I quickly asked if she’d be interested in one more date. I watched her attempt to make sense of what she just heard me ask. I’m sure she thought, “I’m about to die and there’s no way I can go anywhere.”

Mom was used to weird requests from me. She took a deep breath and said, “Yes dear.”

I asked her to remember Merritt Lake in Oakland and the rowboat her Father took her on when she was three years old. It’s like her whole body smiled to the memory.

I asked, “Do you remember our time there together?” She quickly uttered, “Oh my God do I ever.” She continued to share by saying, “And I still can feel the rowboat rocking as Dad rowed around the lake.”

I heard Mom talk about this memory while growing up. So I decided to do a little research and find this lake in the middle of Oakland. I must admit, part of me did not think it existed, but it did and in 1978 I took Mom there.

I have this photograph of her standing on the pier that the rowboats were launched from and when I showed her the picture I asked, “What were you thinking about?” Without a moment’s hesitation she said, “I wasn’t thinking anything. I was feeling the boat rocking and the presence of my Dad.”

The ‘one more’ date I asked my Mom to go on was a meeting with me back at that pier in Oakland. I asked her to join me there, on her birthday, in May of 2007, she agreed. Mom would take her last breath on October 25th, 2006.

As I made my way to Oakland on the BART from San Francisco on May 24th, 2007, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was going. It had been 30+ years since I was there with Mom. So I gently closed my eyes and asked the Universe for some help. After all, I did not want to be late for my date.

Just as I got off the train my dear friend Jeffry called and simply told me to use all my faculties to connect with Mom. “Faculties? What the hell are you talking about?” He said, “I don’t know. Just be open to other ways of seeing your Mom.” I thanked him and hung up.

At the top of the stairs, on the first stop of the BART, I had no idea where I was. Suddenly and with a giant smile this man appeared and asked, “Can I help you find your way?” I asked if he could point me to Merritt Lake. His directions were amazing and suddenly a rush of memories came up and I remembered walking this way with Mom. I heard myself murmur, “I’m coming Mom.”

As I arrived at the lake I was able to see the pier Mom stood on some 30 years ago. I could not get to it because it was being renovated. So my quandary now was, where do I meet Mom?

So instead of figuring it out, I asked, “Mom, where do you want me to meet you?” Just then an elderly woman, perhaps in her late sixties, spread out a blanket and placed two small children on it. Perhaps this was their favorite picnic spot. The woman looked over at me and simply smiled. I sensed she knew I was looking for someone.

I moved a little closer to the pier, wondering if maybe I had been stood up.

Suddenly I smelled bread; freshly baked bread. I began to cry. I remember saying, “Thank you for joining me, Mom. It’s great to feel you again.” I stood there for what seemed an eternity and then whispered, “It’s time to say good-bye, and I love you, Mom.”

As quickly as that final word, ‘Mom’, trickled off my lips, the smell of baked bread disappeared.

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A Clear and Present Whisper

Posted on March 11, 2011 by

Seven days after an emergency flight from Honolulu back to Vancouver, my Pharmacist said to me, “People like you, who acquire that kind of bacteria infection, we usually don’t get to speak with.” Puzzled, yet wanting to feign some degree of humour tucked within a question, I replied, “You usually don’t get to talk to them?”

It’s October 31st, 2010 and the last few days have been very uncomfortable for me. As my eyes open on this sun-drenched morning, in Honolulu, I hear within an energetic presence, this very clear ‘whisper’. Its directive very simply is: ‘Go home.’

I had been on a bit of a whirlwind travel schedule, supporting a friend playing volleyball in Las Vegas and committed to seeing as many Cirque performances within my short stay as possible.

This had been my first trip to Vegas. I am blessed to fly on a friend’s travel companion pass and can jet away at a moment’s notice. My only wish would have been to have what went on in Vegas to stay in Vegas.

After my Vegas trip, I disembarked WestJet’s flight at the Honolulu International Airport. My friend working that flight, as a Flight Attendant said, “That looks like a bed bug bite on your hand. Be careful with that.” I thanked him for his unsolicited medical opinion, wished him a gentle Aloha, and stepped off the plane to the moisture of the Hawaiian air.

I had come to Honolulu to celebrate Halloween. For me it’s kind of like Gay Christmas.

The undiagnosed bed bug bite, although it just looked like a scratch, first showed up in Vegas. I thought nothing of it and continued my foray into the Vegas energy. The scratch became a bit itchy, so of course I rubbed it.  That, I would be told, was not a good thing to do.

The scratch, in the midst of the amazing energy of Honolulu and being with many new friends, was beginning to become redder. Plus, I noticed it beginning to swell. It was a bit uncomfortable, but this was Halloween and I was not going to miss any of the festivities.

Later that night, prior to walking through downtown Honolulu to see all the costumes, I decided to apply ice to the now bright red and elevated bump on my hand. It seemed to ease the pain.

Discomfort shifted to extreme pain and suddenly I noticed, although I wanted to panic, a gentle presence around or within me that conveyed a sense of peace. It was familiar, like the comfort of something that had been with me for a long time.

I had just finished a course that Debbie Ford taught called Designed by the Light. The course was intended to support me in connecting with my highest self and create, from that place, a life I had only ever imagined. It was profound the connection I made to my highest self in that three month course.  Little did I know what I was preparing myself for.

After contending with the throngs of Halloween revelers, finishing some yummy dessert at a local café, my friend looked my way and said to the group, “It’s time for us to leave.” He noticed I was in trouble.

Although the pain was excruciating, the swelling now resembling the costumed hand of Mickey Mouse, there was still this presence that invited me to breathe and conveyed that I was okay.

I was not interested in the Honolulu General Emergency Ward and returned to icing down my hand. Sleeping came relatively easy, despite the pain, perched 38 floors above Ala Moana Park.

“Go home.” I immediately turned to my friend and asked if he could contact WestJet to get me on the next flight back to Vancouver. Early that afternoon I settled into what would become the longest six hours of flying in my life.

I was met at the Vancouver airport and quickly whisked to St. Paul’s Emergency Ward. The haze of the trip, the pain, the fear and the confusion were rapidly disappearing – morphine does that. What did not leave me was the presence, inviting me to know I was okay.

I would spend the next four days on intravenous anti-biotics, morphine and a host of other pharmaceutical goodies all intended to chase down an MRSA – a nasty anti-biotic resistant strain of bacteria. It’s also known as a superbug.

“People like you, who acquire that kind of bacteria infection, we usually don’t get to speak with.” echoed in my memory. “No!” said my pharmacist “They die.” The attending physician at the emergency ward shared that if I waited one more day, I would have been in a lot of trouble.

By acknowledging the ‘presence’ and listening to the ‘whisper’, that morning of October 31st, I helped to save my life. The ‘whisper’, for me, is the voice of the Divine, the Universe, and my Intuition – God.

The ‘presence’ and the ‘whisper’ have been with me since the age of three when I said to Mom, “I won’t be like my brothers.” – that was me coming out to my Mom. It would inspire me in Grade 5 to surround myself with amazing people. The ‘whisper’ would direct me to go to another high school instead of the one none of my siblings graduated from. It would suggest I go to university and ultimately guide me to come out of the closet in 1988.

The ‘presence’ is alive within me and each time I listen to the ‘whisper’ I honour the grandest and greatest version of myself.  Today, I acknowledge a clear and present whisper.

 

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