A Birth
It was a dark and stormy night in a far-away land called Michigan when the contractions started; she screamed. The ambulance siren wailed, its lights flashed into the cold, snowy January morning and raced the very pregnant woman to the Midland County Hospital. The driver, a middle-aged Polish man from Saginaw, hoped he would not crash on the icy roads; he hoped even more that she would stop screaming at the top of her lungs. His wife had not screamed when giving birth to any of his 5 children so he could not understand why this fat German woman screamed.
She screamed out again; the contractions now approximately 6 minutes apart. The baby could be born in the ambulance if the driver did not hurry. He looked at his watch; it would be close. He radioed ahead to the hospital. The nurse who answered, Chief Nurse Grable, assured him the hospital staff were set and awaiting his arrival.
Finally he pulled into the Emergency Room driveway at the hospital. He and his assistant were moving her out of the back of the ambulance when she did again: a scream that hurt everyone's ears. This time though, she followed that scream with a few choice words for her husband. He, fortunately, was parking the car in the hospital parking lot, so he did not hear his wife denounce his honor, his family, and his parents. Then she called out for her mother, who, having traveled with her son-in-law to the hospital, also did not hear what her daughter said. Her doctor, a youngish looking man in his late 40's, Doctor Gawain, appeared at her side as her gurney wheeled around the nurse's station towards the Delivery Room. As the hospital's as well as the county's only ob-gyn, he had a very busy schedule with his own practice and privileges at several area hospitals.
“Now, now, Mrs Williams! Remember to breathe and calm yourself! No more screaming!”
She grabbed his lapels with both hands, her breath hot on his cheek as she pulled him close. “Give me pain killers NOW!” She thought she could do this – give birth to her first child, her son – naturally, without the pain medications her doctor had mentioned at an earlier visit. After all, this was 1965 and she claimed to be a modern woman.
“Please Doctor! Give me something! Please!” She only stopped begging because another contraction occurred suddenly, a very strong contraction.
“Push Mrs Williams! Push!” Her doctor ordered as he pulled on his gown and gloves. The nurses around him scrambled to prepare Mrs Williams for delivery: transfer her the delivery gurney, remove her clothes, her shoes, place her feet in the stirrups.
“Doctor, here you are!” Nurse Grable handed Doctor Gawain a long needled syringe filled with pain killers. The downside of the medications: they had to be injected into her spine.
“Mrs Williams, please lean forward.”
She did not quite understand what was about the happen, even as the nurses leaned her forward and, with more strength than she thought her fellow women could have, held her strongly. She felt the chilling swab of alcohol along her lower back and then the immediate burning stab of the needle. She almost screamed again; however, the scream caught in her throat as pain-killing medicines worked their numbing magic. She sighed long and low.
As another contraction crept up on her, she cried out, strained, and then pushed hard. This time her efforts were successful. Her son slid out of her loins with a loud plop as well as a large release of pressure on her body. She collapsed back on the gurney.
“Mrs Williams! Congratulations! You have a son!” Her doctor cried out as he cradled the newborn boy.
Nurse Grable cut the umbilical cord, took the boy from the doctor, and wrapped him in warm towels and blankets. “What's his name?” she asked.
“David. David Leo.” his mother announced dreamily; the medications still running through her body, affecting her speech. “David from the Bible and Leo after his grandfather.”
The date was 22nd of January, in the year 1965AD – the day I started this crazy, wild trip through Life.
(The exact happenings in that Midland, Michigan delivery room I really don't know as my memories of the day are a bit hazy, so I engaged my writing skills and created a plausible(?) story. The rest of this “History” is not fiction.)
Parents
I grew up in a rural part of the lower peninsula of Michigan; a farming community settled mostly by Germans and other Western European immigrants. Even at an early age, I knew that I did not fit in and did not make friends easily.
My mom and dad divorced when I shortly after I reached my third birthday and after the birth of my brother. Their marriage was not a happy one. My mom, at 23, expected, desired even, that White Knight to rescue her from a perceived boring life of school work and chores and whatever other intolerable existence she lived. My father, at 35, probably just wanted a good woman whom he could love, honor, cherish, and with whom he could raise a family. Instead, he found my mother.
After the divorce, my mother and her sister, my Aunt Carolyn, moved in together in order to help raise each other's kids ( my aunt had her own son) and save money. Throughout, my brother and I were raised by the women in my mother's family: my mother, her sister, her aunt, and occasionally, her mother. The only adult male consistently in my life was her father, my grandfather. But we were not close, as he had already raised his own kids and did not want to raise his daughter's.
My mother denied my father any kind of visitation, and of course, the divorce judge denied her any child support. When my dad tried to see us, she would call the police to report a burglar while she or my aunt distracted us from any happenings outside. And other times, my mother would tell us, my brother and me, stories of how mean and terrible our father treated her and us. I believed all of these stories until I finally, at 23, spoke with my father for the first time. During our initial conversation, and many years afterwards until his death in 2003 at the age of 73, I discovered in him a kindness, a good man who wanted his children to know him, love him and love us in return. I am very glad I knew my father for those 15 years, too short a time.
I often wonder how different would my life be if my father had things in other ways, or tried harder through the courts to obtain custody of me. Or if my mother had not kept me away from him. I will always hold anger, hurt, contempt in my heart against my mother for all those lost years of knowing my father. Yes, I am aware of those dark emotions and their presence in my heart. Have I expressed them to my mother? No, as she would not listen nor care. My father failed to make her happy, therefore no words from me could offset his “badness.” Many weeks later, as I sat with my step-mom, talking about him, I came to realize my father lived a much more interesting and fascinating life than he ever told me. I regret that I had not called him in the week preceding his death.
My mother, we have now discovered, suffers from Bipolar II disorder. This disease closely matches schizophrenia in its characteristics, so closely in fact that mis-diagnosis, as well as a multitude of drugs followed my mother for almost 20 years. And with her BII, she also exhibited manipulative and controlling behaviors. With this illness and behaviors, she caused heartache and drama within all aspects of the family, ruined her marriage, and drove away both myself and my younger brother, created mis-trust and tension between myself and my sister that lasted 10 years.
I fled Michigan and my mother as soon as I graduated from high school, moving all the way out to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and into the arms of my first partner, with whom I end up living and loving for the next eight years.
Cheyenne, 1983 to 1991
I met my first partner, Bruce, through a classified personal ad I placed in a small magazine. We corresponded via letter and phone calls. Eventually, we arranged for me to move to Cheyenne where he lived. My mother hit the roof when I told her that her “plans” for my life would not happen. She tried to convince (control) Bruce into changing his mind. I am thankful he did not give in to her.
He and I lived in a three bedroom ranch-style home for the next eight years. Our lives were quite rich and full with each other, four cats, three dogs, and three-quarters of acre of yard. As well, we both worked full-time jobs, entertained friends and neighbors from time to time.
My only regrets about Bruce and Cheyenne center around his decisions to not tell me about his cancer. I did not push him harder to tell me that he actually had prostate cancer. And then I did not stay around anyway, so that I would be there until his final days. I left him and Cheyenne approximately ten months before his death because he could not, would not, out of his own fears and issues about illness (dying and death too, I think) tell me anything: he had cancer and had only months to live. His fears prevented him from telling the only person in his life who loved him so fully that he (me) would have stayed with him until his last breath. These same fears and their grip on him pushed me away, down to Denver and into the arms of another man.
Denver, 1991 to Present
I applied for many jobs up and down the I-25 corridor, from Cheyenne to Denver. Finally, I scored an interview with La Petite Boulangerie, an off-shoot of Mrs. Fields Cookies. The District Manager offered me the position of assistant manager/manager trainee in the Republic Plaza store located on the 16th Street Mall. I then moved to Denver and attempted to get settled in the Big City. After a few bad apartments, a few worse roommates, and thoughts of returning to Cheyenne, I managed to settle in a routine, working and living in Denver. I eventually found a decent roommate situation and enrolled at Barnes Business School.
The next sixteen years were tough, yet filled with adventure, joy, heartache, laughter, tears, vacations and trips around the country as well as one each to Italy (awesome!) and one to Germany (also awesome!). I also managed to purchased a home on the east side of Denver, in which I lived for over four years. Sadly, due to economic hardships and job difficulties (layoffs, etc.), I lost my home. I found and moved into a smaller two bedroom apartment by the DU campus. Again, due to economic hardship, I recently moved from that apartment into my current one bedroom apartment located on Washington Street.
In January, 2002, after a lengthy discussion with a friend on why he changed his name, I decided that I also wanted to change mine; change it to a name of my own choosing, one that would fit me and my personality better. I researched several names, settling on four, which I obtained personality profiles on from a Kabahalastic (sp) website. Out of those four, Reid and Baccio were the best fit for me. So, on a day off from work, I went downtown, filled out the forms, filed the forms, and by 4pm, my named changed from David Williams to Reid Baccio.
My current partner, Danny, and I met around Christmas of 2005, becoming good friends in 2006. He had his own issues and difficulties with the law and entered the DOC system in August of that year. Shortly after his incarceration, he wrote a letter to me, telling me how he had messed up our time together and asking me to forgive him and wait for him. I told him yes.
Meth and me – definitely not an ideal partnership
Around June, 2007, just five months after my HIV+ diagnosis (in January), a “play bud” came over to my apartment. He brought with him a “present”- a quantity of meth and a glass pipe. He proceeded to tell me that this would help my mood as well as help us have a great time sexually. Well, it did both of those very well. He did not tell me, though, about the after effects: depression, fatigue, aches, and moodiness.
During the next proceeding months, I would buy and use meth, though only on a recreational basis, two to three weekends out of the month. However, as the months passed, I used more often, every weekend as well as a few times during the week. I started to get into a rut, a complacent drug-induced rut.
When Danny got out of DOC, and came home, I wanted to stop for myself as well as for him. However, he told me of his own history with meth. Next thing I knew, we were both using meth, still mostly as a weekend, sex party drug, although Danny liked it more than just that. He liked to use meth to deal with and escape from stressful situations, such as the death of his mother and her funeral on June 16. Thus he wanted to “escape” that Monday and take me with him. He went to an in-patient re-hab facility down in Alamosa later that week, June 20th.
Upon my arrest, I felt my world literally fall down around me. I feared the loss of everything I owned, everything I held of value, material as well as mental and spiritual. I feared being incarcerated for many months, if not years. The three days I spent in Denver City Jail were the nightmare I never knew I feared experiencing.
Yet, I look back now at the experience and recognize it as the best thing to happen to me in a long, long time. It forced me up and out of my complacency. It forced me sober as well as to examine my life of the past few months. Yuck! What a mess I had become!
I know I slipped, fell down by joining Danny in his “escapism” back in June. I also know that the “Little Beast” of meth may always be with me, howling for attention, “Hello. You know you want me.” Yet, with the help of the programs at A.R.T.S., my counselor Greg, my faith in the Gods and Goddesses of the Hindu faith, and with the help of my friends (the ones I did not lose) and family (sister, mother, and step-brother) I will fight against the “L.B.” and stay sober for the rest of my life.
At this time in my life, I have confidence in myself and my ability to succeed. I attend 3 groups at A.R.T.S. during the week as well as meet with my counselor Greg weekly. I have started my community service by helping CAP with AIDS Walk activities. I also desire to further my education, exploring the option of a career as a social worker. Maybe I will specialize in addiction and gay youth.
“If I change my mind, will my choices change? If my choices change, will my life change?”
I know it will.
