The Blood of Our Better Angels: My Grown-Up Birthday Wish.
*Spoiler alert: in the interest of communal healing, there will be a very unusual ask at the end of this installment.
So, here I sit typing my next blog post in the aftermath of the recent election. Slowly emerging from a thick fog of shock and awe fuck. Taking a much-needed break from my frantic, blurry-eyed, Facebook scrolling. The continuous up swiping that turns the face of my iPhone into a sort of social media slot machine. Knowing all the while, there will be no single jackpot message of healing when the whirring posts slowly come to a stop. But, maybe the additive effect of reading so many hurt and hopeful expressions will amount to some kind of cumulative comfort. If so, my desire is that adding a link to this story on my personal thread will somehow serve in that cause.
Recently, I volunteered to take part in a new HIV drug trial. Keep in mind, this was not my first foray into experimental pharmaceuticals. In fact, after first testing HIV-positive in the late 1980s, I have been involved in a number of drug trials. Management regimens, combination therapies, non-western treatments, new drug classes, etc. I would guess that some of those experiences helped me survive. And I know that the data from those studies has helped to improve and prolong the lives of others. I am brazenly proud of the small part my involvement has played in therapeutic advancements over the past three and half decades. My involvement in these trials has also tempered some of the shame I carry related to not being able to donate blood. A disappointment exacerbated by the fact that my blood type is O-negative. Meaning, I would be considered a universal donor. You know – if not for the whole tainted blood issue.
My meeting with the very nice clinician for this new trial was mostly unremarkable. Although, I did seem to have a more complicated health history to share. All part of the aging process I suppose. Getting older can be physically challenging, but, as my late mother liked to remind me, “It’s better than the alternative.” Eventually we got to the blood drawing portion of the visit. Again, a procedure that has become very familiar to me over the years.
“Do you have an arm preference?” she asked.
“Let’s do the left,” I answered. Because I’m right-handed, I’m in the habit of deferring to my non-dominant limbs for rudimentary things like bloodletting.
She stretched the rubber tourniquet around my bicep, instructed me to make a fist, and swabbed the inside of my forearm with an alcohol pad before grabbing up the needle.
“Okay,” she said with a warning, “here comes a little prick.”
“A little prick is what got me here in the first place,” I responded. A quintessentially queenish quip I picked up from one of my more credibly flamboyant friends. For some reason, my delivery of it always manages to land a bit flat. But still, I am always intent on trying to make it fly whenever a runway presents itself. The polite clinician gave me a perfunctory chuckle as she watched my blood gush into the first of a dozen vials.
The very next day, I received a phone call from the same lab clinician who had drawn my blood. She wanted to let me know that I had been excluded from participating in the trial. She explained that one of the markers from my blood work, specifically the one related to my kidney function, was below the threshold of acceptability. My glomerular filtration rate (GFR) was 59 and the study required a minimum GFR of 60 for inclusion. So close! She suggested that I discuss the results with my doctor and thanked me for my interest in the trial. Buh-bye.
I did share the information with my GP at my next doctor visit and he was not in the least bit concerned about my kidneys. Maybe it’s just another symptom of aging. In any case, he told me that we would continue to keep an eye on the numbers. Oh, and I should drink more water. Suffice it to say that now my whisky is on the rocks. Baby steps after all.
In the days and weeks following my HIV drug trial rejection, I was feeling unusually blue. It was an unfamiliar, low-grade sense of sadness that was hard to shake. As a long-emerging artist, I am not unfamiliar with the initial bite and lingering throb of, “thanks, but no thanks.” Still, this one felt different somehow. Finally, it occurred to me. In my long history of putting myself out there and being told no, for any number of various opportunities, this was my first pharmaceutical study rejection. And so there it was. My many years of being poked and prodded in the interest of advancing science were over. At the age of sixty, no longer was I even of value as an HIV-positive guinea pig.
This new spotlight on my growing obsolescence inspired me to revisit how I might be of service in some other ways.
After a little Googling, I discovered that folks living with HIV can now register to be organ donors. According to HIV.gov, because not enough people register as organ donors, 20 people die each day waiting for a transplant. This includes people living with HIV, who are more likely than HIV-negative people to develop end-stage kidney and liver disease. “The HOPE Act of 2013 allows for research into organ transplantation from one person with HIV to another, ultimately benefitting all people waiting for transplants by increasing the number of people eligible to become organ donors.” Coincidentally, The HOPE Act was ratified on my 50th birthday, November 21, 2013. And, as of the writing of this post, I am now registered as an organ donor through the Donate Life California Registry.
I also discovered there are no longer specific eligibility criteria for gay men who would like to donate blood. According to the American Red Cross, the LGBTQ+ community are now able to donate blood through a new inclusive screening process that expands blood donor eligibility and eliminates questions based on sexual orientation through updated FDA guidelines issued in May 2023. As an individual who is HIV-positive, however, my blood and I remain persona non grata.
All of this brings me to the aforementioned ask. You see, in just a matter of days I will be celebrating another birthday. 61 years of living. More than 35 years of living positive. And daddy wants a very special something to mark the occasion. Your blood. To be less horrific and more specific, I’m asking for a blood donation. A life saving gift. From you. In lieu of me. Because I can’t.
The American Red Cross is always in need of blood, but in the aftermath of recent natural disasters and always more on the horizon, they are especially desperate. In fact, until November 17, they are offering $10 gift cards as a thank you for your donation. Perhaps, most importantly, I believe your proactive generosity will go a long way in helping to lift our collective spirits at a time when it’s important to double down on who we are. The better angels.
Please visit The American Red Cross online to find a welcoming donation location near you. And when you’re sitting in the chair with a large rubber band ruthlessly squeezing your upper arm, think of me. Also, if the person coming at you with the needle warns you about a little prick, please feel free to channel your inner RuPaul and let them know that a little 61-year-old prick is the very reason you are there.