Middle age threw me a wicked curve

HIV-positive since the '80s, I never expected to grow old -- and I really didn't expect to end up with a crooked penis.

Topics: AIDS, Health,

Middle age threw me a wicked curve

In 1968, when I was 15, my best friend and I swore to each other that we would never grow old. We even pricked our fingers and exchanged blood in the pact. True to his promise, Jon died at the age of 41.

Yet here I am, still. I jumped about 5 feet in the air the first time I stepped out of the shower, reached for the towel, and — looking in the glass — saw my 83-year-old father’s body staring back at me: the same narrowed face, the same pigeon chest, the same skinny legs.

Aging is a bit more shocking to me than it might be to someone else, because I was never supposed to live this long. I’ve been HIV-positive since the AIDS epidemic “officially” began in 1981 — although those of us who were first hit by it know that it started some time before then. In 1980, already, I was worried about what I’d read in the New York newspapers about “the gay cancer,” which mystified everybody and seemed to have no origin or solution. I remember being alarmed because, in 1981, I burned my fingers on a cigarette, and the burn took forever to heal — weeks and weeks, it seemed. From that time on, I haven’t had a single day that wasn’t lived at some level of trepidation, and, for many years, in a state of acute anxiety and fear.

Suddenly, in 1996 — when my “clinical profile” was sinking swiftly to the grave — medications came along that could, if taken properly, as prescribed, save your life, or at least prolong it. For all the relief I felt to be “saved,” it was still a shock; after all, I had grown used to expecting an early death. Before the miracle of protease inhibitors and the “AIDS cocktail,” I was on my way out. Then, in a split second, I was “Lazarus” (literally — I was “Lazarus” columnist for Poz magazine).

I confess: I became an angry, agitated, irrational, bona fide, in-your-face, fuck-you, pain-in-the-ass agitator and activist (which I can still be — watch out!). But mainly, now, I’m tired of it. All I notice are the skinny legs and the wasted muscles and a body that has aged beyond its years. Frankly, I think this is a bad joke, in poor taste. I think the least a person could do, after a quarter-century under the Sword of Damocles, is die, already. Only I don’t want to die. I never did. If I flatter myself into thinking that my survival is due to stubbornness — “piss and vinegar,” as my father would say — I still remember the others: Jon, of course, and so many of my friends. They didn’t want to die, either, but they did. Forever young.

In the old days of “AIDS activism” we all compared the thing to a war — not necessarily in the sense of two “sides” fighting each other, but in the sense of battling random, useless death. The Canadian novelist Timothy Findley wrote in his masterpiece, “The Wars,” about an old lady who lived through the First World War. Looking back, she remembered the feeling of death all around her: “Every day another friend. And what I hate these days is the people who weren’t there and they look back and say we became inured to it. Your heart froze over — yes. But to say we got used to it! God — that makes me so angry! No. Everything was sharp. Immediate. You met and you saw so clearly and cut so sharply into one another’s lives. So there wasn’t any rubbish.”

Which still leaves me with the question, How did I get so old — I, who was supposed to die with the rest, who never even imagined entering middle age? Indeed, when I was still living in New York, the therapist I had there — who was himself HIV-positive and died not long after I left the city — asked me if I thought I would live to see the age of 50. I said, truthfully, that I did not, not really understanding the question, as it seemed so far beyond possibility.

HIV-wise, I’m doing fine, superbly, these days — “stunning results,” no “detectable” viral load, “perfect CD4′s,” “wonderful percentages.” My last lab report was so good that the doctors wrote me to say, “You are going to live for a long time yet, and have plenty more opportunities for misery!” I am, it appears, no different from anyone else. And, crazy as it sounds, this is very hard to accept when you’ve banked half your life on being a “special case.” To find that you’ve wasted so much time worrying, and making excuses for yourself, when, in the end, you’re just going to drop dead like anybody. If I ever get around to writing my memoir of the plague years, I’m going to have to title it “So, You’re Not Going to Be a Tragic Hero, After All! Poor You!”

Now, after 11 years of “HAART” (Highly Active Anti-Retroviral Therapy), I find myself in the same position any man of my age would be — “Monitor your cholesterol, don’t smoke, don’t drink. Eat right. Exercise. If you need help getting it up, we’ve got pills for that,” and so on. OK, so I do suffer a few uncommon ailments: the nausea, for one thing, whenever I swallow the gallons of rarefied rat poison I need to take every morning. Then, too, there’s a definite, proven “cognitive impairment” caused by both the virus and the pills. But could the same not be said about any person on chemotherapy? And if my body has aged and fallen apart to a large degree, it’s because I never thought it would be worth it to “pump up” at a gymnasium. “Why?” I asked myself. “For whom?”

By the time I realized that it was for me, it was too late: The doctors had diagnosed me with gout. “Who am I?” I wailed to my doctors and friends, “Benjamin Franklin? Queen Anne?” The disease had such an antiquated sound, something that befell a stout, old historical character, not an HIV-positive literary biographer in the 21st century. Everybody laughed.

The gout business was irritating enough before my urologist added another ailment to the pile: Peyronie’s disease. This news came in the wake of my first colonoscopy, which was a shock itself. I had gone to the urologist because my penis, when erect, had started to assume a scimitar curve, and other strange, contortionist shapes. (“It points north,” as a friend of mine says: “You’ll never get lost!”)

The urologist looked at me with that doctor’s expression that says gravely, “I’m afraid it’s true,” and, simultaneously, “Cheer up — you have everything to live for!” As he explained, “You may have noticed that when you get an erection,” he said, “it makes penetration difficult.” I wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t know, as it’s been years since I’ve tried to “penetrate” anything or anyone, being HIV-positive. But I played along.

Peyronie’s disease, the doctor then told me gently, is also called “partial penile disassembly.” It is a condition of “uncertain cause,” characterized by plaque, or a hard lump, or scar tissue, that forms in the penis and causes an abnormal curvature when the member is erect. Cases range from mild to severe. Peyronie’s isn’t “rare,” exactly, but it’s not “common” either. And it may or may not have anything to do with HIV or the medications.

“It afflicts men mainly in middle age,” the urologist shrugged. “The sexual problems that result can disrupt a couple’s physical and emotional relationship and lead to lowered self-esteem.”

While I was stuck on the phrase “middle age,” he carried on: “It’s just the roll of the dice for middle-aged men. My guess is your penis has suffered some kind of trauma.”

“Oh, Doc, you don’t know,” I answered, thinking of my whole checkered sexual history. “But the ‘trauma’ would have to have occurred some time ago, because my penis hasn’t suffered anything in about three years.”

Apparently there are only a few treatments for it, and my doctor tells me that none of them will work effectively for me. The first line of defense is massive doses of vitamin E, which the doctor can’t, in good conscience, give at the levels he would normally prescribe, as vitamin E would contribute to “hepatic toxicity” (liver problems), brought on by the other pills I’m on. The second option is injections of some kind — needles to the dick — “which hurt like hell,” the urologist said, “and they don’t work, either.” The third is penile implants, “but who wants a lead weight between his legs?” (I refrained from comedy here — I knew all too well what he meant.) And the fourth, and most drastic, is surgery. “But I warn you,” said the doctor, “you’ll lose two or three inches. No more Peyronie’s, but no penis, either.”

In the meantime, the doctor gives me his own simple prescription: “I want you ejaculating all the time.” It was a tempting thought, but I wondered how it was supposed to be accomplished, short of nights at the baths in the dark, since I have not voluntarily visited myself sexually on anyone in many years. Lamely, I stammered, “What is it about HIV infection you don’t understand?”

Suddenly, the doctor became very calm: “Peter, all I’m saying is, if you want your weenie to look like something other than a compass or a pretzel, you’ll do what I say. You can do the ejaculating on your own. But you must do it.”

As I left the doctor’s examining room, the receptionist addressed me. “He told you to jerk off a lot, didn’t he?” she said, wincing.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Oh, he tells that to everyone over 50. You’re over 50, right?”

And I had to think: Dammit, I am!

So here I am, a middle-aged man with gout and a permanently crooked erection, commanded to jerk off (whether I want to or not). And yet I can’t help thinking, Count your blessings, as your grandmother told you. Count your ejaculations, too, as Hemingway told you (he was afraid he might run out of them). And count me lucky to still be here under a bright sky in Vermont, when the wind in the trees is blowing in great, beautiful waves as summer turns to autumn, years after I pledged to Jon that we never would grow old.

Peter Kurth, a regular contributor to Salon Books, is the author of "Isadora: A Sensational Life." He lives in Burlington, Vt.

More Related Stories

Featured Slide Shows

  • Share on Twitter
  • Share on Facebook
  • 1 of 11
  • Close
  • Fullscreen
  • Thumbnails

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Beautiful Darkness by Fabien Vehlmann & Kerascoët
    Kerascoët's lovely, delicate pen-and-watercolor art -- all intricate botanicals, big eyes and flowing hair -- gives this fairy story a deceptively pretty finish. You find out quickly, however, that these are the heartless and heedless fairies of folk legend, not the sentimental sprites beloved by the Victorians and Disney fans. A host of tiny hominid creatures must learn to survive in the forest after fleeing their former home -- a little girl who lies dead in the woods. The main character, Aurora, tries to organize the group into a community, but most of her cohort is too capricious, lazy and selfish to participate for long. There's no real moral to this story, which is refreshing in itself, beyond the perpetual lessons that life is hard and you have to be careful whom you trust. Never has ugly truth been given a prettier face.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Climate Changed: A Personal Journey Through the Science by Philippe Squarzoni
    Squarzoni is a French cartoonist who makes nonfiction graphic novels about contemporary issues and politics. While finishing up a book about France under Jacques Chirac, he realized that when it came to environmental policy, he didn't know what he was talking about. "Climate Changed" is the result of his efforts to understand what has been happening to the planet, a striking combination of memoir and data that ruminates on a notoriously elusive, difficult and even imponderable subject. Panels of talking heads dispensing information (or Squarzoni discussing the issues with his partner) are juxtaposed with detailed and meticulous yet lyrical scenes from the author's childhood, the countryside where he takes a holiday and a visit to New York. He uses his own unreachable past as a way to grasp the imminent transformation of the Earth. The result is both enlightening and unexpectedly moving.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Here by Richard McGuire
    A six-page version of this innovative work by a regular contributor to the New Yorker first appeared in RAW magazine 25 years ago. Each two-page spread depicts a single place, sometimes occupied by a corner of a room, over the course of 4 billion years. The oldest image is a blur of pink and purple gases; others depict hazmat-suited explorers from 300 years in the future. Inset images show the changing decor and inhabitants of the house throughout its existence: family photos, quarrels, kids in Halloween costumes, a woman reading a book, a cat walking across the floor. The cumulative effect is serene and ravishing, an intimation of the immensity of time and the wonder embodied in the humblest things.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Kill My Mother by Jules Feiffer
    The legendary Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist delivers his debut graphic novel at 85, a deliriously over-the-top blend of classic movie noir and melodrama that roams from chiaroscuro Bay City to Hollywood to a USO gig in the Pacific theater of World War II. There's a burnt-out drunk of a private eye, but the story is soon commandeered by a multigenerational collection of ferocious women, including a mysterious chanteuse who never speaks, a radio comedy writer who makes a childhood friend the butt of a hit series and a ruthless dame intent on making her whiny coward of a husband into a star. There are disguises, musical numbers and plenty of gunfights, but the drawing is the main attraction. Nobody convey's bodies in motion more thrillingly than Feiffer, whether they're dancing, running or duking it out. The kid has promise.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    The Motherless Oven by Rob Davis
    This is a weird one, but in the nervy surreal way that word-playful novels like "A Clockwork Orange" or "Ulysses" are weird. The main character, a teenage schoolboy named Scarper Lee, lives in a world where it rains knives and people make their own parents, contraptions that can be anything from a tiny figurine stashable in a pocket to biomorphic boiler-like entities that seem to have escaped from Dr. Seuss' nightmares. Their homes are crammed with gadgets they call gods and instead of TV they watch a hulu-hoop-size wheel of repeating images that changes with the day of the week. They also know their own "death day," and Scarper's is coming up fast. Maybe that's why he runs off with the new girl at school, a real troublemaker, and the obscurely dysfunctional Castro, whose mother is a cageful of talking parakeets. A solid towline of teenage angst holds this manically inventive vision together, and proves that some graphic novels can rival the text-only kind at their own game.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    NOBROW 9: It's Oh So Quiet
    For each issue, the anthology magazine put out by this adventurous U.K.-based publisher of independent graphic design, illustration and comics gives 45 artists a four-color palette and a theme. In the ninth issue, the theme is silence, and the results are magnificent and full of surprises. The comics, each told in images only, range from atmospheric to trippy to jokey to melancholy to epic to creepy. But the two-page illustrations are even more powerful, even if it's not always easy to see how they pertain to the overall concept of silence. Well, except perhaps for the fact that so many of them left me utterly dumbstruck with visual delight.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Over Easy by Mimi Pond
    When Pond was a broke art student in the 1970s, she took a job at a neighborhood breakfast spot in Oakland, a place with good food, splendid coffee and an endlessly entertaining crew of short-order cooks, waitresses, dishwashers and regular customers. This graphic memoir, influenced by the work of Pond's friend, Alison Bechdel, captures the funky ethos of the time, when hippies, punks and disco aficionados mingled in a Bay Area at the height of its eccentricity. The staff of the Imperial Cafe were forever swapping wisecracks and hopping in and out of each other's beds, which makes them more or less like every restaurant team in history. There's an intoxicating esprit de corps to a well-run everyday joint like the Imperial Cafe, and never has the delight in being part of it been more winningly portrayed.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    The Shadow Hero by Gene Luen Yang and Sonny Liew
    You don't have to be a superhero fan to be utterly charmed by Yang and Liew's revival of a little-known character created in the 1940s by the cartoonist Chu Hing. This version of the Green Turtle, however, is rich in characterization, comedy and luscious period detail from the Chinatown of "San Incendio" (a ringer for San Francisco). Hank, son of a mild-mannered grocer, would like to follow in his father's footsteps, but his restless mother (the book's best character and drawn with masterful nuance by Liew) has other ideas after her thrilling encounter with a superhero. Yang's story effortlessly folds pathos into humor without stooping to either slapstick or cheap "darkness." This is that rare tribute that far surpasses the thing it celebrates.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Shoplifter by Michael Cho
    Corinna Park, former English major, works, unhappily, in a Toronto advertising agency. When the dissatisfaction of the past five years begins to oppress her, she lets off steam by pilfering magazines from a local convenience store. Cho's moody character study is as much about city life as it is about Corinna. He depicts her falling asleep in front of the TV in her condo, brooding on the subway, roaming the crowded streets after a budding romance goes awry. Like a great short story, this is a simple tale of a young woman figuring out how to get her life back, but if feels as if it contains so much of contemporary existence -- its comforts, its loneliness, its self-deceptions -- suspended in wintery amber.

    Ten spectacular graphic novels from 2014

    Through the Woods by Emily Carroll
    This collection of archetypal horror, fairy and ghost stories, all about young girls, comes lushly decked in Carroll's inky black, snowy white and blood-scarlet art. A young bride hears her predecessor's bones singing from under the floorboards, two friends make the mistake of pretending to summon the spirits of the dead, a family of orphaned siblings disappears one by one into the winter nights. Carroll's color-saturated images can be jagged, ornate and gruesome, but she also knows how to chill with absence, shadows and a single staring eye. Literary readers who cherish the work of Kelly Link or the late Angela Carter's collection, "The Bloody Chamber," will adore the violent beauty on these pages.

  • Recent Slide Shows



Comment Preview

Your name will appear as username ( settings | log out )

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href=""> <b> <em> <strong> <i> <blockquote>