Cinco de Mayo (May 5^th) for most is a day of celebrating the anniversary of the Mexican army’s victory over France in 1862 during the Franco-Mexican War. Everyone gets together with all of their closest friends and consumes obscene amounts of Mexican food, margaritas, Corona beer (don’t forget the lime) and far, far too many tequila shots. It’s all fun and games till someone ends up with their face in the toilet with an Armageddon of vomiting, wondering "what the hell did I eat that had corn in it?” AHH yes, good times for sure!

For me, May 5^th is a whole different monster. It is a vicious reminder of loss and the most unbearable pain one could, not even in their most horrific nightmares, ever fathom. May 5^th is my late husband Kyle’s birthday. This year he would have been 45 years old. Kyle died almost 4 years ago and there is not a moment that goes by that I do not think of him and miss him terribly.

We had twelve amazing years together filled with lots of love, laughter, and friendship, and that is something I wouldn’t trade for the world. But know this: if it would bring him back, back to this world, back to his mother, his brothers, his nephews, I would gladly lay down my life and die for that to happen.

Over the last four years I have had un-yielding support from friends and family who are always there for me anytime I need them. But I know essentially, deep down in my heart I am alone in this.

I wake every morning knowing that I will never see his smiling face again, never hear his laugh, and most heart wrenching of all, never know his sweet kisses again. These truths haunt my dreams and every waking moment. They say time heals all wounds. Well  - either time has forsaken me or it has decided to take its sweet ass time, because everyday hurts just as much as the last.

The reality is people we love die without our permission, and we are left to muddle through life trying to figure out how we are going to live without them. How do we do that? We do the best we can with what we have.

Sometimes we move on, find someone else, as I have. But it’s not the same. I now find myself in a hopeless relationship that I know eventually will end badly (for him). He is a wonderful man, and I do love him, he treats me so well, and I think he realizes that he will always be second to Kyle and accepts it. Yes, I love him, BUT I am not now nor do I ever think I will be IN love with him. I wish I could, but alas no. My ability to be IN love with anyone died with Kyle. Besides, it’s so much easier to be in love with someone who’s dead; you make so few mistakes.

Now you ask, “If you’re not in love with this guy, why are you with him?” Well that’s an easy one to answer. I’m with him because he is comfortable and because I don’t know how to be alone. I never have. I have always been in a relationship. I just simply don’t have the skills to be single. And I know this is unfair to him, because he is truly in love with me. This probably makes me a bad person, but right now this is the only person I know how to be.

I keep myself busy, trying to do as many positive things as possible; I try to life a full and happy life because I know that is what Kyle, wherever he is, wants for me. And yes I have found some things that bring me a certain level of happiness, but they are few and far between and it seems to need too many anti-depressants to achieve them. But for Kyle… My love… My friend.. My husband  - I take it one day at a time, one step at a time until I see him again, and  I will see him again, I dunno where or how, but I have to believe it to be so. Happy birthday my love, I miss  you desperately.  Thank you for reading.

XXOO Danny 

So for the last four years my doctor has been badgering me about drinking. Telling me that I REALLY need to quit doing it. That all my problems concerning my pancreas and it’s cyst all come back to drinking. That drinking causes my pancreas to produce extreme excess amounts of the enzyme lipase which then lands me in the hospital with pancreatitis, unable to eat anything but small amounts of ice chips and consume no beverages of any kind, not even water. (Ice chips are made of water so I’m not sure how that works out, but I don’t make the rules.)

And for the last four years, I have been telling my doctor that I had quit drinking, telling my Mom and Dad that I had quit drinking. Telling my boyfriend and close friends that I had cut back my drinking to an absolute minimum. (I couldn’t very well tell my friends that I had quit drinking since most times I was hanging out with them with a drink in my hand). Yet these were all lies. I hadn’t quit drinking at all, yes I had cut back some, but I was still getting drunk when I knew there was a pretty good chance I would end up sick and in pain.

I never really thought I had a drinking problem per se, and I am still not too sure that I do. I never saw myself as an alcoholic; I just like to have a glass of wine or two with a nice dinner. Or a couple of beers while watching a ball game and a couple of cocktails and shots while out with friends. No big deal right??

And sometimes it was no big deal. Sometimes I could get my drink on and be fine, no sick, no pain, and no hospital. But that was all just luck of the draw. When it all came down to hard facts, for me, drinking was a stupid, irresponsible thing to be doing.

Finally after spending pretty much all of December and January in the hospital with pancreatitis from drinking I decided enough was enough. I was sick of getting sick, sick of IV’s, sick of the condescending looks from the same Dr.’s and nurses at the emergency room saying, oh it’s you… AGAIN!!

I don’t know if I had “hit rock bottom” as they say, I have done that a few times with drug addictions and this felt different, but I knew I was needed to stop, look at my life, look at the collection of hospital bracelets that I had accumulated over the last two months and I knew I was ready to make a change.

On February 11 2012, I went out and bought a bottle of champagne (it was cava actually) came home and watched Steel Magnolias, and Beaches and drank my cava.  Not really the way you’re supposed to go about quitting drinking, but then again I have always been a bit of a rule breaker.

And for my trouble I ended up in the hospital. My lipase was sky high. (Normal lipase is 59, mine was 2300) It was one of the worst bouts of pancreatitis I have ever had. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. But, it was a necessary evil. So maybe it was my rock bottom after all.

After four or five days in the hospital I came home a new Danny. A Danny that had decided health was more important that a beer with a ball game, or shots with his best friends. This new Danny doesn’t drink. More importantly this new Danny doesn’t drink not because he shouldn’t, he doesn’t drink because he doesn’t want to. This new Danny is now 68 days sober, and I have done it with the sheer force of my will. I still don’t know if I’m what you would call an alcoholic, but I do know I no longer drink and that’s a good enough answer for me.

Thank you for reading. XXOO Danny

Yo ho, it’s me Danny, back from the abyss yet again. The last couple of months have been a bit of a crazy roller coaster for me.  There have been  hospital stays, mini personal crises and some personal growth that I am especially proud of.  Where to start?

Well, in early February I did another 6-day stint in the ever fun hospital. I went in with pancreatitis (as usual) and ended up in isolation with everyone wearing hazmat suits and masks. Now you’re asking hazmat suits, really?

Well here in my little part of Maryland we had a small outbreak of a crazy mutant strain of the flu that in the end caused the death of 7 people.  It was very contagious and airborne, so therefore anyone going to the hospital that was presenting any flu-like symptoms was immediately put into isolation. I had a fever (which is not at all uncommon with pancreatitis) so of course I was stuck into exile with the rest.

That’s where the real fun started. Not only was I being treated for my pancreatitis, I was also (un-necessarily) being pumped full of crazy antibiotics for this mutant flu that I didn’t have.

They ran a CT scan on my abdomen to see what was going on with my pancreas this time.  I received the news of the results of said scan from a wonderful doctor whom I hold in the highest regard (please note that last statement was utter bullshit, said doctor is a complete jackass). The doctor comes into my room, somber faced, and announces “the cyst on your pancreas has grown to three times the size it was the last time you were scanned, the cyst is also full of fluid, which means probable infection. We also found a 2cm mass, it’s most likely cancer. Ok then, I’m going to lunch.” And then the  wise doctor quickly exited my room to leave me to stew in the bounty of his news.

The nicest thing I can say about this doctor is that I deeply hope that he gets mauled by a really pissed off momma tiger while in a shower of lemon juice.

MY doctor and I decided that we wanted a second opinion from a REAL expert, so off I was to see one of top pancreatic doctors on the east coast at Johns Hopkins Pancreatic Center in Baltimore. After a MRI, MRCP, endoscopy, internal ultrasound, and two biopsies, it turns out my instinct about my doctor was correct; he is a flaming jackass idiot.

Yes there was some fluid in my cyst, but no infection, the so called cancerous mass was just small foreign matter that can find its way into a pancreatic cyst, thus causing irritation and the fluid that was found. After all the tests that Johns Hopkins performed there was ABSOLUTELY NO EVIDENCE of cancer.

Hey doctor, I say you owe my family and I A HUGE  APOLOGY for your misdiagnosis and the panic that ensued thereafter. Also about $300 in gas money for all the trips up to Baltimore to see a REAL specialist; at $3.99 a gallon it’s is a precious commodity around here.   P.S. I hate you, thought you should know.

So now with the fear of pancreatic cancer and several major surgeries no longer hanging over my head I am moving on into this beautiful spring we are having here in Maryland, manicuring my lawn, planting flowers and bushes. Sitting on the patio that I built with my own two hands, drinking my coffee and scanning the newspapers for reports of any Dr.’s being mauled by tigers.

Thank you for reading. XXOO Danny

Well it looks like I am going to have to finally break down and buy something that I have been avoiding since 1983. A suit. Yes I haven't worn or owned a suit since December of 1983 when my Mom and Dad got married, and even then I tried to hide the suit behind my dresser and claim that it was lost forever so I wouldn't have to wear it. Unfortunately for me Moms really do have eyes in the back of their heads that see everything.

I even managed to avoid wearing a suit to my younger sister's wedding. Lucky for me she got married in July when it is super hot in Maryland so I got off with linen pants with a matching banded collared shirt. And even luckier for me I wasn't asked to be part of the “wedding party” I would have been stuck in an awful white tuxedo with a hideous hunter green bow tie and cummerbund. (I love my sister, I do but those tuxedos were just tacky.) I got to wear my linen and walk the “mother of the bride” Mom down the aisle.

Alas, it has come down to the bare facts.  Danny has to buy a suit, thank you Maryland House of Delegates, Maryland State Senate, and finally Maryland governor Martin O'Malley. Have I got you completely confused?  Well let me clarify.

Last week the House of Delegates voted in favor of gay marriage in the state of Maryland, just a few days ago The Maryland State Senate voted in favor of legalizing gay marriage, and the governor who has been pushing for this gay marriage bill to pass will be signing the bill into state law next week. Hence, Danny has to buy a suit. F&#K My Life!!!

Still trying to figure out where the hell I'm going with this?? Or are you thinking “OH MY GOODNESS!!! Danny and his man are gonna get married!!!!!”?

Well if that's what you’re thinking please hit stop and rewind. There is not now, nor ever will be, a wedding for Danny. As I have stated before, for me, marriage is a naughty word. I have never in my life, not even for one second, had the desire to marry anyone. Not even my late husband. Call me a hypocrite for using that term all you want, it's the only one I have found to fit. After 12 years we were way past boyfriends,  the term “lover” just makes me think of secret sex interludes, and “partner” just flat out pisses me off. Love is not a business, and I washed the man's dirty underwear for 10 years dammit.  I'll call him my husband if I damn well please! OK now where was I? Oh yes.  Marriage and my late husband, we both never wanted to get married, we never saw the need for it.

That's not to say that I don't support gay marriage, because I do, wholeheartedly. I believe that anyone regardless of sexual orientation should have the right to get married. It's just not for me. I'm like Kurt Russel and Goldie Hawn; if it ain't broke don't fix it.

But I do have a lot of gay friends who are coupled and are just dying to sign up for the bridal registry at Target, thus meaning in the coming year I see myself attending many gay weddings, and trust me I'm not going to get away with wearing a banded collar to a gay wedding. No way, no how!!! The gay mafia would be at my doorstep to break my kneecaps and revoke my gay card, and I just got the darn thing back last month. Ergo Danny has to go out and buy a suit, a real suit, nothing off the rack, I'd be called out in two clicks of a drag queen’s stilettos. So while I am happy that the great state of Maryland has become the 8th state in the US to legalize gay marriage, and I am thrilled for all of my friends and their certain upcoming nuptials, doggone it, I hate suits!! Oh well, 29 years was a good run. Here's to gay marriage in Maryland!!!

Thank you for reading. XXOO Danny

If you ask them, most people living with HIV can tell you the exact date that they found out that they were diagnosed HIV-positive. Most of them can even tell you what day of the week it was. Hell, I have one friend who recently told me that not only does he remember the exact date, and day of the week, but he remembers what time it was. And after all why shouldn't we remember these things. The day we all find out we are HIV positive is the start of a whole new life for us, a second birthday if you will. A day they every year we acknowledge with both dismay and victory, dismay that we are living with this disease, and victory that for yet another year we are winning and HIV isn't.

I myself don't remember the time, the day of the week, I don't even remember the exact date that I was diagnosed. That day was like a dream for me, I just kind of seemed to float out of myself and hovered there in limbo looking at myself and my mother trying to figure out how and why this had happened to me. I do know that it was some day in March of 2007. I remember this because it was close to my mother's birthday and I kept thinking what a shitty birthday gift I had for my Mom.

I was at my Mom's house when I got the news; the doctor told me over the phone. My mother was sitting right in front of me and I am sure there was a look on my face that told her all she needed to know, but I told her anyway, she was the first person I told.

I sat outside on the stoop chain smoking and trying to wrap my head around the idea that I was now HIV positive while my mother sat on the kitchen floor crying, I could hear her through the door and it broke my heart. I realized at that moment that I was more worried about how much damage my HIV would do to my mother than to me and my body. She had already lost her oldest son to suicide and I knew she was sitting there bracing herself to lose another son. I have never felt so low in my life as I did at that moment.

I had broken my mother's heart and that is something that I will never be able to forgive myself for. That was five years ago, and I can still hear my mother crying in the back of my head, it haunts my every moment, it's there when I'm awake and I hear it in my dreams. I am pretty sure that it will always be there, I will always hear my mother sobbing those awful tears of loss to come but I have come to accept that. I embrace it actually, as fucked up as that sounds.  I actually need that sound in my head.

I need it because hearing that sound that day, five years ago - my mom mourning for the loss of me while I was still there and alive - changed my life. Up to that point in my life I had no direction. I had just gotten sober from cocaine, and was soon moving back out on my own to start life over, and I had no idea what I was going to do. Sure, I could wait tables and bar-tend to pay the bills, but that's the same thing I had been doing all of my adult life, working enough to just get by. And with the news of my HIV status, just getting by seemed pointless. Just getting by had obviously done wonders for me up to that point right?  (I hope you caught the sarcasm there.)

My mother’s tears that day made me finally stand up and say “just getting by is no longer good enough. I have broken my mother's heart and I am going to spend every day of the rest of my life trying to mend that break, to help my mother to stop crying and start smiling again.”

Five years later I have achieved becoming a published writer, have been recognized as a respected HIV/AIDS advocate and activist, I have been named an Ambassador of Hope for a worldwide HIV/AIDS foundation, I am an accomplished public speaker, and counselor who works within the HIV /AIDS community, one of my best friends and I have started a new statewide non for profit organization to help the people of Maryland learn their HIV status, and every day I try and do at least one thing to make my Mom smile. I love you Momma!! Here's to five years past and many, many more to come!

Thank you for reading. XXOO Danny

With Valentine's Day behind us, and everyone given proof that they are loved with flowers, chocolates, and obnoxiously cute stuffed animals that either make a kissing sound or one of a thousand other nauseatingly cutesie other “I love You” phrases, let’s not forget the ever popular sexy underwear and jewelery. Bullocks to  it all, I say. I would like, if I may, to tell you how my wonderful boyfriend of three years, Glenn, showed me the extent of if his love for me this Valentine's season, and believe me now when I say there are no flowers or other standards involved. No, no, it's much better than any flowers or piece of jewelry - much better.

For the last month there has been a nasty intestinal flu that has been running rampant around town, and basically everyone, including me, got it. Let me tell you this was some mighty fun stuff. Puking non stop till all you had left were dry heaves a plenty. Either constant diarrhea or extreme constipation, or you could go with the ever fun mysterious clear slime that constantly oozed from your rectum. And to top it all off the worst stomach cramps ever conceived. Speaking of conceived that is exactly what these cramps felt like -  like you had conceived an alien baby and were about to give bloody, slimy birth at any second. Yea like I said this intestinal flu was a blast, you all should be jealous you missed it.

And to top things off, this flu caused my stomach to produce tons of extra stomach acid thus spinning my pancreas into a tizzy and bringing on a bout of pancreatitis on top of the intestinal flu!! YAY!! Double fun!!

After being sent straight to the emergency room by my doctor, I was quickly admitted to the hospital for the next four days. I was severely dehydrated, my potassium and magnesium were all out of whack,  not to mention my lipease was sky high. They had me hooked up to four separate IV's pumping me full of six different kinds of necessary fluids and a constant drip of major pain killers. I was attached to heart monitors, pulse oxygen meter, automatic blood pressure cuff and the ever fun oxygen tubes they strap to you face and up your nose. I tell you guys I was looking dead sexy, Oh yea!!

Now you're asking, Danny, how in the hell does this connect with romance and Valentine's Day?

Well I’ll tell you, for those four days, my Glenn took off work, and sat there in my hospital room with me for as long as the nurses would let him. He even managed a couple of nights to sweet talk the nurses into letting him stay for a couple of hours past the end of the set visiting hours.

I myself was out of it most of the time, either sleeping the sleep of the extremely sick and drugged, or I was awake and so stoned on pain meds that I made no sense whatsoever. It appears that I kept asking to speak with my cat.

I couldn't get out of bed and to the bathroom on my own, hell I couldn't stand on my own, and Glenn was there to help me stand and he held Big Joe (yes I named my penis so stop laughing) into the urinal thingy so I didn't piss all over my self,  Which with all of the fluids they were pumping me full of I had to pee about every 15 minutes. He got stuff from the nurses and washed my hair, my face as well as various other parts of my body for me so I could still feel somewhat human as well as helping me brush my teeth.

He only left my side long enough for him to use the bathroom himself or when the nurses finally did kick him out for the night. He held my hand, told me I was beautiful and that he loved me. Now if that doesn't kick flowers and candy in the ass I don't know what does.

Thank you for reading. XXOO Danny