Treehab

by Bob Smith

  I was diagnosed on a Monday and that night decided to tell the guys. I considered withholding the information, but they had known for months that I’d been undergoing neurological testing for muscle spasms in my arms and slurring problems with my speech. Not telling them on that day would have been like trying to remain nonchalant while a fox hidden under your sweater gnaws on your intestines. I’m always hesitant to tell my news since it’s so overpoweringly bad that I’m afraid reminding people how harsh life can be will sink them for weeks. But these guys are well read, and I decided if they could survive the agony of reading Henry James’s The Ambassadors, they could handle my illness.

  They all reacted with teary-eyed empathy and offered to help in any way they could. I felt better immediately after sharing my news with them.

  When I told my news to Patrick, he reminded me his partner, Fred Blair, was an acupuncturist and suggested I see him for treatment. Fred is a tall, strawberry blond, telephone pole of a gay man in his forties. We’d met socially and I had immediately liked him since he is smart and funny. (Those two qualifications for friendship are what I look for on everyone’s resume.) I didn’t know much about acupuncture other than that it had originated in China and involved being poked with needles. But I thought trying something was better than dropping dead limb-by-limb since my doctors at the ALS center didn’t offer any ideas on what I could do, beyond sitting back until I needed a wheelchair, and taking Rilutek twice a day. It’s the only drug proven to help ALS and adds sixty days to your life expectancy, which is enough time to write a comic essay on religion.

  I decided to try acupuncture since I was confident doing anything to prevent my illness would probably add another two months to my life. I called the Blue Lotus Acupuncture Center and made an appointment and then lived my life pretty much as I always did. I woke up and drank two cups of coffee and sat down at my computer to write every day. (Although as a longtime java addict, I’ve discovered caffeine has never jolted me as effectively as the morning I thought, “Oh, I might be dead soon.”) My doctors had also immediately offered to prescribe an antidepressant. ( Just one antidepressant sounds inadequate to ALS; it’s the kind of illness where you should be munching them like M&Ms.) But I held off on going on antidepressants. I was concerned that the mind-altering substance might affect my writing, and then I’d have to find another antidepressant to fix that. But I also felt pretty happy. My first novel was going to be published that fall and I was booked to perform stand-up on two gay cruises that June. The first trip was to the Galápagos Islands and the second trip, one week later, was a cruise in the Baltic to all the Scandinavian countries and Saint Petersburg. And I was able to bring Michael for free on both of them. I knew I should feel depressed, but I wasn’t. Perhaps this was another neurological defect my doctors should investigate. I have no doubt they’d find a cure for that.

  A week later, I met Jackie Haught, the senior acupuncturist at Blue Lotus. She’s a stocky, sixty-year-old lesbian with short white hair who works in New York City two days a week. The rest of the time she lives and works in Woodstock, New York, with her partner, Phyllis, in a beautiful cozy house surrounded by forest. Jackie’s a Tibetan Buddhist, caffeine addict, and can reminisce about an acid trip forty years ago one moment and then talk seriously about the importance of kindness the next. She possesses the rare gift of being able to talk about spirituality without ever making you feel like she’s preaching. There’s an engaging pragmatism about Jackie’s beliefs that keeps them rooted in life, not the afterlife. Jackie believes you must treat people kindly, not to be rewarded with heaven but to be rewarded with a more compassionate earth.

  Fred grew up in Louisiana, studied comparative literature at Columbia, and believes a universal intelligence animates the cosmos. He’s a genial, easygoing guy who will take a hit off a joint on the weekends but also possesses a keen moral sense of what’s right and wrong. Unlike many do-gooders, Fred always gives the amusing impression that he wants to do what’s right since it will infuriate the assholes of the world. Be nice to piss off the nasty is actually a sentiment Jesus should have preached about since it’s probably a more effective and satisfying way of changing the world for the better.

  Neither Jackie nor Fred are saints. They’re capable of rolling their eyes at clients who become grumpy filling out the long Blue Lotus patient questionnaire, but I’ve also observed the grouchiest patients always leave converted to pleasant as if their habitual meanness only needed to be deflated with the stab of a needle.

  On my first visit, Jackie and Fred asked a lot of questions about my illness and both had already investigated how acupuncturists in China treat ALS. They also explained to me how acupuncture works. It’s about restoring the proper balance of qi (pronounced chi), or life force, in the body and that was enough of a metaphor for me to imagine my body as a household appliance with faulty wiring. I was broken but could be fixed. Jackie and Fred radiated the authority and skill in their field that I can only compare to my knowledge of stand-up comedy. A great stand-up owns the stage, and Jackie and Fred own their examination rooms. I’ve also discovered over the past three years that we are kindred spirits: Jackie and Fred both have great senses of humor, and yet they’re also dedicated and serious about their work.

  I immediately felt better after my first treatment. I firmly believe acupuncture works but understand some people might attribute that my relief is due to a placebo effect. So what? All art and literature have a placebo effect on humanity and only an idiot would argue the results from them haven’t been proven to be beneficial. When doctors profess skepticism to alternative treatments, I always think you should remember that the mind does affect the body. There’s scientific proof of that every time a man gets a boner.

  Part of my treatment has been being part of a community where people are more concerned with healthcare than wealthcare. Jackie and Fred work with a group of men and women, straight and gay, who, in exchange for acupuncture treatments, offer massage, bookkeeping, or—as I did before I lost my voice—fill in at the front desk one day a week. Jackie and Fred’s example of charity will never make them rich, but they’ve made me believe the simplest definition of a great life is thinking that anyone who has known you has been lucky.

  Everyone who knows Jackie and Fred feels like they’ve won the lottery.

  It seems hard to know how to live a good life, but once the Angel of Death’s sickle touches your throat I can promise much of your confusion will clear up. Life really isn’t that complicated. First, the golden rule of all religions is love thy neighbor as thyself, which surprisingly is first mentioned in the book of Leviticus. Antigay bigots never quote that injunction from their Handbook of Hatred since it also evidently gives God’s stamp of approval to all forms of mutual masturbation.

  It’s also easy to figure out what we need to do to make the earth more heavenly. First, always err on the side of compassion and kindness. We have millions of self-professed Christians in this country whining that they shouldn’t pay taxes for healthcare or food stamps for their neighbors or education for their neighbor’s children. Why? Because these loving Christians with hearts like tight fists worry some of their almighty dollars might be wasted. If Jesus returns, there’s no doubt the first thing he’ll do is throw these moneychangers out of the voting booth.

  I’m not a believer in any faith, but I’m not ready to declare that I’m an atheist either. I have serious doubts as to the existence of the God (or gods) worshipped by various religions, but I’m also a connoisseur of the cosmic. Following Emerson’s dictum, I’ve eyed the universe and have witnessed and experienced things that I don’t believe can be explained by science. In fact, scientific explanations often sound as plausible as Genesis.

  For example, the physicist Stephen Hawking explains the creation of the universe from nothingness by the force of gravity while other people attribute it to God. Both arguments aren’t particularly convincing. They both explain the Big Bang with words that begin with a g a
nd neither argument is ever going to be proved conclusively. But both stories are cosmic. (Stephen acknowledges the Divine might be involved.) The universe was created from nothing and that fact should give pause to every thoughtful person. So following my own rule that it’s okay to be skeptical, but it’s wrong to be cynical, I’m open to the idea of God, but these are my Ten Deal Breakers for a religion:

  I shall not believe in a God who’s meaner than I am.

  I shall not believe in any religion that claims God has a dress code.

  I shall not believe in any religion where any form of consensual sex is a sin.

  I shall not believe in any religion where men and women aren’t equal.

  I shall not believe in any religion that doesn’t accept that its creation myth is a metaphor.

  I shall not believe in any religion that places more emphasis on the afterlife than life.

  I shall not believe in any religion that refuses to admit that dull and un-questioning preaching about your beliefs is the most unoriginal of sins.

  I shall not believe in any religion that doesn’t honor the earth and animals.

  I shall not believe in any religion that excuses my being a greedy, selfish asshole for my entire life if I repent on my deathbed.

  I shall not believe in a God without a sense of humor.

  I was raised Roman Catholic. In the first grade, in preparation for my first communion, I started attending religious instruction classes, where I was first exposed to the doctrines of Christianity. Our teacher was Sister Annette, a wizened, ancient nun with rimless eyeglasses who looked old enough to have been third in line when original sin was first handed out. She enthusiastically told the story of Adam and Eve as if she was reading a children’s book where Jack and Jill went up the hill and ate God’s fruit, instead of their vegetables, and then came down the hill among the fallen.

  “You’re all sinners and you were born sinners!” she trilled at the close of her tale.

  Why is this story considered appropriate for first-graders? The doctrine of original sin is a form of child abuse: a heavenly father telling us we’re inherently evil—sinners from birth. If a mortal father did that to his children, it would be considered psychological abuse and his children would be placed in foster care. Every sensible person would jettison the idea of original sin if they thought of the concept in a whiny teenage girl’s voice: “Jesus Christ! Excuse me for living!”

  As a writer, I admire the engrossing story of Adam and Eve. It’s a love story with betrayal, nakedness, a talking snake, and God’s food issues. The Almighty forbids Adam and Eve to eat his apple of knowledge and when they do, God goes bananas and mandates they and their progeny’s last suppers will be sucking on the bitter lemon of death.

  The one inspiring element of the story of Adam and Eve is that, according to the Bible, which fundamentalist Christians believe to be entirely true, God created Adam and then he created Eve out of one of Adam’s ribs. In other words, God performed the first sex change operation. Every time a man lies with a woman, he’s actually hooking up with a man’s rib, which means, according to the Bible, there is no such thing as heterosexuality.

  Everyone’s gay.

  Therefore, according to the Bible, Adam and Eve really are Adam and Steve.

  Hey, it’s in the Bible.

  Even as a kid, I had problems with the idea of our father who art in heaven. He’s in the other room watching over us and our belief in him must serve as our night-light. Only it turns out if we’re scared and scream for help, he’ll ignore us. My father and mother always comforted me when I hurt myself, while we’re told God loves us, but his ways are mysterious and we can’t depend on him. When you consider that parent-child scenario as a basis for a religion it sounds like mankind’s original sin was gullibility.

  The heavenly father or heavenly mother metaphor really fell apart for me after I became a donor to a lesbian couple and had a son and a daughter. First of all, I would never want to create children with abilities inferior to mine. In fact, I hope they’ll surpass me. So when I hear God created man in his own image but skipped giving us omniscience and immortality, it makes God the father sound like he deliberately set out to have mentally retarded, terminally ill children, which is inconceivable to any real dad.

  And what loving parent threatens his children with eternal punishment? Love me or I’ll torch you sounds like the textbook definition of an unhealthy relationship, a relationship any sane psychologist would recommend ending. If God really wanted us to have true freewill he would have given us his omnipotent abilities to go off and create our own universe after we decided our relationship with him wasn’t working. Instead God offers love by coercion where the choice is him or burning.

  Wait, we’re being asked to love a God who burns people alive for eternity?

  If there’s one ecumenical history lesson everyone agrees upon, it’s that people who burn people are evil. No one defends witch roasts or Nazi crematoriums—so a God who burns people for any reason is evil. Yes, all religions that reek of brimstone stink to high heaven.

  (I’m not counting Hitler or the rest of the Nazis. They should burn eternally.)

  Sister Annette gave us the Roman Catholic version of sexual education when she briefly discussed Jesus’s virgin birth. The annunciation is troubling because an angel just delivers the news that Mary is going to carry God’s child after the Holy Ghost haunts her vagina. There’s no discussion or permission asked because God is a man and most men believe any women carrying his child has received a great honor.

  Sister Annette repeatedly reiterated that God killed his only son to show his love for us, just as I assumed she mistreated first-graders to demonstrate her love for them. She also said Jesus was a gift. Let me get this straight: If pagan religions like the Mayans cut the beating heart out of a man to demonstrate their love for their gods, it’s barbaric, but if God lets his son be nailed to a cross, it’s the equivalent of a cosmic hug? Killing your son to prove your love is like sending an actual bloody heart as a valentine. God created the universe, but he couldn’t come up with a more affirming demonstration of love? Christianity’s house of God seems like a house of cards that would collapse if one person said to the Almighty, “There’s enough chilling horror in the world without killing people to demonstrate your love. Why can’t you just send us gift baskets? And it would be nice to hear you say ‘I love you’ once in a while.”

  Christians, take it from a gay guy, men who don’t communicate are the worst people to be in a relationship with, and God has been giving us the silent treatment for eons.

  I didn’t remain a Catholic once I learned the Church sat out the Holocaust, covered up the sexual abuse of thousands of children, and then had the gall to declare that homosexuality is “intrinsically evil.” (Catholic apologists always mention Pius XII spoke out publicly twice about Nazi atrocities. Yeah, without mentioning the Jews once. Basically, the shortest of Anne Frank’s diary entries is longer than anything the pope ever said publicly about the Nazis.) Look, if your pope watched silently as a million Jewish children were slaughtered and then his successors tolerated sexually abusing thousands of kids, I’d say those abominations have ended your moral stature for eternity. It’s hard to claim to be advocates of the kingdom of heaven after actively aiding and abetting hell on earth. I’m sure these statements will draw forth accusations of anti-Catholic bias, but those are the facts. If the Roman Catholic Church is the best Christianity can do, then why not just worship Satan since I assume he’s also fine with killing and abusing children?

  My partner Michael is Jewish and I’ve come to believe the other monotheistic faiths are cheap knockoffs of the original from my observation of the Jewish holidays—for Rosh Hashanah and Passover you prepare a nice dinner and invite friends over for brisket and serve side dishes where the color green is traif. Roman Catholic hospitality is parsimonious in comparison. All we do is talk about the nice dinner someone had two thousand years ago and then commemorate i
t by eating little bits of stale bread and maybe having a sip of wine.

  The Jewish faith depicts God as a put-upon, perpetually temperamental father or, at best, an unbearable uncle who pinches your cheek as he tells you an unfunny joke. God commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, and just as Abraham was about to fulfill his duty, God said, “Just kidding!”

  The story of the book of Job is more troubling. It says that God and the devil made a bet about whether Job would remain faithful to God if Satan inflicted horrors upon him and his family. (First of all, isn’t God all-knowing? Doesn’t he know the outcome of everything? If he does, then what’s the point of making Job suffer? Are God and Satan just bored? Their wager makes dogfighting seem almost benign.) Satan sends a wind that causes all of Job’s children to be killed and yet Job remains faithful and says the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The book of Job is unsettling since its obvious message is that no one individual is important to God. Those first-born kids were snuffed to test a theory. Since God knew the outcome ahead of time, the story of Job is as mindlessly vicious and cruel as the unnecessary testing of known ingredients that cosmetics companies do on rabbits and beagles. If the all-knowing God knows everyone’s fates, all three monotheistic faiths turn him into a heartless lab technician tallying up the results of painful experiments whose results were never in question.

  The Jewish people also claim they have a special covenant with God. It’s hard to believe the Jews, of all people, didn’t run that contract past a lawyer since the Holocaust alone makes me think they didn’t read the fine print. Every year I’m reminded again of the beauty of Jewish traditions due to Michael’s family. His sister, Michelle, and her husband, Jeremy, always invite us to their house for Passover and Rosh Hashanah. Jeremy’s parents, Sam and Edith, are usually also guests. He’s eighty-six and she’s eighty-two, and they disprove the myth that you have to become set in your ways when you grow old. They’re a delightful, charming couple who always make Michael and me feel welcome. Edith enjoys talking about books and travel with the verve of a twenty-year-old. She also spent her fourteenth birthday in Auschwitz. (I mentioned to Michael, “You do know the most upbeat, non-neurotic person in your family is the Holocaust survivor?” Michael laughed and responded, “Well, wouldn’t you be upbeat if you survived the Holocaust?”)