Two news stories point to the changing/challenging culture

Two stories that have captured my attention today have been about lesbians. The first is that Johanna Sigurdardottir, a long-time policy maker in Iceland’s parliament, is about to become the first openly lesbian Prime Minister of the tiny and beleaguered country.

To top it off, she is referred to by other leading politicians as ‘beloved by Icelanders’, and the only critiques seem to be coming from conservative critics who are at odds with her style of governance, which they describe as “spending and tax raises”.

Imagine. A lesbian leading an entire country and discussing issues based solely on their merits and not her sexuality. Now that’s change.

The other story comes from Canada – Winnipeg, specifically, often referred to at this bitter cold time of year as WinterPig. It seems a lesbian couple visited a medical centre in the city, and met with an Egyptian-born doctor who they claimed discriminated against them. The couple stated the doctor told them their ‘lifestyle’ was against her religion and that she had no experience treating same sex couples.

Now this is a thorny piece of sagebrush rolling across the harsh landscape of the prairies. Where to even start unraveling the finer points of this? I can just hear the argument: if the doctor in question plans to work in a Canadian health care setting, she should be aware of, and trained for, dealing with same sex partner health issues.

But given the dearth of family care physicians in this country and our need to import them from other parts of the world, can beggars afford to be choosers? How about we hire these immigrant (and highly educated & experienced) doctors, and provide training – both physical and cultural – for classes of patients they may be unfamiliar with?

As for the couple, it’s hard to tell when to really push discrimination suits. Are they helpful? Can the issue be resolved in any other way? How about the medical centre having a physician or two on the staff who are experienced and comfortable providing care to same sex couples, and allowing non-experienced/comfortable doctors to refer patients internally to them, in a professional manner?

After all, who wants an experienced and uncomfortable doctor treating them? One could argue that the wholesale acceptance has to start somewhere, but to me that would be taking a big risk and putting politics or human rights issues ahead of my own health issues. Do I really want a physician who can’t provide proper care because she simply has no experience? Can I assume that physician will do the necessary research – which may push them into areas of severe discomfort and lead to a half-assed job – in order to treat me effectively? Do I have to win EVERY battle with someone not yet comfortable with my lesbian-ness?

My final point of contention with this story is the continued reference in the mainstream media to same sex relationships as a ‘lifestyle’. I know, I know, this chestnut makes the rounds all day every day, but really, it’s so infuriating. As if being in a same sex relationship equates to spending six months of the year in Palm Springs golfing. I’m starting to REALLY hate that word, in any context. In the case of this story, it’s especially egregious, since it’s in a health care setting and has very real repercussions in a life and death sort of way. Like calling it a ‘lifestyle’ creates an environment where it’s okay to demur in providing treatment. In that way I totally get the anger of the couple who laid the complaint.

If it arises from the writer, it’s even worse. We need to change the language with which we refer to same sex issues, especially in the health arena. Using this sort of offhand reference to such a challenging issue relegates same sex couples in terms of issue importance to the fashion pullout of the newspaper. Just stop doing it.

Best coming out conversation

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It’s a funny thing, desire

Sometimes you’re just restless. Sometimes you’re aroused. Sometimes you just need your partner like a shoe needs laces, like without her you’re schlepping around half falling out of yourself and trying to avoid the cow patties.

That’s how it is for me tonight. I’ve had fabulous sex since coming out. Incredible intimacy. Heights so dizzying you need an oxygen tank. And yet… that isn’t it.

Today we went for dim sum with part of my family. I was closeted for 25 years, and petrified that coming out would cost me the things and people I held most dear… my family, my friends, my work, my children, the relationship with my soon to be x-husband (I prefer to think of him like one of the XMen rather than an ‘ex’).

We had the sweetest of moments today… me, my honey D., my parents, and my hilarious sister and her husband – my beloved brother-in-law – and my niece. We went walking on the Richmond riverfront, and right there at the entrance was a gorgeous sign: West Dyke. My sister offered to take our picture just as my parents walked up. Everyone erupted into laughter. I could have fallen on my knees and kissed the earth for the gift. I never, ever would have imagined such acceptance. Such joy.

It was only part of a gorgeous day. We shopped for educational  stuff for our girls, now loving school with happy parents and D., who LOVES homework. We scored a treasure trove of funky clothes for us and distant family at Value Village. We blogged, and had fabulous coffee at Wicked Cafe, tried twice to get into the sold out Slumdog Millionaire at two different theatres and ended up spelunking in Vancouver’s tinseltown instead, scoping out art from the mundane to the inspired to the truly awful. We shopped in the funky Chinese dollar store, trying to avoid melamine. (Is there melamine in post-it notes???) Blissful happiness.

She kissed me so deeply at one point I thought I would fall forever into the memory foam pout of her lips. Told me I was beautiful. Caressed me. I fought my desire for her (untimely in an African, go-out-into-the-mud-hut kind of way) and tried to stay cool. We’ve got a lot going on. You never know.

We came home and grokked, chilled out, enjoyed the peace and quiet and the snores of dogs strewn about the house. I wanted her so much I felt fragile with it. After years of not feeling desire, to be overwhelmed is still not so much a novelty as a fearsome thing at times.

And then it’s bedtime… playtime with the pugs and terrier, sorting out the heat issue (my feet are leaden blocks from a parallel universe, most likely a meat locker), getting settled. Finding out she’s tired and cuddly rather than entranced and amorous. Crap.

Hey, you know what? After reaching 46 and finally, FINALLY, falling in love, it is truly all good. Every cuddle, every pull of the blanket off me in the middle of the night, every fart, every misfired synapse. I mean, could I get my ego out of the way? Expectations can really kick your derriere.

Or is that all it is, ego, a need to be wanted? After 30 minutes of gnawing on it I realized it was more than that. As Ivan Coyote says, “a want is a need”. I need her. I need to connect with her in that most intimate of ways, on the very day another part of my family took me in as the full meal deal, a real dyke. I need to know again, carnally, what it was I missed out on for all those years, dreaming and never having. Afraid to even imagine it.  To feel the fullness of the love and desire and fulfillment and closeness that threatens to unravel you, send you stumbling into your life shoeless and wondering, a heartbeat away from a faceplant at any given moment.

I think of D. in bed, wanting only sleep, and closeness, and acceptance for where she is in her moment; wanting love, even, of a different but no less valid kind (will she love me even when I’m not doing her?). I’ll heat my feet, and cool my jets, and be grateful to have such a wonderful, beautiful, transcendant problem as this midnight desire.