Photo credit: Hannah Reding, Unsplash 2020
It started as a text from my daughter early on Monday: Can you drive John to the doctor?
Uh oh, I thought. The Thursday before, John had gone in for top surgery, a full mastectomy. My daughter had been staying with her friend all weekend and acting as caregiver during his recovery. The surgery had gone well, quicker than we had all expected. Multiple texts during the intervening days had shown John was recovering easily and my daughter was holding up as well. She had planned to return to work on Monday, but John reacted poorly to some medication. Nothing drastic, but the doctor
wanted to see him in person to be sure. She could, my daughter explained to me, cancel her plans and navigate them both through multiple bus routes, if I was busy.
I’ll be there, I assured them both.
When I arrived at John’s home, whatever mommy instincts had still not been activated came online instantly. He was swaying. He was pale. His eyes didn’t seem to focus properly. He apologized profusely about his greasy skin and four-day old pajama pants. I helped him down the stairs and into the car. On the drive I learned he wasn’t eating or sleeping well and cleaning the drainage tubes all on his own made him gag. I reiterated that we are were all here to help him through this. All he needed to do was ask.
“I’m not used to getting help,” he said with a shrug.
At the doctor’s office John received a new prescription for a milder antibiotic, had his tubes cleared, and had fresh bandages applied. Everything was healing properly. John tried apologizing again for being a nuisance while we drove to the pharmacy for his medication and some nutrition shakes. I was more forceful with my reply this time:.
“You deserve help.”
He nodded and shifted self-consciously in the seat.
“I took a picture,” he confided eventually. “Want to see?”
John pulled out his phone. While the bandages had been off, he snapped a selfie. I felt so shocked and honored that he was sharing with me this intimate view of such a special moment.
“You look awesome,” I said. I was referring to how relatively clean and healthy the incisions looked but also to his firm torso. Thinking about my own large and cumbersome breasts, I continued, “In a few weeks, you’ll be able to flop right out on the bed and sleep face down.”
“I’m going to go running,” he added with a grin, “whenever I want to.”
We laughed, both of us all too appreciative of what a rare privilege that would be.
At the pharmacy, the clerk pointed to the tubes and bandages peeking from John’s open coat. She recognized what they meant, she explained. After congratulating him, she did a happy dance on his behalf. I couldn’t join her. I was too busy holding John upright at this point in the day. We thanked her, and I took John home. He offered me a gentle, side, shoulder hug as I asked a dozen times if he’d be okay alone. My daughter was due to stop by again that night, so I left and let John have a good nap.
Weeks later, John walked into our house for Christmas dinner. He looked rested, showered, and exuberant. He whipped his winter coat open to reveal a form fitting t-shirt. We cheered.
I joined in his happy dance that time. John jumped up and down, simply because he wanted to. He asked for a hug, and I immediately embraced him, heart to heart.
A Moment of Portland PFLAG Joy is a place where our members can anonymously share meaningful experiences they’ve had as an LGBTQ+ person or someone special to an LGBTQ+ person. Let us know at info@pflagpdx.org if you have a story you’d like to share.