I still remember the evening I met him. I had not begun transition, but was seriously thinking about it. As a Roman Catholic at that time, I decided to attend services at the Houston area Dignity Chapter, an organization for lgbt Catholics. It was the Sunday before Holy Week. When I walked in, I met this tall thin man who was greeting. We began to chat, and I learned his name was Skip. Another greeter took charge of the people coming in and we continued, first about the congregation and services, and then sharing about ourselves.The attraction was immediate and neither of us wanted to stop. When it came time for the mass to start, we walked in together, sitting towards the back and out of the way, whispering to each other with an urgency that resembled teen school girls. We sort of behaved ourselves for the eucharist, but then sat outside for next couple of hours in front of the church hungry for every piece of information the other could share about themselves. We just could not stop talking.
Here's a good place to interject, less there be some confusion. Some might ask, are you bisexual? I don't think so, though it would be just fine if I were. But prior to my transition, I was attracted primarily to men. Skip met me as a man. He was far enough on the scale that he had never even dated a woman. It just was never an option. I had, and tried hard to be straight, but that just was not who I was. So when I transitioned, those hormones began rewiring my body, and I believe my brain as well. On the other side I was attracted to women primarily, though I still loved Skip. Love doesn't just go away after all, and the love the two of us shared transcended all the other stuff. Yes it is confusing, and even more so for me who experienced it. But while he was alive, we talked in depth about what was going on, confronting fear and insecurity and choosing to live in love.
So that night, we agreed to meet up at church for Good Friday services, then go out afterwards. We went to a local gay piano bar and sang Broadway tunes and laughed and sang together. Then we went back to the church where his car was parked still. There in the lot we sat, talking quietly until 4 in the morning. He looked into my eyes, and asked if he could kiss me. I said yes, and I think he believed it might be a cursory kiss, but I had different plans. It was definitely lip lock for sure. Breathlessly we became aware that two men kissing in a church parking lot on a street that had traffic even at that early hour might not be the wisest course, so we agreed it was time to end the evening, and each of us went home. By the time I arrived at my apartment, I already had two messages from him on my answering machine. I called him back and we quietly chatted until I could hold my eyes open no longer.
After that we spent every spare minute we could together. Leisurely walks on the Rice University campus. Hot tea at a local tea house after I'd get off work. I'm not even a fan of hot tea, but honey fixes anything. I'd pour the honey in my tea and he'd laugh, asking, "Have some tea with that honey dear?"
In other ways we were different too. He could be so serious while I tended to be more laid back. He'd have to take a double take sometimes because my humor was sufficiently dry as to go right over his head. Understand he was not a stupid man. He held degrees in English, German, Latin, and Classical Greek (majors) plus minors in Philosophy, Theology, and Music. In so many ways he really was a man for all season. He adored classical music, and in our years together, he gave me an appreciation of it as well. But our differences seemed to complement rather than divide us. Early on we knew this was something more than ordinary. There were things we had to talk about. I was so nervous the day I broached the topic of my transgender identity. He listened to me carefully and asked all the right questions. He understood that one day I'd lose that one part of the my physical being that identified him and I as gay men. Yet he looked in my eyes and affirmed, "I'm not going anywhere. Perhaps it would have been different before I came to know and love you. But now I love you, and this changes nothing." He paused and said, "Love is like that you know."
He had his own issues we needed to discuss. He had his own fear, that of rejection due to his health. He had rheumatoid arthritis which had become progressively worse over 23 years. He lived in constant pain, and when we met, he only could take some tutoring positions because the days he'd be able to teach which he loved dearly were unpredictable. But see, I loved this erudite amazing man. Like he would say, love is like that you know.
HERE WE ARE BEFORE TRANSITION WAS COMPLETE:
Our time together was amazing. We never stopped talking, though we could complete each other's sentences after awhile. Wherever one of us was, there was the other. He had the constant pain of course, but one of my greatest joys was giving him the daily massage to sooth those sore places. His all time favorite place was Galveston, and we'd drive down and spend the weekend sometimes. Even when as the disease progressed, he was in so much pain he often had to use a wheel chair, yet every day he'd hobble out to the parking area to greet me when I got home, with a kiss and an offer to help carry my things from work.
And what a romantic he could be. I'd let him know I was having a hard day at work, only to come home and find dinner being prepared. He'd usher me into the bathroom where he'd have a bath drawn and once even rose petals floating in the water, all with candle light of course. After my bath we'd share dinner together, and all the difficulty of the day would be gone. I'll always treasure the wedding ceremony we shared, thanks to a gay priest who knew we would keep the confidence. It really was until death do us part, and I believe even after that, the love is forever. He was able to draw social security which helped and while we lived on the edge financially, it was a beautiful life we shared together.
Then one day, because of one of the meds he was taking we learned later, he began to have difficulty speaking in a loud voice. The doctor began a regimen of infusion therapies. But it seemed to get worse, not better. The nurse was concerned. Then one night, he collapsed in the bathroom. An ambulance rushed us to the hospital, but he slipped into coma. A few weeks later he passed away. I've got a lot to say about this in a future blog post, but it is worthwhile to mention something about those last days. I sat with him day and night. In what became his last night on this earth, I visited the local public radio station. The announcer for the late night gay programming arranged for us to deliver a special tribute to Skip. The nurses put the radio beside his ear so he could hear. There we played a favorite song he had actually the songwriter with saying "I'll be there for you." The nurses later said a tear formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek. When I got home, the phone was ringing. It was the hospital. The nurses told me the time had come. I rushed to the hospital. Holding his hand, I quietly told him how much I loved him. "I love you so much, and if it were possible for you to return, no one would be happier than I. But it seems it is time to go. You have my blessing my beloved, and I'll be okay." Okay I lied about that last part. His eyes were open, and though he did not have the strength to speak, he followed me about the room. With him I sat the next several hours, wiping his brow, holding his hand and loving him with all my heart. Then he breathed his last.
What a blessing to have known such love. I defy anybody to tell me that this spiritual gift applies to me any less than it does for anybody else. Healing did not happen overnight, but I did get better. The memories now are imbued with the soft glow of time. The love remains just as true, even as it is with Robin. Love is like that you know.
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