Straight to Gay: How a Stroke turned one man Gay

by Chris Birch

  When we got to the house Simon was happy to see me, I introduced him to Oliver and we sat with him, watching TV for half an hour.

  'I’ll have to take you for a beer next time I’m down,' I suggested.

  Simon grinned back enthusiastically, he was sixteen so the mention of a pub was enough to interest him.

  'I would love that,' he said.

  'Alright, well, I’ll give you a call next week when Mum is back and we can sort something out.’

  When we drove away from Bargoed that evening I felt content, things were clearer, life was finally falling back into place.

  A few days after Mum had been due to get back from her honeymoon I hadn’t heard from her, so I sent her a text message.

  Hi Mum, Hope you had a great trip, would be lovely to see you soon, Chris X

  After a week with no response I wondered if something was wrong. I called her but always seemed to get the answer machine. So, one Sunday I drove over to her house. I parked the car, turned the radio off and by the time I got to the front of the house Mum was standing there holding onto the front door.

  'Hiya Mum,' I said, cheerily.

  But Mum’s face looked stern, I noticed another figure suddenly appear in the doorway behind Mum. It was Derek.

  'Everything ok?' I asked.

  'No Chris,' Mum snapped.

  I suddenly realised she was standing in the doorway so that I couldn’t get in the house, she was holding the door in her hands tightly using it as a barrier.

  What’s happened? I thought.

  At first I worried that maybe Simon was ill, or something had happened to the house.

  'You can’t come in,' Derek said coldly from over Mum’s shoulder.

  'Wh-at?' I stuttered.

  I was right in front of Mum now, standing on the doorstep, unwanted, like a door-to-door salesman.

  'You can’t bring people to the house Chris, you can’t just come here,' she said. Her face was animated with anger.

  People? I wondered. I stayed silent, too confused and shocked to respond.

  'I don’t want you bringing men here, in my house, with your brother.’

  Her words spat out quickly from her mouth as if they were an unwanted hair she was trying to remove..

  I realised what she meant, she was angry that Oliver had come to the house. But we hadn’t kissed, or, even held hands in front of Simon, as far as Simon knew he was just a friend.

  'But I didn’t do anything, I told Simon he was a friend.’

  My voice had become high-pitched as I realised I needed to defend myself.

  I searched her stern face for some kind of resemblance to Mum but it wasn’t there. The woman who had brought me up, wiped my tears, lovingly put me to bed when I was a child, she seemed to be gone. In her place was someone who looked like my mum but was cold, dead behind the eyes.

  'You can’t come here again Christopher, you aren’t welcome here.’

  The whole time I had stood there Mum hadn’t looked in my eyes, I could see her now scanning over my shoulder and wondered what she was searching for.

  'But Mum….what? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  The shock of seeing Mum be so ruthless towards me had left me slightly shaky, my mouth was dry. I searched my mind for something to say that would somehow bring Mum back to me, something that might a warm smile return to her stony face.

  'Don’t come to the house, you aren’t welcome here,' Mum repeated through gritted teeth. I noticed Derek’s hand on her shoulder.

  'Mum, please, don’t.’

  Mum continued looking past me, she quickly looked down the street and I realised she was checking to make sure none of the neighbours were listening, she was worried that I would embarrass her.

  The door closed more, I could only see half of Mum’s face now.

  'You need to go.’

  Then the door slammed closed. I stood and stared at the gold door knocker, stunned at what had just happened.

  She’s just blowing off steam, I told myself, there’s probably been some kind of misunderstanding.

  Obeying Mum and not wanting to make her more angry by causing a scene, I decided to drive down the road to Nan’s house. I hoped that if I gave Mum half-an-hour she would calm down. But when I got to Nan’s she was acting strangely too.

  'Hi Nan, can I come in?'

  'Alright then,' she said, briskly.

  I followed her through to the sitting room and noticed she hadn’t greeted me with a hug like she usually did.

  'I’ve just been over to Mum’s and she wouldn’t let me in.’

  'Yes, well, you shouldn’t bring your boyfriends to the house.’

  I looked at her, exasperated.

  'As far as Simon knows he is just a friend.’

  It suddenly hit me that Nan clearly knew I was gay, Mum must have told her but when? I wondered who else she had told. Did Dad know now too? I worried. Suddenly it hit me that my whole family were probably not talking to me, Dad included.

  'I can’t believe she’s doing this, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  But Nan turned away from me, it was strange to see a cold side of her that I had never known existed.

  'Well, she says you keep saying you are….you are….gay!'

  Her face had crumpled up a if the word had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  At that moment I realised that there was no point arguing. They weren’t annoyed with me because I had brought Oliver to the house, they were annoyed with me because I was gay.

  We both heard a car door bang and noticed Mum’s car in the street. Blimey, maybe she’s come to apologise, I thought, hopefully. But when Mum’s face appeared in the doorway it was stonier than before and she had two black bags in her arms.

  'I’ve packed some of your stuff, you can come and collect the rest another time,' she said, dumping the bags on the floor.

  Nan got up and disappeared into the hallway, leaving Mum and I alone in the room.

  'Mum, please, this is silly, I told you I was gay ages ago, why are you being like this?'

  'No, you said you might be and we agreed you would think about it.’

  Her eyes looked manic now, as if she had been possessed.

  'Me and Derek have had a chat and we don’t want you in the house anymore,' she said, she sounded annoyed that she kept having to repeat herself.

  Nan suddenly appeared next to Mum.

  'You have some coats upstairs, I can pack them up for you if you like?' Nan asked, her voice was oddly upbeat, as if she was doing me a favour.

  'What, why are you? I’m not going anywhere, you don’t need to give me all my clothes.’

  But neither Mum, or, Nan would look in my eyes. I realised everything I had said was falling on deaf ears, they weren’t listening to me. I felt so unwanted in that room that the only natural thing to do was to grab the bags, get in my car and leave. They will calm down, just give them time, I told myself, as I got up and walked towards the door.

  I turned to look at Mum, she was staring at the floor, Nan was playing with a button on her cardigan.

  'Okay, well, bye then,' I said, sadly.

  I walked out of the door, got into my car and pushed the bags into the passenger seat. I turned back to check the doorway of Nan’s house, I had expected one of them to run out after me but the door was firmly closed.

  On the drive back to Cardiff I tried to calm myself but my fury was mounting with every moment. How dare they treat me like that, I thought. As I drove at 90 mph down the dual carriageway the bright afternoon sun blinded my eyes and tested my already frayed nerves. I pulled at my sun visor but it wouldn’t come down. I thought of Mum and Nan, frustration made my fist clench and I tugged at it again, harder this time and the whole sun visor came off. In anger, I threw it out of the window and sped back to Cardiff. But by night time my temper had faded, in it’s place was sadness. I fought off tears and repeated the same script I had told myself all day, it will be fine, they just need time.

&nbs
p; The next day, as I ate breakfast, I heard the electronic tone of my phone ring out from my bedroom, I rushed to get it and looked down at the screen. It said, Mum. She’s going to say sorry, I thought to myself. I pressed the green answer button, relieved that the whole ordeal was going to be over.

  'Hi Mum,' I said warmly.

  ‘Chris …’ she started. Her voice was cold, almost mechanical, like a robot.

  'I’ve left the rest of your things in the supermarket car park, you can get them from there.'

  She spoke plainly, as if she was ordering a cup of tea at a cafe. It was my mum’s voice, but the tone was so unfamiliar, like a stranger. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find anything to say. Her words reverberated through my body again and again like an echo. I tried to process what she had said and then shook myself into saying something, anything.

  'What... er... what do you mean?'

  I wanted to ask so much more than that but, paralysed with shock, it was all I could muster. She repeated the same sentence.

  'The rest of the stuff that you had at the house, I’ve bagged it up and I’m going to leave it in the corner of the car park, you can get it from there, you aren’t welcome in our house anymore.'

  Before I could pull myself together and respond, the phone line went dead. My hands were clammy, my eyes stung with tears. A burning sensation of anger, confusion and disbelief amalgamated together until it was a ball of energy, sitting in the pit of my stomach, getting bigger with every second.

  She’s bluffing, I told myself, she would never do that to you. It’s Mum, she loves you. Those words had a cooling effect, like a treatment for indigestion, they pacified the whirl of emotions that were ripping through me.

  I didn’t believe she would do it, but I drove to the car park she had mentioned anyway, just to check. As I pulled into the car park I could see a pile of bin bags piled up in the corner, next to the back of the shop.

  That’s just rubbish, I told myself, she wouldn’t just leave your stuff there.

  This is Mum. Deep down she loves me, I thought. But then I noticed her car, next to the bin bags. I drove closer and saw Mum pulling more bags out of her car. I parked my car and quickly walked towards her.

  'What are you doing?' I questioned, my upset had turned to frustration.

  But Mum ignored me, she threw one last bin bag on top of the pile and then opened her car door. I looked down and noticed Nan was sitting in the passenger seat, completely still, she hadn’t even looked up at me.

  'That’s all your things, please don’t come to the house again.’

  With that, Mum Mum got in the car and closed the door. As I stood in disbelief, Mum’s car reversed and quickly disappeared out of the car park.

  Some part of me still didn’t believe it. Mum wouldn’t do this to you, she loves you, I reasoned. She might be angry but this, this is madness. Maybe there’s just rubbish in the bags? I thought. Some part of me refused to accept the obvious truth, instead, my mind invented another scenario to try and make sense of things. She’s just trying to teach me a lesson, I decided.

  My thoughts were so convincing that when I ripped open a bin bag, sure rubbish would spill out, I was shocked at what was in front of me. Sat on the dirty tarmacked car park next to my foot was a squishy white book. Swirly writing spelt out the words: ‘Baby Boy’. That’s mine, I realised in total disbelief, that’s my baby book.

  A familiar voice rang in my head. I remembered looking at the book as a child, with my mum. I turned the pages and rested on a photo.

  'This is the first picture we took of you,' she would explain.

  I stared at the pink baby in the picture. Mum always told me how beautiful I was when I was born. She had told me that she had loved me from the moment she had met me. Now, none of that seemed like it could have been true.

  Medals I had won at school, baby clothes, old teddies that had decorated the shelves of my bedroom at home, they were all there, thrown together, discarded. I was just another of these objects, unwanted, unloved, part of one of my Mum’s massive clear-outs when she tidied the house. She had no use for me, or my things, anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen: Crash

  Tis the season for love and understanding, Merry Christmas, everyone.

  As the Christmas songs blared out from the radio I plonked the small turkey crown in front of me, it was the smallest one I could find. Unsurprisingly, the supermarket didn’t sell turkey’s small enough for one. I’ll be eating this for a week, I realised, as I pushed the baking tray into the oven.

  'Right, that’s done,' I said to myself, 'what’s next?'

  My eyes fixed on two potatoes stacked on the counter at the end of the kitchen. I’ll peel the potatoes, that was always my job, I thought, remembering happier Christmases.

  Mum hadn’t spoken to me since that day in the car park, I had called her several times but just got her answer machine and Simon wasn’t answering my calls either. Oliver and I had gone our separate ways, it was never going to be a long term thing but it meant my life was suddenly very empty. So, I was spending Christmas on my own. With nobody to buy presents for I had no need to go shopping, or, buy wrapping paper. I didn’t need the brightly packaged Christmas crackers and family-sized boxes of chocolates. It seemed silly to put up a Christmas tree, or, any decorations just for myself and with the fear that most of my family wouldn’t be speaking to me once they had spoken to Mum, I didn’t need to buy Christmas cards either. Like an outsider standing out in the cold, looking through a window at a family opening presents, I was locked out of Christmas. Rather than ignore the holiday season all together I had bought the ingredients for Christmas dinner. I had hoped cooking would take my mind off my family rejecting me but everything about Christmas Day brought back memories of happier times. Even peeling the potatoes.

  Christmas had always injected our family home with more happiness that it would have all year around. Mum, Dad, Simon, Nan and I would spend the day together, eating as much as we could, watching TV specials and attempting to build whatever complicated toys Simon and I had been given. But before all that came the organised chaos that was Christmas dinner.

  'Son, I promise you, one day you are going to thank me for teaching you to cook,' Dad had chided as he passed me a slippery brown potato from a pot of water.

  At ten years old it was hard to imagine but it turned out, twelve years later, cooking dinner for myself on Christmas day, he was right. Back then, I had watched him in awe as he expertly curved his knife and then unraveled the strip of brown skin in one.

  'You are so good at it, why don’t you do it and I can play with my toys,' I had cheekily pleaded at the time.

  Reminiscing brought a smile to my face momentarily, before the memory faded and I came back to the present, being alone on Christmas day.

  I miss Dad, I thought.

  He had text to wish me a happy Christmas but with Nan, Mum and Simon not talking to me I guessed he had probably heard I was gay and wanted to avoid me too. He’s probably just being polite, I told myself. I didn’t want to push him to see me and face being rejected by a second parent.

  I sliced my potatoes in quarters, sprinkled salt on top and carefully placed them into a roasting tray full of sizzling, goose fat. I looked up at the clock, 12pm, dinner will be ready for 1.30pm, I thought. I suddenly realised that, without meaning to, I had worked to the same schedule that Mum normally did. I Imagined what they were doing at that moment.

  ‘Simon you are so lazy, help me.’

  Mum’s voice rung in my ears, she would be wearing a sparkly jumper and frantically tidying the scrunched up wrapping paper. Simon, dressed smartly in a new shirt, would be concentrating on a computer game, looking up every now and then to answer Mum. Sat on the sofa, Nan would be trying to keep the peace, holding a huge box of chocolates out to anyone who walked past her. Simon and I used to sneakily eat most of them before our dinner. We would hide the wrappers back in the box so that when Mum went to eat one later all that was left was t
he disgusting coffee flavoured chocolates and a box full of shiny paper. I took a deep breath and tasted the familiar salty tears that had run from my eyes to my mouth.

  God, I miss them all.

  It was the fourth time I had cried that day, each time I tried to pull myself together, told myself, it’s fine, it will all blow over. But being excluded from Christmas day seemed so final, like there was truly nobody in the whole world who loved me, I was utterly alone and I still couldn’t understand why.

  Mum hates me because I’m gay? Should I try and not be gay? I wondered but I knew it was impossible. Since the stroke it had taken me almost a year to work out who I was, I couldn’t go backwards.

  Come on Chris, pull yourself together, it will all be fine, she will calm down, this time next year you’ll be back spending Christmas with the family, I told myself and wiped away my tears. But deep down I knew it was a lie, that I was kidding myself, that something had died between Mum and I that could never be brought back.

  After that sad Christmas alone I tried to concentrate on my job, I hoped it would take my mind off missing Mum. But fast forward a few months, to February 2007 and I had suffered another major blow.

  The UK was in the grasp of the most serious financial crisis since The Great Depression of 1929. Irresponsible lending by worldwide banks had lead to people defaulting on their loans and as a result banks had lost billions. Every newspaper and I had seen in the past four weeks had warned about the credit-crunch and on the news I had seen long queues of people outside banks, waiting to draw all their money out. At first, I had hoped it would all blow over, that it was an exaggerated story that the press were peddling to sell papers. But then, when I was called in to my managers office one morning, I discovered the financial crisis was going to affect everyone, including me.