Straight to Gay: How a Stroke turned one man Gay

by Chris Birch

  With the same speed that I had reached Penarth pier I left it and made my way back to the station and boarded a train home. For the first time in weeks I had some purpose and it felt good. I opened my flat door in a hurry, strode towards the bathroom cabinet and drank the rest of the liquid morphine that was left in the bottle. Then I grabbed a box of painkillers and without hesitation, greedily swallowed every tablet. A pang of excitement burnt in my stomach. When I had heard about people who committed suicide I assumed it was something they had planned but I was just doing it. I almost felt proud of myself for being brave enough to take that step. I moved into the sitting room, slumped onto the sofa and waited. Instead of feeling upset I was just resigned to death, numbed by my sadness I willed the sleepiness to come.

  That was my life then, I thought with finality, that was it.

  My eyes begun to feel heavy and my jaw slacked, my body started to slow down and each muscle relaxed. But then I heard a loud click.

  ‘Hiya.'

  I fought the drowsiness that had now enveloped my body and looked up, Tracey’s face was smiling back at me. What’s she doing here? I thought. She caught sight of my expression and her smile dropped.

  'What’s wrong?' she said.

  Her eyes widened and she quickly moved towards me.

  I went to reply but couldn’t, my body had fallen into a stupor, it suddenly felt like I was in a dream. My body fell limp, my eyes focused on the terrified look on Tracey’s face and then closed. The next thing I knew my whole body was shaking. I blinked my heavy eyes open and Tracey was laying on top of me. I realised the shaking sensation was coming from my chest, where she was pushing with heavy force as she tried to perform CPR.

  ‘Chris, what have you done?’

  My head rolled and I looked up to her eyes. I felt myself go again, sleep was stealing me away and not even the manic jolts from Tracey could keep me awake.

  When I came around again I was blinded by bright white light. For a moment it felt like I was back in my bedroom, after having the stroke, with Mum at my bedside. But instead of the silence of our family home there was a constant beeping noise.

  My head was groggy, my limbs felt heavy and my mouth was dry. Where am I? I wondered. I swallowed and tasted the familiar chalky painkillers and then remembered what I had done.

  I opened my eyes and was greeted by Dad’s pained expression.

  ‘Chris.’

  Dad touched my arm.

  A dark haired man with a white jacket appeared at my side.

  'You’ve had a close call Chris, you’re lucky to be alive,' he said seriously.

  ‘If your friend hadn’t of come when she had and called an ambulance you wouldn’t be here,’ he warned.

  I nodded but my head ached when I moved it.

  'You’re probably very tired, sleep it off and we will have a chat when you wake,’ he said.

  My eyes were still heavy and with little effort I fell back to sleep.

  The second time I came around things were less blurry. Dad was still at my bedside, he looked shattered.

  ‘Hi Mate.’

  Dad smiled awkwardly.

  ‘Hi.’

  I suddenly felt embarrassed about what I had done.

  ‘The doctor has said you can go home soon, you just need to get checked over by the psychiatrist.’

  He was scanning the floor as he spoke, too emotional to look into my eyes.

  Half an hour later the psychiatrist was at my bedside, he had pulled the curtains around me closed and sat opposite me with a clipboard and pen.

  'So, why do you think you did this?' he asked.

  'I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up,' I replied honestly.

  The psychiatrist’s face stayed neutral.

  'How do you feel now?' he asked quickly.

  'I feel a bit stupid and I want to go home,' I sighed.

  'Has something happened? To make you feel like you had no way out?'

  I couldn’t help but smile. Has something happened?

  'Where do I start? I had a stroke, turned into a completely different person, lost my job, my family rejected me, I ended up homeless….I could go on..'

  I reeled off each event routinely, like it was a shopping list.

  They psychiatrist wrote something down on his piece of paper.

  'Chris, that’s a lot to cope with on your own, have you ever spoken to anyone professionally?' he asked.

  The acknowledgement of what I had been through suddenly made me emotional, my eyes stung with tears but I fought to contain them, I wanted to show him that I was okay to leave.

  ‘No, I’ve just tried to forget about it,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, that’s obviously not working.’

  I nodded, it wasn’t like I could argue with him.

  After spending the day in hospital the doctor finally gave me the all clear to go home, reassured by Dad’s promise to check on me regularly.

  I was grateful Dad was there but felt awkward around him. He wasn’t one to speak about his feelings. Dad was a traditional type of bloke, he expressed himself through pats on the back and father-son trips to the pub. But it was obvious that he had been knocked by my suicide attempt, he seemed on edge and vulnerable somehow. Dad offered to drive me home and as we left the hospital carpark I wondered how to break the silence between us.

  It was a typical April day, blobs of rain sat on the windscreen from an earlier shower and dark blue clouds hung ominously over the motorway as we drove onto it.

  'Looks like it might rain,' I said.

  But Dad looked deep in thought, I wasn’t sure if he had heard me because his face hadn’t flinched.

  'I said, it looks like it might rain.’

  With his hand still tightly gripped on the steering wheel, Dad looked at me quickly then focused back on the road in front of him.

  'Don’t ever do that again Son,’ he said.

  Now it was my turn to stare ahead and fall silent. I was ashamed of what I had put him through.

  'I’m serious. I can’t go through this again, don’t ever, ever do that again. I just, I can’t bear it,' he said.

  'I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can’t outlive my kids. If you have a problem, if there is anything wrong, just call me, I can fix it.’

  'I’m sorry. You’re right, it was stupid, I promise I will never do that again.’

  I kept my eyes firmly on the horizon, I couldn’t look at him.

  Dad stayed silent, I worried he was still angry at me but when I turned I saw a tear on his cheek. It wasn’t like him to get emotional, he never cried. As if taking a solemn vow I focused on Dad’s face so that I would remember it. In that moment I knew I had to concentrate on making my life better, I had made a promise to my Dad and I was going to keep it.

  When we got back to my flat I noticed that the bathroom cabinet had been ransacked, every painkiller had been removed so I couldn’t do anything silly again.

  The next day Tracey came to my flat, I hadn’t seen her since that brief moment of consciousness when she had tried to save my life. I looked at her sheepishly as I opened the front door.

  'Come here you,' she said.

  She opened her arms out into a big hug which she quickly swept me into. It felt good to have human contact, to feel another warm body cuddling mine.

  'You gave us a right scare,’ she tutted.

  'Don’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson. Dad’s had a chat with me,' I said.

  Tracey looked relieved.

  ‘Yeah? Well that’s good. You’ve got plenty of people who love you Chris, you just need to realise that.’

  I nodded and Tracey gave me another hug before she pushed past me into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. I sunk into the sofa. I felt exhausted and completely shell-shocked, the severity of what I had nearly done was only just weighing down on me.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Must be Dad I thought and let Tracey open the door.

  ‘Oh hello, is this….i
s Christopher here?’

  A wave of nausea instantly hit me as I recognised the voice, I knew it very well, although I hadn’t heard it for some time.

  'Er who are you?' Tracey said.

  I stayed on the sofa dumbstruck, I was too scared to get up and almost didn’t believe what I had heard. Maybe it’s not her, maybe it just sounds like her, I thought.

  ‘I’m his mother.’

  The words shook me from my tiredness, what is she doing here? I thought.

  Then she appeared in front of me, awkwardly standing in the entrance to the sitting room next to a very stern looking Tracey. Tracey knew how badly Mum had treated me and looked like she wanted to pounce on her.

  'Chris, your mother’s decided to show up.’

  Tracey looked at me with raised eyebrows then swept past Mum back into the kitchen. Out from behind Mum’s shadow I saw my mum’s Mum appear. Seeing Mum didn’t spark any emotion in me at all but when I saw my Nan’s face I felt a pang of affection. Mum sat down on the sofa, she didn’t greet me, or, give me a hug, but balanced nervously on the side of the seat, Nan followed suit and sat beside her, she looked anxious.

  'Your Dad called me, he told me what you did and said I should come,' she said. Her voice was totally detached of emotion, like a robot.

  ‘He said I should come’. I thought over her words. So she didn’t even want to come and see me? Dad has made her.

  I tried to think of something to say and battled not to let out what I was thinking. This happened because of you, you made me feel like I didn’t deserve to live. I would never have ended up homeless if it wasn’t for you. It’s all your fault.

  Despite everything, she was my mother and I couldn’t bring myself to be unkind to her, so, I stayed quiet. Mum looked unnerved by my silence. It seemed unnatural that she hadn’t greeted me with a hug, that she wasn’t sat next to me, stroking my arm, telling me everything was going to be okay. Even from the sofa opposite, where she had chosen to sit, I could smell the familiar scent of her perfume. She smelled and looked just like Mum but acted like a complete stranger. I searched her face for some resemblance of the woman who had nursed me back to health after the stroke, who had brought me up but she wasn’t there. Nan’s face looked frozen, as if she wasn’t sure what to do, or, say.

  ‘It was a silly thing to do,’ Nan finally said.

  I wasn’t sure how to react.

  'You...well...you shouldn’t have done that Christopher,’ Mum chided.

  Her emphasis on the word ‘that,’ riled me. I shouldn’t have done that but maybe I should have just disappeared? I thought. You don’t have any right to tell me what I should do.

  Mum shuffled around on the sofa, the leather squeaked with each movement and then Tracey suddenly appeared with a tray of cups.

  ‘Here you go.’

  Tracey shoved a cup towards Mum’s hands before putting my nan’s drink on the table next to her. She placed my tea at my feet then sat down next to me.

  ‘We’ve all been very worried about him,’ Tracey said.

  I looked at her and noticed her eyes fixed on Mum.

  ‘Well, like I said, you shouldn’t have done it Christopher,’ Mum said.

  It almost seemed like she was annoyed.

  I studied her like she was a rare species. I watched her cast her eye over my flat, at the empty bookcase and secondhand curtains. She was judging me. Then Mum folded her arms, like she was waiting at the bus stop, it was clear she didn’t want to be there, she was just ticking off some kind of duty. Nan copied her body language, it was an uncomfortably awkward situation for all of us. There were so many things I wanted to say and ask Mum but I was too exhausted and I knew, deep down, she would never be able to give me the answers I needed. Nothing she said could undo what she had done to me.

  ‘We better get back, thanks for the tea,’ Mum said.

  She passed the cup to an increasingly irritated Tracey and signalled to my Nan that it was time to leave. Then in one swift movement she was out the door, closely followed by Nan.

  ‘Well she’s got a bloody cheek hasn’t she?’ Tracey bellowed as soon as she door had closed.

  She’s probably just annoyed I didn’t finish off the job, I thought.

  It was a bizarre end to a very odd day and the weirdest part was that I didn’t really feel anything when I saw Mum, it was like I was numb. But that night, tucked up in bed, as I thought back over the day, a strong feeling came over me. I’m not going to be beaten by this, I thought, I’m better than that.

  My relationship with Dad was great but I worried that when he found out I was gay he would turn his back on me. I didn’t want any more secrets, if I was going to make a fresh start I needed to tell him the truth. Later that week Dad popped over for a cup of tea, he made some excuse but I knew he was checking up on me.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you Dad,’ I said.

  My voice wavered with nerves, I rested my back on the kitchen cupboards to steady myself.

  Dad nodded patiently.

  ‘Look, there is something I haven’t told you, about why me and Mum fell out…’ I started.

  Dad took a deep breath and gave me a knowing look.

  ‘You know how the stroke has made me different? Well there’s a big difference I haven’t told you about…’ I said.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s going to sound crazy but I’m gay,’ I blurted and then bit my lip nervously.

  Dad chuckled to himself and took a sip from his drink.

  He’s going to tell me I’m wrong, I thought.

  I waited for a exaggerated facial expression of some kind but it didn’t come.

  ‘I know mate,’ he said with a smile.

  My mouth fell open and then relaxed into a wide grin, I was not expecting that.

  ‘What do you?….how do you?’

  ‘Your Nan told me months ago mate, I’ve known for some time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because it makes no difference, doesn’t matter to me, you’re still my son.’.

  Dad then grabbed his keys from the side.

  ‘Fancy a pint?’ he asked.

  I nodded back and followed him out of the door, glad he was in front of me so he couldn’t see the big goofy grin on my face.

  Part Three

  Chapter Seventeen: Rebuilding

  I took a clump of gel, squinted at my reflection in the mirror and carefully patted flyaway strands of hair into place. I checked the front, then the back, of my hair before I nodded with satisfaction and left the bathroom. After the stroke I had shaved my hair. Because of the pressure inside my head I would find myself tugging at my locks in frustration, I shaved it off so there was nothing there to pull. When it grew back I had a new sense of pride in how it looked. It wasn’t just my hair, my whole appearance was more important to me than it had ever been.

  The stroke had taken away my appetite because of the pain I was in and after that, when I was homeless and low on money, I couldn’t afford to eat very much. I had gone from nineteen to eleven stone, I was the slimmest I had ever been as an adult. It wasn’t just my waistline that had shrunk, suddenly I had cheekbones and muscles too. So, now that I didn’t hate my reflection I took a bit more care in my appearance. I couldn’t go out and spend hundreds of pounds on new clothes, instead, I settled for styling my hair.

  What I lacked financially I made up for in love and support. Dad, Nan and Grandad had barely left my side since my suicide attempt and it had made me realise just how loved I was. Mum still played on my mind but the maternal gap she had left in my life had been temporarily filled by Tracey. She would invite me over for dinner and listen intently to my frustrations about Mum, offering a hug and a glass of wine when things got too much. I learnt to talk about things rather than let them bottle up.

  I hadn’t found a job but the strong work ethic Dad had instilled in me as a child was still there, not even the stroke was able to erase that. So, every morning, at 8am, I w
ould get dressed and start cleaning the flat, meticulously hoovering until every speck of dust had vanished. I may not have owned my home but with my new positive attitude I was determined to make it as nice as it could be. I repainted all the rooms, repaired the crumbling fireplace and even planted flowers in the shared garden.

  One afternoon, Dad and his fiance Karran popped over to visit me. Dad stood in the sitting room and admired the new fireplace I had fitted. Then gave me a nod of approval.

  Karran smiled.

  ‘He’s very proud of you, you know,’ she said, with a big grin.

  I scrunched my face up and looked at Dad who was pretending to check one of the kitchen cupboard doors that I had rehung. He hated overly-sentimental moments.

  ‘Why? I don’t have a job.’

  The idea someone could be proud of me was mind-boggling, I wasn’t doing anything.

  ‘Plenty of people would let that beat them but you don’t,’ Karran said.

  She was looking at Dad now who had his back to me.

  ‘He’s very proud of you,’ she repeated.

  Dad just nodded, Karran often said the things Dad found it hard to articulate.

  ‘You’re a hard worker Chris, always have been, always will be,’ Dad said.

  ‘I guess not everything about me has changed since the stroke then,’ I shrugged.

  Dad’s words spurred me on to find something more substantial to do with my time. I wasn’t going to find another job in the financial sector and I didn’t really want one, the bank had bored me before I had been made redundant. I needed something different. So, when a prospectus for a local college landed on my doormat one morning it gave me just the new direction I needed. I scanned the pages of the magazine and my eyes fell on hairdressing. I read the description for the course and in a italicised section they had a quote from one of their students.