Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church

by William Bruce

  James chuckled for the first time in days because the ward sister had perceived something others would never understand. From her point of view here was a patient with his partner dealing with a serious illness. She could not see as yet, all the baggage of other human relationships surrounding them.

  “Just enjoy each other,” was her final bit of advice, as she pulled back the curtains, to reveal again the ward and the outside world. No sooner had she walked around the corner when a familiar voice boomed.

  “But I have come to see my son, so you have to let me in!” Unmistakeably it was Mumsie. She appeared clutching a can of diet coke and a box of chocolate biscuits. “What are you doing here, I thought you had gone home,” were her only words to James as she swept past and gave her son an enveloping hug.

  “Careful Mumsie, I just had some blood taken,” came a muffled cry.

  Immediately Mumsie stepped back, not liking the sight of blood and wondering if any had leaked out onto her bright white T-shirt. She sat herself down in the chair where only a moment before James had been sitting.

  “Well, my little pup,” she started “they are all still out there, the whole family and they won’t let them in. That ward sister is a right cow!”

  “Mumsie!” said Terry in a voice of some disapproval

  “Well, she is. They have travelled miles to see you today. They can’t just sit out there all the time. They are your family,” she complained.

  James took the opportunity to say he was just off to the café, and bent over Terry to give him a kiss.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that in here,” said Mumsie angrily. “People won’t like it and it is Terry who will suffer.”

  But a wink from Terry told James to ignore the comment, and with a quick good-bye to Mumsie, James was heading out of the ward. This time it was not a retreat. He had no intention of going to the café, and was thinking of where else he could go, when he quickly turned a tangerine corner straight into the fast walking figure of Victor.

  “Careful,” Victor said not realising who he had almost knocked over. “Ah, it is you. How is he?”

  “Ready for a sleep I think. His mother is with him.”

  “Good. Mumsie will cheer him up. That is what he needs. I don’t like this place. It is too big. We are going to try and get him transferred to a private hospital, at least,” and he added without lowering his voice or any sense of shame, “there won’t be as many black doctors there.”

  James looked around to see if anyone could have heard the comment and was relieved the corridor was empty.

  “I am off home now to get some things he needs,” James said making as to walk on. There was no way he wanted a conversation with Victor, or indeed to suffer any more of his boorish arrogance.

  “Yes. Bring him some clean shirts, and those shoes I bought him.”

  James stepped up his pace as he headed for the lift. ‘I am not your bloody house-boy' he thought to himself, but then cursed for not being able to say it out loud. It would be a long journey home to the old farmhouse, and he knew when he got there it would seem very empty. In the first week with Terry at the local hospital the distance between them had been tolerable, but now they were nearly two hour’s journey apart. However, it was not just about mileage, for something else had changed. James was beginning to realise the old Terry would never be coming home, and certainly not the same healthy man who had lived there merely a few days before. He didn’t want this thought to take hold and his mind was busy with practical concerns and things to do, the washing and sorting of clothes. But in the hours of driving he had plenty of time to think. The ward sister had said they should make the most of life while they could, and she had almost said prepare for the difficult days ahead. James had reached a stage where he could only respond with his emotions. All his hopes, all the things he had dared to dream, were beginning to wither. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he drove, and in the privacy and vacuous cell of the car he howled in despair.

  Chapter 13

  After three weeks in the main hospital, a biopsy to confirm the dreadful diagnosis, and the commencement of treatment, which could only be palliative, Terry insisted on going home. He was very week, hardly able to walk, and the long journey back to the old farmhouse was arduous and painful. However, once home he visibly relaxed, so pleased to be back amongst familiar surroundings, and yet noticing how everything looked different. It was not just the signs of spring in the garden or the longer days and milder weather. In the month he had been away since that fateful Friday his whole world had changed. He longed to return to a time before that day, to be free of the demon invader in his brain.

  The days at home always began early. Sleep was fitful, quite literally so. James became used to cuddling a man in bed who every so often went through a series of shakes and shudders. They were either the aftershock of an earthquake or the portentous rumble of something about to happen. In the first few nights it kept him awake, but soon the sheer exhaustion meant he collapsed into sleep, however uneasy it might be.

  Early at first light Terry would wake, and if the mood took him, stagger with the help of his walking stick across the landing to the spare bedroom. There sitting at a small open window he would enjoy a cigarette. From this vantage point he surveyed the whole garden, bathed in the early morning sun. It was a beautiful scene of tranquillity: soft green tones, verdant growth and the promise of new life. Cruelly the hope of the season jarred against the growing realisation of his own demise. In the silence of the dawn he tried to pretend the horror was not happening, that there yet might be some cure, his treatment however harsh would work, and a miracle occur even to one as unbelieving as him. At one moment he was hopeful, half convinced by his own thoughts in the twilight, and at the next full of remorse and dread as the reality of his situation dawned upon him again. Finishing his cigarette he tossed the butt end out the window, quite out of character. He did not care where it landed, in the flowerbed or in the small pond. What did it matter?

  On one such early morning James came stumbling into the room, clad only in his T shirt.

  “There you are,” he said as he walked blindly across the floor. “Are you alright? I missed you when I woke up.”

  “I don’t know,” said Terry sombrely, after a silence. “Where will this all end?”

  “I’ve been thinking, why don’t we go away for a few days?” James suggested, almost as if he had been waiting to ask this for days. “Nowhere too far, and somewhere very comfortable, just to get away from everything, and everybody.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel like it,” said Terry staring out the window at two birds in the tree at the far end of the garden. Some creatures had such short lives and yet so few worries, he thought.

  “Shall I look something up, a special offer maybe, so that it won’t cost very much?” persisted James, with probably too much enthusiasm.

  Terry did not answer, but stood up and opened his arms to receive a hug. As he pressed James to himself, as he had done a thousand times before, a tear formed in each eye, and ran down his cheeks. Life was not meant to be like this. What had he done to deserve it? If only he could find a way to make it better.

  They stood there for some time locked in an embrace, each knowing that one day soon they might not be able to do this. For now, they held on to each other, thinking that no harm, no cruel force from without, and no disease from within, could destroy what they had. All for a minute or so they were safe.

  When they separated, James too had been crying, but stifled his tears for fear of upsetting Terry. He knew he had to be strong, for the sake of Terry’s well-being and for his own sake, because facing the abyss was terrifying.

  “Come on then,” James said with a broken voice. “You go back to bed and I will make us some breakfast.”

  The routine of the day had become fixed: breakfast in bed, followed by a shower and shave, which was so exhausting for Terry he went back to bed for another hour or so. This gave James the chance to ca
tch up on household jobs and to plan the day. Perhaps the nurse was due, or a friend was visiting, which allowed James to drive to the next village to the doctor, the chemist or the shop for essential supplies. Some friends brought cakes and pies, others brought flowers, but what they did best of all was to sit with Terry and chat. James usually left them alone to talk in private. So much of Terry’s life had become public property, his skull opened up for scrutiny, his ailments and bodily functions discussed, and the results of tests and observations written down, there was precious little that remained confidential. For someone as private as Terry this had been one of the greatest shocks of his illness.

  Today, Charles was calling in. He was on one of his trips to The Fens to inspect one of the old parsonages that needed to be sold, and he particularly liked this part of his job because there was money to be made in such transactions. James was no longer in touch with the church since he had signed the Compromise Agreement, and Charles was the only contact he had with something that had once filled his life. He didn’t mind the loss, as yet, for he had a new vocation, caring for Terry.

  “Hello, Terry,” Charles boldly announced from the bedroom door. “How are you today?”

  “Fine,” he replied propped up in bed with some new goose down pillows. When he saw Charles he had a rush of memories, of times in his life when there was no crisis, no pain or disablement.

  “A rough night?” he asked with a look of concern and worry across his forehead. It was his tactic, quite unconsciously, to begin with a positive greeting and quickly seek out the truth of how things really were. He sat and listened to what Terry had to say, patient for the pause when he might show him what he had brought. He also waited until he heard James’ car drive off on an errand to the doctor.

  “Victor sent you these,” said Charles as he proudly placed two packets of Terry’s favourite cigarette brand on the bed.

  “So kind, everyone is so kind,” Terry weakly replied. He looked tried.

  “He would to like to come and see you but it is difficult with that man around,” said Charles not holding back his disgust. Terry did not respond; he didn’t want to have this kind of conversation. “You know Victor loves you, I mean really loves you,” continued Charles pressing the case. “He would come and look after you if you wanted him to”.

  “James is very good you know,” Terry defiantly added.

  “But do you know what he gets up to when he goes out? Who is he talking to, and whose money is he spending?” asked Charles.

  Terry did not respond straight away. He felt a headache coming on.

  “Could you pass me my pills? I just need to take a pain killer.” Terry thought this would change the conversation.

  “You know we all love you Terry. And we have known you for so long. So many happy memories.”

  “You are so kind, everyone is so kind.”

  “Just one more thing which I mentioned last time. I know you are tired but it is imperative.” Charles was merciless in his determination.

  “I know, I know, Mumsie has been on to me about it as well,” answered Terry, to prove he was able to remember previous conversations. This was important to him, a way of clinging on to sanity.

  “Well,” started Charles, pausing before he went on. He needed to do this sensitively. “I have asked the solicitor to come round next week when the nurse is here. He is a friend of mine and he will do you a good deal. No extra charge for the home visit. We should have the whole thing sorted quickly.”

  “I am so pleased you have agreed to be an executor. I know I can trust you.” Terry’s words were beginning to slur. His eyes closed for a moment.

  “You have a snooze now,” said Charles patting Terry’s hand. “I will just wait here until James gets back.”

  The structure of the day hung on meal times. This had always been the case for Terry and James from the day they set up house together. Breakfast in bed, was followed by lunch in the kitchen about mid-day, tea at 4, often in the garden, and dinner at about 7, invariably in the dining room. It was a daily ritual neither was willing to compromise, and with Terry’s illness it could be, or even had to be maintained. It helped to define who they were: two gay men living together in a genteel but not extravagant lifestyle. Originally, they had naively imagined they would go on living like that for years, but now was not the time to change things.

  After Charles had gone, James set the kitchen table for a simple lunch of cheese on toast.

  “Is it my favourite?” asked Terry standing in the kitchen. He had been fortified by his morning nap but it had still taken him a great deal of time to negotiate the stairs and carefully with the help of the walking stick make his way to the back of the house.

  “As always, Cheshire cheese, black pepper and plenty of butter, just the way your Gran used to do it,” said James so pleased he had got to know the likes and dislikes of Terry, and the provenance of his idiosyncrasies.

  “I do like that,” said Terry, as he shuffled across the room and collapsed into the chair with a groan.

  Lunch was eaten in quiet. They discussed the garden and what needed doing, how the neighbours had been kind enough to cut the grass. They moved on to talk about antique clocks; those for sale on the internet that day. It had become a fixation for Terry, perhaps as yet another distraction, to start a collection of carriage clocks. He said everyone could have one when he died, although he never seemed to make any plans how the distribution would happen. His taste varied from the simple and undecorated non-chiming piece to one with elaborate baroque gilding that marked every quarter hour with a deep resonating gong. It was as if he wanted to claim every minute he was surviving, every tick, a cheat on death.

  “I am back off to bed,” announced Terry once lunch was over. “Could you help me up the stairs?”

  Following the afternoon snooze Terry might venture out into the garden, if the weather was fine. James observed from the kitchen window and saw a man twice Terry’s age, an old man standing on the path and prodding the flowerbeds with his stick. In a matter of weeks he had become a frail figure not worn out by years of experience and a full life, but rather, ‘distressed’, a term from the antique trade when a new piece of furniture is made to look old. For Terry this had been brought about by pain, disablement, and the imminence of death. Robbed of his future he had no treasury of past decades for which to be thankful.

  A district nurse came twice a week to check his medicines, in particular the powerful steroids which were helping to keep the tumour in check for the time being. She also supplied the morphine to ease the pain. James noticed that as the days and weeks progressed the dosage of both was increased, but even if Terry realised this he did not seem to care. The nurses also came to change his dressing on the biopsy wound on his head. It was only a small patch, towards the back, thankfully out of the sight of Terry when he looked in the mirror. It seemed to be taking a long time to heal, and every morning James was quick to replace the pillowcases stained with blood and pus. It was one of the things worrying James, but he couldn’t be sure, as with the medicines, whether Terry had noticed and was ignoring it.

  Volunteers came from the hospice as well, to sit for an hour or two giving James the opportunity to do a few jobs and spend time with his children. The professionalism of these visitors varied enormously. Some came with their own prejudices and concerns to eagerly share, and one was particularly forceful.

  “Those steroids, you know, they will do you no good,” she said as she proceeded with the therapeutic foot massage Terry had requested. As always he was a captive audience. “They will make you put on weight, and give you a moon face. What is more they will make you paranoid. Some of the people I visit have gone really strange.”

  Terry just smiled benignly and didn’t respond. She soon moved on to talk about something else. Her comments about paranoia just hung in the air, and neither Terry nor James wanted to talk about it. Perhaps by avoiding the subject it would never be an issue, they thought.

  A
nother volunteer had a very different approach. She was a retired neurology nurse, not phased by his ailment or the treatments. She sat with Terry listening to anything he wanted to say.

  “I think,” she tentatively suggested one afternoon. “It would be a good idea if you wrote something down. Why not write some letters to family and friends, to say how important they are to you.”

  “But I can’t write anymore,” he said weakly.

  “I will write and you can dictate.” She had done this before for other clients, and she knew the value of such letters when nature had taken its course.

  “I would like that,” Terry said with a smile. It was something he could do that had lasting value. This matters when time is running out.

  “When I come next week,” she went on in an efficient way, “I will bring some paper and a pen and you can tell me what to write.”

  After a month the biopsy wound had healed and Terry could start his radiotherapy. This involved a daily trip to the nearest hospital, five times a week for six weeks. Again over the period a routine emerged, in answer to a desperate need to find an order in the chaos of illness. They were up at 6am, ready to leave an hour and a half later. On the journey to the hospital at the same spot, as they passed a ruined farmhouse, Terry would take his chemotherapy pills. They liked the way everything had to be finely timed. To be most effective the pills needed to be in his system exactly an hour before the blast of radiation. Facing an illness beyond their control all their efforts focussed on such precision even if in the great scheme of things it probably mattered little.

  On arrival at the hospital car park Terry would open the car door, swing his legs, as best he could, to hang out of the car and light up a cigarette. This was in defiance of hospital regulations but Terry cared little for what he regarded as petty rules. His own needs were paramount, and what little pleasures he could get in life were sacrosanct. If anyone challenged him he would say, “I’ve got a brain tumour, so don’t talk to me about cancer!”