As I Lay Frying

by Fay Jacobs

  But the most important message I have concerns a piece of paper and peace of mind. It’s called a Medical Power of Attorney. Bonnie and I have always had our legal paperwork handy. They are the documents that show, in lieu of a marriage certificate, that we are life partners and next of kin. Having that piece of paper means that there’s no question that I’m the person the doctors consult, I’m the person with permission to visit Bonnie’s room at all hours, and, frankly, that our relationship deserves recognition on an equal footing with married patients and kin.

  Vanessa Redgrave did an HBO special where she played the long-time spouse of a woman who was hospitalized and their relationship was denied by hospital staff and her lover’s family. To me, that was a horror story worse than anything Stephen King has ever penned.

  When our own nightmare began, our legal paperwork (Medical Power of Attorney, Living Will, Durable Power of Attorney, etc.) was just back from our Delaware attorney’s office, having been redone since our move from Maryland. It was completed but not signed and notarized.

  In a scenario that is not yet, but may someday be funny, we had to call a notary public to the hospital emergency room to get the patient’s signature. There was Bonnie, hooked up to oxygen, morphine, and goodness knows what else and we’re asking her to sign on the dotted line.

  It was a tough sell getting her to believe I wasn’t coercing her to change the will. Seriously, the last minute legal mumbo jumbo added to her stress, but we really needed the signature so the hospital would know we were married. Not to mention that I’d be able to write checks from her business account to pay bills.

  I have to say, that even without the signed paperwork, Rehoboth’s hospital staff was, overall, sensitive to our situation. On a couple of occasions, though, I had to speak out. One of Bonnie’s doctors kept saying, “Well, your friend is very sick,” and “your friend this, and your friend that…” Finally, I had to say, as nicely as possible, “She’s not just my friend, she’s my partner.”

  When the hospital chaplain visited (now there’s a scary thing, too) and started with the “your friend” routine, I really had to set the record straight (so to speak). While everyone was as nice as can be, I think some sensitivity training is still in order for the hospital.

  One thing is true, though. At the hospital, when we saw other gay people in the elevators, delivering food trays, or working on staff—and there were many—they were very friendly and warm to us.

  Once Bonnie left Rehoboth and checked in at Annapolis, it was a little different. We made our relationship clear to the doctors and staff from the very beginning. Bonnie always starts with, “we’re partners of 18 years” hoping that the longevity adds credibility.

  While we’ve been warmly received (everything from “Oh…” and dropped eyes, to “Really? What’s your secret for a such a long relationship?”), it’s clear that they are not used to such openness here.

  In fact, we’ve spied lots of folks who made our gaydar twirl, but eye contact is usually avoided. The arrival of hordes of our visiting friends is probably good for this hospital’s growth and development.

  But the subject of being out is very important to this situation, too. I know that many, many people feel they cannot afford to be out of the closet at their jobs and with their employers. I’m so lucky that my employer and co-workers know my situation and have been nothing but supportive. I cannot imagine the unspeakable horror of going through a time like this while trying to keep your reason for absences and emotional turmoil a secret.

  As I said, everyone’s situation is different. And there are surely some cases where honesty may not be the safest policy. But I beg you all to assess your situation carefully and make sure it’s not internalized homophobia keeping you in the closet. Being open and honest may just save your sanity some day.

  So that’s the message. And please, please, whatever you do, consult an attorney and take care of the legal work needed to protect you, your partner, your possessions and your peace of mind.

  In the meantime, I hope Bonnie will be recuperating at home shortly. Until then, thanks for all the kind messages, support, flowers and care packages. And, by the way, the dogs are at the breeder’s home, happy to be visiting their biological parents. Thanks to all of you who inquired.

  Before now, we were always pretty sure we knew who our friends were, but it’s times like this when you really find out. We are truly blessed. We love you all.

  July 2000

  DAYS OF WHINE AND MORPHINE

  Saturday, July 8, 2 p.m. We thought we’d be home weeks ago. It’s now July 8 and Bonnie is still medically incarcerated, but we are starting to see a light at the end of the laparoscope.

  For all you ER fans, here’s the scoop: Following a week in the hospital at Beebe and three weeks in Annapolis, we may have the answer to the seemingly age-old question of what’s up with Bonnie’s platelets. Apparently she has an elevated Homocystene (or something) level, which could have, although nobody can say for sure, led her to infarct (a vaguely scatological sounding word, loosely translated to “turned into toast”) one kidney and her spleen.

  In the ensuing weeks, the doctors, in an effort to stay one step ahead of the HMO, took my girlfriend apart, one piece at a time, trying to find the culprit. As a result, she glows in the dark from drinking radioactive goo for CT scans and marrow biopsies, with the doctors having kept her uterus and ovaries as souvenirs (don’t ask).

  As we await parole, the medical team concurs that Bonnie could have a blood disease called Hyperhomocystenanemia. Hell, we’ve always known that Bonnie was a hyperhomo. Apparently it’s now official. If she’s got it, this disease is a one in a million thing—we couldn’t have won Powerball?

  But we’re relieved to find out that the condition is controllable by medication, blood thinners and diet. Wendy’s and Popeyes are in for a recession. And of course, no sharp objects for those on blood thinners. The yard sale for the power tools will begin shortly. Bonnie’s convinced that I’m enjoying this part of the fallout.

  Since we’ve been doing this hospital routine for over a month now, some things are clear. Mainly, if you sit in a chair next to a patient long enough, you will ossify and develop kennel cough.

  Bonnie’s been here so long the sixth floor nurses have made her their mascot. And we’re all afraid the HMO will have snipers posted downstairs when we finally leave.

  And we’ve been worried about the dogs. During one of Bonnie’s very few teary moments, she told my parents she feared the dogs would forget her. My folks assured her that their dog always gave them the same jubilant greeting and never knew whether they’d been gone for a six week vacation or just out with the trash. That made us both feel much, much better. But I’m sure our two are, as we speak, plotting their revenge. I never liked our carpets anyway.

  Another lesson learned is that truth can be stranger than fiction. In an ironic twist, our friend Dorothy, at whose home I’ve been staying on Kent Island, had a severe intestinal ailment two weeks ago and also wound up in this hospital for surgery.

  In a move that would have been called contrived if it had happened in a sitcom, we managed to get Dorothy assigned as Bonnie’s roommate. While it was bad that Bonnie and Dorothy had to be here, it was good that they were here together to cause laughter and mischief in the self-proclaimed Lesbian Ward.

  Miraculously, amid the horrors, there were some amusing moments in quarantine. Along with wonderful cards, flowers and balloons sent to Bonnie, one well-wisher provided a gift item that looked like a pager. Push its button, it growls “F**K You” or “A**hole!” That little gem may have been responsible for the transfer of Bonnie’s first roommate.

  But it was the morphine incident that really rocked the hospital. Following surgery, a seriously delirious Bonnie suddenly woke, reached out, grabbed the person nearest the bed and gushed, “I love you Faysie!!! I love you!!” Unfortunately, I was across the room at the time. Reach out and touch someone, indeed. It took two years off
that nurse’s life.

  And our buddies on the other side of the room would want you to know they got the biggest kick out of watching a red-faced, mortified me try to keep our drugged out patient from spilling more beans. I stood by, trying to keep her mouth filled with soothing ice chips, a thermometer or whatever else I had in my arsenal, but to no avail. “Faysie, I missed you! Come here!” the wild-eyed one demanded.

  By this time, Dorothy was trying not to split her stitches and a variety of onlookers burst out laughing with every fresh declaration of morphined madness. “Are you laughing at me???” Bonnie would ask, eyes rolling back into her head. Us, laughing? We were howling.

  Finally, at a moment when, for the first time in weeks, the hospital corridor was completely quiet, Bonnie rejected all my efforts to button her lip and shouted, “Does anybody care if I’m queer???”

  As it turned out, no. Despite the post-op ruckus, a regular pride parade of visitors (some smuggling small dogs in backpacks), and lots of commotion, I think we provided a real eye-opener for some of the nurses and technicians. We made new friends, and, I think, pt a good foot forward for diversity.

  Here comes the doctor for a pow-wow. Over and Out.

  Saturday, 4 p.m. and packing: Out, indeed! We’re sprung! The freedom riders are heading to Rehoboth.

  Sunday, July 9, 9 p.m.: It’s fantastic to be home. The patient is doing great and she’s thrilled to be in clothes that meet in the back; the dogs greeted us as if we’d just taken a really long trash run, and the four of us have been curled up on the sofa. Friends have called or stopped by all day, and we’re holed up and catching our breath.

  I know that real life will start to intrude by tomorrow, with plans for Bonnie’s recuperation, continuing doctors appointments and all the emotional and logistical ramifications of this unexpected six-week ordeal. But for now, we’re so happy to be back home, back at CAMP, back at the beach, and back among friends. That’s all we need to make the rest more than manageable.

  Cheers to you all from Schnauzerhaven in Food Lion Estates. There really is no place like home.

  August 2000

  REALITY BITES

  I accidentally caught a glimpse of that reality TV show Big Brother last night. Ohmygod. This has got to be the stupidest, most annoying, harebrained ratings grabber yet. Since Survivor, of course. What are these things and why is America watching?

  One perfectly sensible friend of mine sat glued to the TV watching a Big Brother participant stare into the one-way bathroom mirror and be videotaped brushing his tongue. EEEWWWW.

  In case you’ve been watching more sophisticated and educational shows like Hollywood Squares, let me fill you in. On Survivor, a squad of diverse, fame-and-fortune seeking exhibitionists get stranded on a desert island along with hundreds of producers, video cameras, sound engineers and catering trucks.

  Only the survivors have to forage food for themselves on the island and survive by eating bugs, rats and the occasional frond. Then, amid bickering, rat-eating and back-stabbing, they gather around the campfire, sing Puff the Magic Dragon and decide which person is the most annoying and should be sent home to the city. Frankly, this is not a new concept. I played this game in the 1960s at summer camp.

  On Big Brother, it’s the same idea, only the cadre of obnoxious people are stranded inside a badly decorated house, have to survive on what’s in the fridge and have their every waking and sleeping moment videotaped. As the housemates sit around deciding which of the annoying people is so super-annoying that they should be banished, teary-eyed participants admit their fear of being bounced with phrases like “I wanted to make my parents proud.” Too late, bunky.

  Meanwhile, oh-so-serious anchor persons interview the parents and spouses of the prospective losers as if they were Jack the Ripper or Yasser Arafat. Then, relationship counselors tell the audience at home exactly what kind of neurosis the banishee has that made the person ripe for expulsion.

  Has the CBS brass lost their minds entirely? That flipping sound you hear is the late great Edward R. Morrow, spinning in his grave.

  I particularly liked when the aforementioned relationship counselor described a video moment when Jordon confides in slut-puppy Jamie. Good grief, she’s confiding in him and six million viewers. It’s absurd. Apparently, sometime in September, when the next to last occupant has been evicted, the sole house-mate left standing will walk away with $500,000. A half a million isn’t enough to live with those scuzzballs and their live chickens (really, they have chickens.)

  Can you imagine if they produced the show with all gay men and called it Big Sister? First off, they’d have to make sure the house was stocked with politically correct Vodka, fabulous window treatments and a fully-equipped kitchen, right down to lemon zesters and pie weights. Those boys would be so busy partying and entertaining, they’d never have time to vote anybody out. In fact, it could become the biggest circuit party of all time. Quick, tell CBS.

  Conversely, a house full of gay girls would find the house-mates, their cats, and their dogs holding interminable tribal councils to decide who would be banished. Actually, in our version the girls could send half their number to the boys’ house to fix all the broken stuff while the boys deport six sous chefs to cook a decent meal and bring some feng shui to the girl’s quarters.

  Frankly, if CBS wants a pilot combining Big Brother and Survivor all they have to do is come to my house. With Bonnie confined to quarters recuperating from her various arterial adventures and the dogs just back from a month in the country, our own dysfunctional family could be a ratings grabber. It’s banal enough. I mean all the elements are here.

  We’ve been surviving by foraging for food. While Bonnie was hospitalized, a band of short order cooks dropped by the house and stashed stuff in our freezer. Every night at dinner time we play a version of “I wonder who left this stuff and what do we do with it?” Sometimes it takes three or four phone inquiries before we find the matching chef and re-heating instructions for the mystery meat. But let me tell you, there have been some damn fine meals come out of that Tupperware. Down the road we’re going to have a reverse Tupperware party, where people show up to claim and burp their kitchenware.

  As for the diverse types confined to the house, they are us. We’ve got some serious role reversal going on. While the traditionally outdoorsy Bonnie rests up on the sofa, I’ve made my first-ever trek to the backyard shed where the lawnmower lives. Not that I actually used the mower. That’s way too scary. But I did show a saintly friend where it was located and ran after her with a plastic bag for the clippings.

  One time we failed to secure the clipping bag properly and gave ourselves an enormous mulch shower. Covered as I was with grass shards, it really wasn’t a tragedy when I learned my second lesson of the day: turn the sprinkler off before you move it. Not even the rat-munching survivor cast contained somebody as pathetic looking as I was by the time I returned to the house.

  I guess people are aware of my temporary need for a yard-work support group, because along with many offers of help, I received one clipping from the Hammacher-Schlemmer catalogue featuring a robot lawn mower. I wouldn’t even have to go near the thing.

  Alternately, it was Bonnie cautioning, “Take your filthy shoes off!” Bizarre. Not only that, but she was quickly getting into my house business. She actually managed to find our telephone book, figure out our friends’ last names and make her very first independent phone calls. The hell she stirred in our social calendar is only now being unraveled.

  As for our tribal council, Alpha-dog Moxie narrowly escaped being voted out of the house for a recent pillow chewing indiscretion. But my favorite comparison between this spate of reality programming and our own reality is the viewer advisory. Before Big Brother there’s a warning that goes like this:

  “Big Brother is not scripted, but is a result of the participants reactions to their environment and interactions with each other on a day-to-day basis. Life is full of surprises, as anyone will tell
you…It’s important to realize that the unexpected may happen; …and, you may be exposed to incidents, language or other situations you may find objectionable.”

  Hello. I think that’s a viewer advisory for life don’t you? Oh, Big Brother. We’re all Survivors. I could use the $500,000. But tell CBS they can keep the live chickens.

  August 2000

  THE RETURN OF LEADFOOT

  For those of you following Fay & Bonnie’s not-so-excellent adventure with Bonnie’s hospital stay and Fay’s forced introduction to lawn implements, here’s the latest: Bonnie’s feeling much better and for the last several weeks angelic friends have saved Fay from an embarrassing and dangerous display of weed whacking ignorance.

  Two incidents illustrate the above. First, Bonnie is feeling so well that she begged for and received permission to drive. This has been a relief for me, as my driving has always been a source of irritation, if not actually horror, for my spouse. She is never stoic about it, either. In fact, all the endoscopys in the world revealed less about Bonnie’s emergency medical condition than her willingness to let me drive her to the emergency room while she sat quietly and gratefully in the front seat. Get this girl into ICU immediately.

  But, as her health returned, so did her uncontrollable urge to comment on my ability to drive and, what’s worse, assist me with faux-braking and color commentary. Oh, good—an extra passenger side air bag. The girl needed to regain control.

  To wit, the first day she drove herself to physical therapy in Georgetown she returned with a souvenir Uniform Traffic Complaint and Summons (74 in a 55 mile per hour zone). The cop wasn’t dumb enough to fall for her claim that the knee brace made her lead footed. Neither was I. She’s baaaack!!