When Were You the Happiest?
“What has been the happiest time of your life?” I asked Ray as we waited in the pre-op area of the Cleveland Clinic in Florida, he in a hospital gown with an IV drip at his side, me in a white molded plastic chair at the end of his bed. There was something about being surrounded by people heading into operations that most of them feared which made the question seem appropriate to the setting.
Shifting uncomfortably because of his throbbing lower back, the expiration of his pain meds, hunger, the unfulfilled hope for a successful trip to the bathroom, and our long wait, he pondered for a minute or two and replied, “I’d say the past few years, minus all of the pain in my neck, shoulder, and back, have been my happiest. I’ve loved our travel.” Ray is happiest when we’re together, even if it’s just eating homemade pizza in front of the tube watching Fringe, Glee, Sons of Anarchy, or any of our other taped programs. He could die without regrets, feeling he had fully lived.
“We’re lucky,” I said. “We could be here for something more serious like cancer surgery. Some of these people fear they’re going to die here.”
“I wouldn’t want to die here,” Ray replied. “I want to die at home.”
“Imagine if you were here alone?” I said. “The elderly woman across the hall told the nurse that she had no family, and there was no one to call.”
“That would be hard,” he agreed.
“You’ve got a lot of people eagerly waiting to hear from me tonight how the operation went. We’re pretty lucky.”
“We are,” he agreed.
“Are you guys brothers?” asked the young medical student at the end of the bed who had just requested permission to look at Ray’s chart.
“No, but that’s the title of my last book,” I replied. “Every gay couple I know gets asked that question.”
“Really?” she replied. “But you look like brothers, right? Where do I get your book?”
A short while later, three hours after he checked in at the front desk and after brief meetings with his doctor and anesthesiologist, both of whom were introduced to me as his spouse, Ray was wheeled into the operating room. I lingered as he departed and walked over to the elderly woman in the bed across the hall.
“How are you doing?” I asked as I gently squeezed her knee.
“I’m okay,” she replied with a smile.
“I heard you say you were alone.”
“Oh, I’m not alone. The doctors and nurses all know me here. I’ve been coming here since the early 1990s.”
“Do you need anything?” I asked.
“No, I’m okay,” she smiled.
“If you don’t need anything I’ll be heading home,” I said as I gently squeezed her again and headed out. “Take good care of yourself.”
You know the expression “I’d be lost without you”? It’s true. I got lost driving home from the hospital and again heading back. Fortunately, I got into Ray’s room and was able to set it up – hang his robe, set up the sound machine, turn the television on and to Fast Money, set up his toiletries, order an extra blanket, put his pillows into their cases, dim the lights and re-arrange the furniture – before he arrived from post-op. None of it much mattered because he was in such pain when he arrived. That moment wouldn’t be remembered as one of his happiest, but he was awfully glad to see me. He smiled through his agony long enough to tell the Jamaican nurse assistant, “He’s my spouse and we’ve been together for nearly 34 years.”
It was frustrating to be able to do nothing more than hold Ray’s cold hand and tell him that the Dow was up 130-plus points. What he needed most was more pain meds, which I was eventually able to secure without pulling a Shirley MacLaine. His doctor okayed a Percocet. Once Ray finally settled down, I pushed a button and the room was filled with the sound of crashing waves. I kissed him “good-night” and he fell asleep, at least for a few minutes. I arrived home without incident, eating along the way an apple and a package of peanut butter crackers that I had brought for Ray, miraculously was able to turn on the television, and ate a dark chocolate sundae. When I checked my computer, it was filled with messages from friends grateful for the update I had sent them when I heard from the surgeon after the operation. I thought about the elderly woman I had met earlier and wondered if she was listening to the sounds of waves in her room or if e-mails of concern would greet her upon her return home. Were these her happiest days?
I lay in bed and went through all of the hundred cable channels on the television in our room. Once again, I was so excited about being able to figure out how to use the remotes that I would have run outside to do a victory dance if it hadn’t been raining. Once I reminded myself it was going to be a challenging ordeal for both Ray and me at the hospital the next day, I looked over at his empty side of the bed, turned on the sound machine, smiled at the thought of us connected in separate rooms by the sound of waves, sent him healing thoughts, whispered “Good night honey,” and turned off the light.
Anyone who has ever left a loved one in pain in a hospital room overnight knows how wrenching an experience it can be, especially if the person is someone who looks to you for support. Such unsettling separations don’t make for smiles of joy, but the reflections of those moments of love do. Among life’s happiest of times are those when we are very aware of how lucky we are to have the lives we do and the people with whom we share it.
