He stuck out his arm, ready to walk me down the aisle. I looped my arm through his and we made our way out to the roof.
In the weeks and months after I first came out, I worried that my parents would never truly see me as me. That they’d always love me as who they used to think I was, instead of who I am. But walking out on that roof with my dad, I knew they loved me as their daughter. I knew they loved me as Sarah. And in many ways, Andy’s love for me helped them get there. Seeing someone love me as the woman I am provided my parents a path to do the same.
As I approached the crowd, I began to see the wedding that Bishop Gene and our friends had planned in less than a week. And it was perfect. The bouquets included some of my favorite flowers, purple orchids and blue hydrangeas. There were tables covered in purple tablecloths filled with food and desserts, including a small wedding cake topped with two robots holding hands.
Amazing grace, I thought.
I had always dreamed of a day like this: a beautiful wedding with a beautiful dress, marrying a wonderful person who loved me as me. I didn’t anticipate it so soon. I certainly never anticipated it under these circumstances. But it was happening. Andy and I were both fulfilling a dream, however bittersweet the circumstances.
Passing through the crowd, we turned to walk down the short makeshift aisle, which led to a beautiful open white-topped tent about ten feet wide, reminding me of a chuppah. Flowers and ferns filled the inside. At the center sat Andy in his wheelchair, and beside him was Bishop Gene, smiling in his white, red, and gold wedding vestments. Behind them, the magnificent view of Washington, D.C.—the trees in the park just beside our building that gave way to views of the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and in the distance, the Jefferson Memorial.
My dad kissed my cheek and joined my mother in the row of chairs that circled the white tent. I stepped in front of Andy, who, shrunken in his wheelchair and with sunglasses on, almost looked like he was sleeping.
He clearly wasn’t. He looked up at me, managed a smile, and mouthed the word “beautiful.”
Andy was frail, but on that beautiful August day, with Bishop Gene presiding, we made it up to our rooftop to marry each other.
My mom always said that it was clear that Andy loved me from the first time he saw me at the White House Pride Reception two years before. I don’t know about that, but what I do know is that Andy and I were committed to each other for life long before our wedding day that August. The ceremony merely formalized, before our family and by the state, what was already a reality between us. The vows we were about to take represented our transformational, transcending love. We had been through so much together already, having come into each other’s lives at just the right time. He had helped walk me into my own authentic life and trans identity. And now I was there to help walk him to his death. Standing there, I knew that nothing in my life would ever be more important than what I was about to do.
“Andy and Sarah,” Bishop Gene began, “you come before God to make public your commitment to one another and to ask God’s blessing.”
He turned to Andy, who tilted his head ever so slightly up to me as Bishop Gene continued. “Andy, do you freely and unreservedly offer yourself to Sarah? Do you commit yourself to love her with all of your heart? Say ‘I do.’ ”
“I. DO,” Andy responded breathlessly, the energy and difficulty of the sentence clear.
Bishop Gene asked the same of me.
“I do,” I said directly to Andy.
The wind swept through the assembled crowd, rustling the flowers and carrying with it the sniffles of our friends and family.
“Sarah, in the name of God, do you give yourself to Andy? Will you support and care for him, enduring all things, carrying all things? Will you hold and cherish him in times of plenty and in times of want? Will you honor and love him forever and ever? Is this your solemn vow?”
“That is my solemn vow,” I responded.
“Andy,” he continued, “in the name of God, do you give yourself to Sarah? Will you support and care for her, enduring all things, carrying all things? Will you hold and cherish her in times of plenty and in times of want? Will you honor and love her forever and ever? Is this your solemn vow?”
“Th…” Andy paused. He couldn’t say the full sentence. “Yes,” he pushed out.
Sean and Kelsey stepped up from their chairs, bringing the two simple silver wedding bands Andy’s mother had bought last-minute at a pawn shop in D.C. Bishop Gene blessed the two rings and then picked up Andy’s hand. I bent forward, taking Andy’s hand from Bishop Gene’s.
“Andrew, please receive this ring as a symbol of my abiding love.”
I pushed the band onto his frail finger.
Bishop Gene then handed Andy the ring he would put onto my hand. I extended my arm. Andy gently held my hand with his left hand as he slowly pushed the band onto my ring finger with his right.
“Sarah.” He gasped for breath. “Please do the same.”
With outstretched arms, we held on to each other as Bishop Gene proclaimed, “And as much as Andy and Sarah have exchanged vows of love and fidelity in the presence of God and family, I now pronounce them bound to one another in the holy covenant of marriage as husband and wife. Now and forever.”
A smile crossed Andy’s face. Holding my hand, he looked up from his wheelchair and softly whispered, “I love you.”
The drums of “Safe and Sound” cued. And as the song from our first date played, my heart swelled, and I leaned in to kiss my husband.
CHAPTER 11
Righteous anger.
The first thirty-six hours of our marriage were exactly like the preceding thirty-six: a lot of sleeping on Andy’s part and a lot of pushing him to eat on mine. He experienced two or three more fainting episodes like the one he’d had just before our ceremony. Each time, moving from his recliner to the wheelchair, his eyes would roll back into his head and his face would go white. Those of us around him would start yelling his name while frantically increasing his oxygen.
After each episode, in typical Andy fashion, he’d look up at me and say, “I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?,” ashamed that he couldn’t make the move and worried he was letting me down by not having the strength to do so.
“No, Beanie, I’m not mad at all. I love you very much,” I’d say, trying to reassure him.
The second full day of our marriage was a big day for Andy. He was scheduled to begin the chemotherapy that we all hoped would prolong his life. Somehow we managed to make it from our apartment to Hopkins in Baltimore without another fainting episode.
Before we left, Sean had pulled me aside and warned, “Don’t be surprised if they decide to admit Andy.”
When the oncologist entered the exam room, it was obvious he was shocked by Andy’s decline and the clear increase in oxygen through his nasal tubes. He didn’t yet know about Andy’s episodes, but blood work had already come back that showed troubling numbers. And despite my best attempts, Andy was significantly dehydrated.
“We may not be able to proceed with treatment today,” the doctor informed us.
Andy looked so defeated. With the wedding in the past, all he wanted was to live as long as possible. Seeing Andy’s response, the doctor continued: “But I’ll tell you what, how about we send you up to the infusion center for some liquid and we’ll see where you are. Maybe we can start with some lower doses of chemo.” The doctor would also order a new blood test and meet us in the infusion center when the results came back. There was still some hope.
Up in the infusion center, they switched Andy from oxygen through his nose to a larger, clear mask that covered both his mouth and his nose. The change meant an increase in oxygen, which satiated Andy’s need but further signaled his internal decline.
Waiting in a curtained-off area in the infusion center for the doctor to re
turn, I heard some nurses discussing the need to admit a patient. I had a feeling who they were talking about, so I excused myself from Andy’s side and stepped up to the nurses’ counter.
“Um, do you all have an update on Andy?” I asked the three assembled women in scrubs, already knowing the answer.
He would have to be admitted, they informed me. This is it, I thought. This is the end.
“I’ll go tell him,” I offered, knowing the news would crush him. Both of us knew that, once admitted, the chance of treatment would evaporate.
The nurse followed me as I opened the curtain and went back to Andy’s side. I tried to break the news as gently as possible. He knew what the news meant, but he held out hope that perhaps they’d stabilize him again and then, down the road, he could start treatment. But just as Andy gave me a wink, trying to assure me not to worry, the oncologist from earlier returned with even worse news. The concerning numbers had already jumped even higher.
Even with the new mask, Andy’s thirst for oxygen continued to increase rapidly, each time requiring the nurse to turn the knob just a little higher, increasing the rush of air through his mouth and nose and into his lungs. As he had been for the last few days, Andy was drifting in and out of consciousness.
With Andy fading in and out, the oncologist asked to have a word with me outside of Andy’s curtained area. We stepped out into the hallway, and the doctor turned to me with a pained look on his face.
“Have you two talked about intubation?” he asked, referring to the process of a breathing tube being inserted. The urgency of the question was obvious in his tone.
He didn’t have to tell me what that meant for Andy. The fly-killing doctor two weeks before had made it crystal clear. If a breathing tube were to be introduced, Andy would never be able to be weaned off of it. If intubated, Andy would also need to be sedated to do it. And if sedated, Andy would likely never wake up again.
“Can I give him some time before we talk about it?” I requested. After all, he had just gotten the terrible news that he would be admitted.
“Unfortunately, no. You need to have the conversation as soon as possible.”
We were immediately given an “upgraded room”—as I tried to jokingly put it during the admittance process—and I sat down with Andy for what would be the first and only extended conversation of our marriage: whether or not he wanted his life continued in a persistent vegetative state.
I was scared to broach the subject. I knew I would be crushing his hopes once again. I told him that for “precautionary reasons” we needed to talk about intubation. My hands shook as I held an advance directive given to us by the nurse.
“Can. It. Wait?” he asked, still straining to speak, but not quite as breathless, given the increased oxygen.
“No, I’m sorry, Bean, it can’t.”
His eyes widened and he sat up a bit, surprised at the rebuff and the message that it carried with it. I began paraphrasing the advance directive, asking which option he preferred.
“Don’t patronize me,” he shot back, upset that I was trying to simplify and shorten the language. The increase in oxygen, coupled with the seriousness of the topic, had given him a little extra energy. “I’m still a lawyer. Give me the document.”
He stared at it for ten minutes, eventually picking up the pen I had put by his side and marking the box next to the option that read “If my doctors certify that I am in a persistent vegetative state…and there is no reasonable expectation that I will ever regain consciousness…keep me comfortable and allow natural death to occur.”
He knew it was over, that he was in the definite twilight of his life. He didn’t have to say anything; it was clear that in checking that box his last bit of hope disappeared.
I called our family and friends and told them to come to Baltimore. His father, his mother, his stepfather, and my mom came immediately. Bishop Gene and our friends, who had been by our side the previous few weeks now, made their way to the hospital.
On Sunday, they had sat in a semicircle around our white tent as Andy and I wed. But now, on Tuesday, that same group stood in a semicircle around his hospital bed, a collection of loved ones—transgender and cisgender; gay and straight; family, both blood and chosen—bound together by our love for Andy.
Some came up each day, but most stayed overnight. “Andy’s Fun-Time Cancer Sleep-Away Camp for Adults,” he had humorously called it earlier in his treatment. The hospital waiting room became the sleeping quarters for the fifteen who spent each night on the tile floor or on the waiting room’s hard chairs, including his parents.
I spent the night in Andy’s hospital room, sleeping in a chair next to his bed and holding his hand. My mom slept in a chair next to me, holding my other hand.
With each passing hour, Andy slept more and more. He’d occasionally wake up to squeeze our hands, give us a smile, or signal to us that he needed more oxygen. He’d raise his hand and rotate his fingers with a look of desperation in his eyes. Each time we’d have to tell him, “I’m sorry, it’s as high as it can go.”
That Wednesday—his second day in the hospital and three days since our wedding—was the last day Andy was awake. When his eyes opened in the late afternoon, I had a feeling it would be the final time I’d see his beautiful blue eyes and he would see mine. Somehow, without knowing how, I just knew. I leaned in and held his hand.
“I love you,” I said with the knowledge that it would likely be the last time he’d hear the words.
He looked up at me, raised his eyebrows, and managed to say four words. They would be the last words Andrew Cray would ever speak.
“I love you, too.”
His eyes closed and his head fell to the side as he drifted off. I knew instantly that he wouldn’t be waking up again and that those would be his last words.
I love you, too. He wanted to say it just one more time. Just like with the wedding, he had rallied to express that love. It was perfectly Andy. His final words would not be ones of anger or pain but of love and commitment.
With Andy asleep again, I asked to be alone with him. I had remained stoic throughout the hospital stay, taking command and conferring with doctors, attempting to shield myself from my own emotions. But I needed to let it out.
As the door closed, I sat back down by Andy’s side and exploded with tears, wailing as I buried my head into the side of the bed by his hand. I don’t know that I can do this without you, I thought, crying into the sheets. My relationship with Andy had been a constant since coming out. So much of my confidence and comfort came from him, from our relationship, and from his reassurances. It’s hard to live in this world as a trans person, and Andy had been my safe harbor, my safe space. We were supposed to spend the rest of our lives together.
I looked up from my crouched position toward Andy’s head, covered with the oxygen mask. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I cried, as I crawled into bed with him. I lay there next to him, feeling his heartbeat, his chest rising and falling.
By the next morning, Thursday, August 28, it was clear that it was only a matter of time, and echoing a conversation I had with one of Andy’s best friends the evening before, a nurse told us that sometimes patients need permission to pass away.
That’s so Andy, we all thought.
One by one we all leaned in to give Andy permission to die.
I was the first and last person to convey that message to him. “I love you, Beanie. I’m going to miss you every day, but it’s okay for you to go. No one is going to be mad at you.”
I had to say it for him, but I also had to say it for myself. I had to remind myself that it was okay for him to go. That I was going to be fine. That he would be with me forever and ever.
As he grew weaker, the remaining energy and heat focused itself in the core of his body. I kissed the top of his head and slipped a handwritten note into his now-cold
clinched fist. “You are loved,” it read.
Within minutes, his breathing became more labored, his breaths fewer and deeper. His oxygenation levels began to drop—95 to 85. I called for everyone to come into the room—85 to 75.
We gathered around Andy. His dad held one hand and I the other. I sat next to his mother, and his stepdad stood behind her. My mom and Helen, who’d remained at the hospital for the preceding two days, put their hands on my shoulder.
Everyone was holding on to one another or on to Andy. Everyone was connected, hoping that somehow we could transfer love from the outermost person in the circle to Andy. The collective energy was palpable—75 to 65.
His breathing slowed even further. We continued to hold on to one another and to him. The room was silent but for the slowing beep of the heart monitor and the occasional sounds of quiet sobbing. We stood there for a few more minutes, waiting for the inevitable. I put both my hands around his left hand, which bore our new wedding band.
And then, at three-thirty p.m. that afternoon, Andy passed away.
No one moved for a few moments. No one said anything. No one knew what to do. A few erroneous beeps of the heart monitor cruelly startled us. We almost expected him to come back to life.
The silence continued, interrupted again thirty seconds later. Beep.
Frustrated, I silently stood up, the rest of the room looking at him. I walked out and asked a nurse to turn off the monitor.
“Please, just turn that damn thing off.”
The room eventually cleared out and I was left alone with Andy again. I sat by his side like I had done right after his last words, this time holding his completely cold and stiff hands.
I stared at him, noticing that the color had evaporated from his face in the last few minutes. Tears began to run down my face. No more sobs like before. Just an exhausted silent release of emotions.
“I love you, too,” I whispered, as I kissed his hand.
Over the next few hours, it all felt so unreal. The sadness mixed with exhaustion and disbelief clouded the hours after his death. Later that night, we met at a hotel conference room in Baltimore to decide on next steps. We were all still in shock. Here we were, the same group that had planned the wedding, now meeting to plan the funeral.
Tomorrow Will Be Different Page 23