Even though my parents weren’t there yet, I certainly wasn’t lonely; my new family showed up in droves. Many of my friends in recovery poured into my hospital room over the next seven days, and I was amazed by the unconditional love and support I received from those in the program. Lynn didn’t come to see me; she was still too pissed off at me for breaking her heart. I secretly wished she had come.
I had only been in State College for a little over a year, but I had more flowers in my room than a new mother living in the community her whole life. The nicer nurses kept making comments about the overflow of cards and flowers and the constant stream of people in and out of my room. I had never had so many people truly and genuinely care about me in this way. I kept being amazed at the depth of love and support that existed in the rooms of recovery. I could count on so many people to be there when I needed them. In my using life, I was lucky if I could count on a handful of people, and usually only if there was something in it for the other person would a hand be extended. This was free and unconditional support, and it made me glow like a toddler at a birthday party in awe of all the presents.
The expressions of concern and support I received were overwhelming and literally gave me the high I needed to dull the pain. I felt more love in those days and more of a sense of family and home than I had ever felt my whole life. It reaffirmed for me that I was indeed in the exact place I was supposed to be in my life. State College was home in every sense of the word.
28
RELEASE, FINALLY
MY PARENTS CAME AND WERE A HUGE HELP FOR ME IN getting me back into my apartment and settled. They were amazing. They hung out with me in the hospital much of the time. When they weren’t visiting with me, my stepmother was scrubbing my apartment clean and caring for my cat. She is hands-down the most organized person I know. We used to joke at home that if you were cooking in the kitchen and turned your back on a pot, she would have it cleaned and in the dishwasher before you turned back around. She taught me how to organize myself and my life, how to keep a clean house, and how to take care of my things. She taught me how to be a productive and high-functioning woman in so many ways. As she began to comment on my new actions in recovery, it was an honor for me to be able to show her the life lessons she had instilled in me.
I told them what the doctor had said about not knowing what it was they had removed from me, and about the possibility of cancer. The doctor hadn’t been back since, so I was left each night to sit and ponder what this all meant for me. I knew in my heart that if I truly did have cancer, I would fight it like hell. I wouldn’t just succumb to it the way I felt that my mother had. I would suit up for battle and it would be on. I was just starting to live my life, and there was no way I was going to let something come in and kill me now, not after I had fought so hard this year for this new life.
Finally, on the fourth day, my feeding tube and catheter were removed. A new nurse gently tugged the tube out of my scratchy, sore throat and liberated me, which felt like heaven. I could breathe again without pain, and better yet, I could have a real drink of water. After the way the catheter had almost been ripped out of me on the way to the surgery table, this time I braced for sheer hell. My parents left the room. As the nurse pulled the catheter out, it stung a bit, but once it was out I was so happy I peed a little on the sheets. Now not only was I liberated from the tubes, but this meant I could attempt to get out of bed. In fact, I was being forced to stand up because the nurse had to change my sheets. I felt extremely wobbly and clung to the wall while she quickly remade my bed, and then I gladly slid back under the sheets.
Later that day, after much probing and persistence from my father, the doctor reemerged with great news. He told me I did not have cancer. A rush of relief flooded over me and tears began to roll down my checks. I saw my parents’ eyes fill up a bit too. The relief in the room was palpable. He went on to say I had a condition called diverticulitis. He explained that diverticulitis is a condition in which little pockets that form in the colon suddenly rupture. The rupture results in infection in the tissues that surround the colon. He explained that my rupture led to infection, which often clears up after a few days of treatment with antibiotics, but since I was never properly diagnosed, the infection worsened and the softball-sized abscess formed in the wall of the colon and began leaking toxic waste into my body. He said I would have most likely died had I not come into the emergency room when I did.
Those words really hit me hard as my eyes widened. I almost died—again, within a little over a year. Except this time it was not by my own hands. I was dumbfounded, and incredibly grateful for my friend who insisted to the medical staff that I be checked out thoroughly. Had it been up to the ER staff, I would have been discharged with a diagnosis of gas and a prescription for Vicodin.
The doctor said it was odd that I had this condition, because it is mostly found in people much older than I was. I sat quietly, wondering if all the laxatives I ate like candy in high school to keep my weight down had anything to do with my current condition. I was afraid to ask, having never really spoken in front of my parents about my eating disorder in the past. I was pretty sure they knew about it since every time I ate with them, I was in the bathroom moments later. I took a deep breath and just asked. The doctor absorbed the information for a minute, and I watched my parents sit still as boards, doing the same. He said it could have been, but there was no real medical way to determine if that was the cause. It was enough for me, however, to vow to never, ever take a laxative again. After rehab, I took my recovery seriously enough to realize that bingeing and purging were not part of a healthy lifestyle.
The doctor said I would have to seriously watch my diet—to not eat things with seeds and try to take in more fiber—which I knew was going to be a little hard living on a college student budget and having fast food all around me. I was to follow up with a doctor periodically for checkups. I did the follow-up appointments, and after that I had no problems again. I would often still eat cashews and popcorn, items traditionally on the do-not-eat list, but I didn’t get sick again.
The air in the room lightened up after he left. We all just kind of looked at each other in relief after all the information that had been exchanged: cancer, nearly died, eating disorder. Before we had a chance to discuss any of it, Nurse Ratched came in. I signaled to my dad with my eyes that she was the one. He smiled. She was her usual cranky self as she checked my vitals.
She told me once again that I should try to move around and walk around, which felt like the last thing on earth I wanted to do. With an incision that was three and a half inches long, my every move hurt like hell. On the sixth day, I was informed that I would not be able to leave the hospital until I farted. Yes, until I passed some good old-fashioned gas. Apparently that would be the hospital’s scientific guarantee that my system was functioning properly and that I was well enough to be shipped home. Never in my life did I want to rip one so badly. I began walking the halls of the hospital because I had been instructed that movement helps with the passing of gas.
Finally, on the morning of day seven, it happened: I was sitting with my parents and we were joking about something, and in the middle of a good, hard, and painful belly laugh, a little toot slipped out from under my hospital gown. We all cheered like it was the fourth of July! I called the nurse as though I was calling in the winning numbers of the lottery. When Nurse Ratched walked in the room, I exclaimed, “I farted!” She wasn’t very amused. She nodded, gave me a nice, fake smile, and said, “I’ll inform the doctor and begin your discharge papers. You can go home today.” She walked out and we all burst into laughter. I was so excited to go home, finally!
29
FLYING OUT OF THE CLOSET
I WALKED INTO MY HOME TO FIND MY CAT PURRING and circling my ankles like crazy, obviously pleased to see me home at last. My whole body was instantly warmed with the unconditional love my cat spun around my ankles, and it rose to fill my heart. Home never felt sweeter. My parents
helped me get settled in and made sure I had everything I needed for the weeks to follow. I was to rest and heal for the next four weeks—no school or anything else but staying home and recuperating. I was concerned about my classes and what this would do to my grades, but I also knew that I had to take care of myself first and the rest would fall into place.
My parents hung out with me for a little while and then went on their way back home. They had a four-hour drive ahead of them. I thanked them for everything as they left. It wasn’t until later that I would realize how much they did for me while I was in the hospital. In the bathroom I found cleaning items, bags of kitty litter and food, and a ton of toilet paper. In the kitchen there were paper towels under the sink, and when I opened my cabinets, I found all the foods and snacks I loved so much—Doritos, cashews, and popcorn. As I moved on to the refrigerator, I found more of my favorites—Diet Pepsi, juice, cheese, ice cream. My heart swelled with gratitude as tears came to my eyes.
As I held a bottle of my favorite flavored creamer for my morning coffee, I felt like the luckiest girl alive. My parents loved me and provided for me in such an amazing way, and I knew it was because I was finally deserving of it all; I was finally showing up for life and living in a way that made them proud. Even though these waves of emotion were becoming familiar to me by now, on this particular day I found myself overwhelmed and exhausted with sentiment. I sobbed quietly, tears of joy and sadness flooding down my cheeks as I stood in front of the refrigerator. Maybe it was the combination of brushing with death and the parental nurturing that hit me in that moment. I was in awe of how different my life was, but then my stomach began to ache, so after pulling myself together I moved into my living room and cautiously set up camp. It hurt to bend and move too much, and I knew just going from the hospital to home had wiped me out both physically and, now, emotionally.
I carefully pulled my futon into its down position and placed my pillows and comforter from my bed. As I slid under the comforter, my cat curled up beside me. This would be my resting place for the next couple of weeks, and I was okay with the idea of just chilling for a while. I hadn’t really sat still since I had moved into this apartment; I was running off to meetings, emotionally breaking down in therapy, entering into challenging, emotional, confusing relationships, and starting college all at once. It was nice to have an excuse to just stop. I drifted off to sleep, the warmth of my cat against my stitches somehow easing the pain.
I spent the next couple of days entertaining visits from my friends in recovery, playing games, and watching movies. While the visits were great for my spirits, I swore the laughter would kill me with stomach pain. But it was worth it. It offered a level of healing and pain relief that no pill could produce. I was not taking any of the pain medications they tried to give me when I left—I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of taking narcotics at home. It was different while I was in the hospital after the first couple days of my recovery from surgery. The pain was there, but it wasn’t as if I was going to die from it; that I knew. So I toughed it out the rest of the way and it really wasn’t that bad. I had fifteen metal stitches going across the right side of my abdomen, and they were sore, but not unbearable. Actually they were kind of cool, and every time someone came over, I proudly lifted my shirt so show off my new metal. I already had my belly button and my tongue pierced, along with nine other holes in my ears left over from my teenage years, so this was just like an addition to my collection for me to flaunt.
My friend Brenda came by with a movie she had just rented and asked if I wanted to borrow it. It was an all-lesbian movie about a group of college friends who reunite years later after one couple has a baby—kind of like a lesbian Big Chill. I was intrigued. Brenda had watched me go through the whole saga of my latest relationship and my uncertainty about my sexuality. I eyed the movie cover suspiciously. I had never watched a lesbian movie before. The only lesbian scenes in movies I had ever seen were gratuitous shots of hot chicks making out briefly for the pleasure of a guy, like in Cruel Intentions or Wild Things.
After Brenda left, I popped some popcorn and settled in to watch the movie. As the characters came to life and the story arc built in the movie, I was entranced. I found myself nodding frantically in acknowledgment of what the characters were saying and laughing out loud at all the inside jokes like I somehow knew everyone, because somewhere deep down, I did. I got it. I knew it and I felt it. In the pit of my stomach, an understanding of and affiliation with these women awoke inside me. I loved every minute of their interactions and found myself feeling connected to them in such a comfortable and natural way. All at once, realization hit. I sat up and said aloud, “Oh my god, I’m gay!”
Just like that, I finally made the acknowledgment that had haunted me since kindergarten and stayed with me, buried deep down, throughout my entire life up until this point. I wasn’t bisexual and I certainly wasn’t straight. I was as gay as the day was long, and suddenly I just knew it and embraced it. All the past fears and denial that I allowed to crowd my head, heart, and soul just poured away from me as I sat in this profound awakening. I was finally fully and totally free. I was sort of in shock and immediately picked up the phone and dialed Brenda. I was so excited and elated that before she even said hello, I screamed out, “Brenda, I am gay!” I rambled on and on about how I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to finally acknowledge something that was so clear and present to me in this moment. She just softly chuckled and said, “So I take it you liked the movie.” I just laughed so hard that I began to cry.
As the days went by and I was slowly becoming more and more comfortable walking around, I began to resume my daily life. I went back to meetings and planned my schedule for starting back to school. As I embarked on each step back into the real world, there was a new strength in my walk, a new certainty in my movement that felt so incredibly true. I felt like me in a way that I had never known. It was as though all the pieces that were scattered around in my soul came together all at once, and I knew without any doubt that this is exactly who I always was and was meant to be. I felt whole and real. I felt solid and completely grounded in myself for the first time in my life. This is who I am; I am a gay woman.
The acknowledgment of this kept growing inside me with every breath I took, and each breath of this truth filled me to perfection. I began telling everyone I knew in my meetings. “I am gay” came floating out of my mouth with such pride and ease to everyone I encountered over the next couple of days and weeks. Most of them were not surprised by this—it was pretty evident in my growth process that this was most likely the path I was heading down. But none of my recovery friends made assumptions or judgments upon me, they just simply let me be me and become me in a truly and wonderfully unconditional way. A couple of my male friends were a little taken aback; they had just assumed my pseudo-relationship was a phase. I knew this was no phase—it was just the opposite. It was the completion of something I had known forever.
I am. I finally knew who I was, and this declaration made me rise higher than I had ever gone with any drug or drink. It solidified the concrete foundation I was already crafting for myself in recovery. I am!
30
BUSES AND BUTTERFLIES
A NEW SEMESTER WAS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER, and I was ready to head back to school after having the metal stitches removed from my abdomen. My car had broken down and finally died. I wasn’t surprised—I had gotten more than my full share of usage out of the 1985 Toyota. However, it did mean that I was without transportation, which I wasn’t too thrilled about. I didn’t have money for another car and my parents were in no position to purchase one for me, so I was left with one humbling alternative: mass transit. I had never lived in a city, so I wasn’t used to taking buses to my destinations. Since age seventeen, I had always had a car.
Fortunately for me, State College caters to students, so buses ran all over town every ten minutes. Conveniently, there was a bus stop at the top of the entrance to my apartment comple
x. I purchased my first bus pass and quickly learned how to navigate the bus system. It actually wasn’t bad at all, except when I wanted to quickly run to the store and grab something. On the bright side, there were no more worries about parking tickets on campus or downtown fights for a parking place. I had racked up a couple of parking tickets in the past, and couldn’t afford them on my limited budget anyway. It also added more structure to my life; I had to schedule my day a bit more, around the bus schedules and stops. I saved money on gas, but it meant my trips home to Allentown would now be limited to the bus system, which was okay because I was now finding myself going home only on semester breaks.
I was excited to get back into the swing of things on campus. I did some online research, trying to find some resources for my newfound gay identity. I knew I wanted to get involved and start meeting other gay women my own age. While I loved the group of women I hung out with in recovery, they were all much older than I was, and since I had already tapped into a little drama with my pseudo-relationship, I decided it was time to start finding people closer to my own age in college to relate to. The prospect of meeting other young, gay women excited me. I came upon a support group on campus for newly out or questioning females, and I figured that would be as good as any place to start. I e-mailed the person in charge to express my interest, and a day later I found an e-mail in my inbox from her telling me all about the group and when they met.
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