by Sean Kennedy
FROM THE ReachOut, 27 August 2016
EXCLUSIVE: INTERVIEW WITH SIMON MURRAY: SURROGACY, CANCER SCARES, AND LIFE WITH DECLAN TYLER
By Jasper Brunswick
After our interview with Declan Tyler last week, we didn’t think we would be hosting his partner, Simon Murray, only a few days later. Both men were blindsided by leaks to the press about two private issues: the plans to have a child through surrogacy, and Simon’s sudden medical emergency when a testicular tumour was diagnosed and surgery required.
JB: Thanks for talking to me today, Simon.
SM: You’re welcome.
JB: We’ve been through quite a lot together, right?
SM: Umm… yes?
JB: And we’ve known each other for a long time?
SM: It feels like an eternity.
JB: For both of us, I’m sure.
SM: I wouldn’t dispute that.
JB: But we’ve buried the hatchet.
SM: Sure. After I dug it out of my back when you wrote that book with Greg Heyward.
JB: We all make mistakes. Anyway, what I was getting to was the fact I was shocked when I found out about your diagnosis.
SM: It wasn’t exactly a diagnosis. It was a discovery, a surgery, and some tests. Then a diagnosis.
JB: Which is?
SM: Benign. Thankfully.
JB: You must be relieved.
SM: There are no words to describe how relieved I am.
JB: The same for Declan too.
SM: I think he was happier than I was.
JB: You weren’t happy?
SM: Of course I was. But the relief was more… well, numbing. Everything was so surreal that even being spared the worst was kind of… I said it before, numbing.
JB: How did it feel when your story was leaked to the press?
SM: That definitely wasn’t numbing. I was full-on Jean Grey becoming the Dark Phoenix I’ll-destroy-the-world-for-fun mega pissed.
JB: I know Declan said last week, when talking about the surrogacy, that he didn’t believe it was medical staff that did the leak.
SM: They’re professionals. I don’t think it was them either.
JB: What about the quotes, from the “source”?
SM: They were so generic, they could have just been made up. I think they were.
JB: It still doesn’t explain how the story leaked, though.
SM: Hospitals are public places. If you’re recognised in a waiting room, you’re recognised in a waiting room. It could have been anybody. Who knows? We probably never will. And it’s the least of my worries now.
JB: Why’s that?
SM: Because we have other things on our mind.
JB: Like starting a family?
SM: Maybe. But I also just wanted to live long enough to see the new season of Twin Peaks next year.
JB: Always a joker, Simon.
SM: It’s how I survive.
JB: So why did you want to talk to us?
SM: I guess I just wanted it on record somewhere that I’m okay, I’ll be fine, Dec’s fine, and all’s good. Otherwise they’ll probably keep printing stories about how I’m at death’s door and Dec will end up being some tragic single father. I mean, normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but Dec is a public figure and being a footballer there will always be some kind of interest in him and his life.
JB: There will be—he was the first openly gay footballer. And together you made history as the first gay couple to walk the blue carpet at the Brownlows.
SM: Well, we’re old news now there’s Micah Johnson.
JB: I think the media attention these past couple of weeks show you’re not.
SM: We’ll see. I just hope that we get respected a little more if we do expect children, especially around the time they’re born.
JB: I hope so too. Anyway, Declan ended our interview last week with quite an excellent statement.
SM: Oh?
JB: Are you blushing?
SM: No. It’s a little warm in here.
JB: Oh, you are! Don’t pretend you didn’t read it. Declan said, and I quote, “I’m going to marry that man.”
SM: That’s no secret. You were at our engagement party, remember?
JB: I actually don’t remember a lot about that night.
SM: I think you drank half the free booze, so I’m not surprised.
JB: I was thirsty.
SM: Oh my god, you cracked a joke that was actually funny.
JB: I can, sometimes. So, do you feel equal marriage will ever get passed in parliament?
SM: [long pause] Eventually. It’s fucking ridiculous how long it’s taking. It’s the ultimate political football, for both sides of government. I have a feeling we’ll still be waiting a while.
JB: But you and Dec are involved in the “Yes” campaign?
SM: Of course. We want to be married. We love each other. We’ve been together for eight years, which is a lot longer than a lot of marriages.
JB: Look at Britney Spears.
SM: Yes, we deserve the right to have quickie twenty-four-hour marriages, just like the straights do! Poor Britney.
JB: She’s troubled.
SM: I think she’s on the mend. That’s the important thing.
JB: Ending on the big issues, here. But I’m glad you’re doing better.
SM: I’m doing more than better.
Third Quarter
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU AND Jasper almost sound like friends there,” Lisa said, folding the current issue of the ReachOut in half and chucking it back on the kitchen table.
“Ugh, don’t make me vomit,” I said.
“They are friends,” Dec said and added, “now.”
I shifted in my chair, trying to hide my discomfort. I should have been fully recovered but had managed to take myself back to square one by stupidly trying to do too much too soon.
It was all due to a Hall of Fame dinner held three days ago. Dec had been invited as a guest but didn’t know he was going to be one of the recipients. I had begged off, not knowing the importance of the event, and received a panicked call from Coby that put me to rights.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Because I know people who know people,” he replied.
“So you could be completely wrong?”
“I trust my sources.”
“Tell me again, are you Woodward or Bernstein?”
You could almost hear him thinking. “I don’t get it.”
I thought as much. But there must have been some rumblings about Dec getting into the AFL Hall of Fame if Coby was persuading me to go, as he had spent the rest of my recovery period telling me I had to stop doing things.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“But you can’t let Dec know! It’s meant to be a surprise!”
I told him I was aware how these things worked, but Dec was instantly suspicious when I said I had changed my mind and would be accompanying him to the dinner.
“Why?”
“You make it sound like you don’t want me to come.” I tried to sound like my normal changes-his-mind-a-thousand-times-a-day self to throw him off track.
“Of course I want you to come,” he said. “But I also don’t want you to strain yourself.”
“Maybe if I start pushing myself, then I’ll recover quicker, and you can start letting me strain myself in more fun ways with you.”
Dec smirked. “Nice try.”
“I want to start feeling normal again,” I said. Sentimentality was always Dec’s downfall. He was a sucker for an inspirational speech. “I want to have a night out with you. Besides, who knows how long it will be that we can have one like that, once the little tackers arrive?”
Dec laughed, and I knew he knew I was playing him. “So you’re calling them the little tackers now?”
“Well, they don’t have names yet.”
“And you’re sure there’ll be a they?”
I shrugged. “The literature says there is a high
chance of multiple births with IUI.”
“Not guaranteed, though.”
“Nothing is. So may I come to the dinner with you, partner of mine?”
“You would do anything for a free feed, huh?”
“Not so much the free food, but the free booze.”
“There it is,” Dec said and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Okay, partner of mine. You’re on. But the minute you feel any discomfort, we’re out of there.” He stood up and strode out of the room, some handyman task on his mind.
“Alcohol eases pain!” I called after him. “Especially when combined with medication!”
“I didn’t hear that!” he called back.
So Dec seemed none the wiser, and Coby was pleased when I reported back to him.
“Could you imagine the field day the media would have if you didn’t turn up to it?”
“I don’t think Dec would give a flying fuck what the media thought,” I replied.
“Yeah, I know, he would just want you to be all right,” Coby agreed. “But there would probably be stories about how you were splitting up just as you were about to have kids, or that you’re on your deathbed and saying your tearful goodbyes, etc., etc. And neither of you need that shit right now.”
His concern was touching and reminded me again about how much better my life was because of the people in it. Being a natural-born proprietor of snark could sometimes blind you to that fact, so it was good to have it pointed out now and again.
The night of the dinner saw Dec complaining that he didn’t really want to go. “Wouldn’t it be nicer just to stay at home, order in some Thai, and crack open a bottle of red?”
It did, especially as my balls were aching again, and I had recently imbibed some extra painkillers so I could make it through the night. I just looked at him.
“Wow, you really want to go out, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yep. I’ve been in self-imposed exile long enough. So get dressed.”
Dec looked down at himself, in his usual home wear of fitted tracksuit pants and V-necked jumper. “What, you don’t think this is good enough for the Crown?”
“The Crown casino, yes, they have no care about dress standards as long as you’re gambling your money away, but the ballroom? Get your tux out, dude.”
“Dude,” he repeated amusedly to himself as he left to have a shower.
I adjusted my balls, wincing, glad no one was around to see me doing so. I mean, really, even though I had the best excuse in the world to be playing with my testicles, I still didn’t want to be that guy caught feeling himself in public. Well, in his own home. With only his partner as a possible witness. But still, it wasn’t a good look, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to make any bathroom visits during the ceremony to avoid being a public spectacle.
DAMN, DID Dec look good suited up! I mean, I liked him every possible way he came in, but he looked like sex on a stick. Which wasn’t the best way for him to be, as there was no way I could jump him when we got home unless I really wanted to do myself some damage.
“Damn, you look good,” he said to me. Were we always this in sync with one another?
“Oh, shucks, this old thing?” I admired myself in the hall mirror. I had to admit I could also scrub up pretty good when I wanted to.
“Bucking convention again, with the yellow shirt this time?” He had moved behind me and started nuzzling my neck.
I tried to concentrate as I worked on my tie. “I’d say it’s more mustard.”
“Here, let me help.” He turned me around and took the tie in hand. I was useless with the bloody things. His was fastidiously centred at his neck, a sombre black against a crisp white shirt that looked new from the packet even though it wasn’t. I’m pretty sure my mustard shirt was hiding mustard stains.
He let his hands fall away, having completed his task. He stared at me.
“What?” I asked, feeling the intensity of his gaze.
“Just, you’re so damn cute.”
“You said I looked damn good before, so is that a demotion?”
“Damn good and damn cute,” he confirmed. “And fucking sexy.”
“Now you’re pushing it too far.”
“You know I hate it when you do that, right?”
I wrapped my arms around him. “I have to put up some front of modesty. I know I’m fucking hot.”
“Okay, now you’re going too far,” he teased.
“I’m a fucking Adonis,” I bragged.
“More like a Narcissus.”
“Nope. Because I know you’re much hotter.” To silence his inevitable protestations, I kissed him, and he gave up all dissent.
ONE THING I never, ever, got used to in all my years with Dec was how the media could be interested in me when all I was to them was his partner. Logically, I understood their reasoning, being the long-term partner—if I was a woman, they would call it married, I guess, or we could at least have the option of being married—of the first out AFL player. I was still a novelty. Even Micah hadn’t really taken any guy as a date to an official function. I wondered if the media would still find it as newsworthy when he started doing it.
Dec and I were being controversial again, apparently. Our choices as a family unit meant everybody else assumed they could have a say. All the Andrew Bolts and Miranda Devines of the newspaper column world were still of the belief that anybody gave a fuck about their opinions. Dec and I didn’t, at least. In fact, I would adopt a hundred kids just to give Miranda Devine the shits for a solid year.
Hopefully she wouldn’t be able to get off the fucking toilet in that time.
Having to do the obligatory poses for the photographers on the carpet meant a series of rapid-fire questions thrown our way, and none of them about the night in question. Instead they all focused on if we were starting a family, and how did we feel about the comments made in the media during the week?
“How very meta,” I whispered to Dec. “The media asking us how we feel about how the media is talking shit about us. Like they all aren’t the snake eating its own tail.”
Dec’s smile never faltered; he was well trained in the art of dealing with this side of his career. I was the one who made snarky comments and generally won the media over with laughter.
Not tonight. I wasn’t trying. I was exhausted, in pain, and couldn’t be bothered performing. Especially when they started asking questions about my health. I gave them my best Mary Mother of Jesus enigmatic smile and walked on. I just wanted to find my seat and drink some free alcohol, no matter what Dec said about the dangers of drinking mixed with medication. I was pretty sure I could swig down a drink every time he was distracted. Like when he was on stage getting his award.
He never suspected a thing. When they announced him as a Hall of Fame recipient, he looked at me with complete shock. Did you know? he mouthed at me. I shrugged and watched him, full of love, as he shakily got to his feet. The man was so fucking modest, he truly never expected to be called into the Hall of Fame, despite many years of commentators calling him one of the best footballers of his generation. Or maybe he just never expected it to come so soon.
He leant down, and his lips brushed my cheek. I unconsciously touched the skin where the feeling remained. We had usually been so cautious—we might have occasionally held hands but nothing further at any official AFL function but times were changing and so were we. More chinks in our armour, which had been perfected after years of having to be careful in the world at large, had started to appear.
On stage Dec made a joke about how he was going to be in the media even more after this, so thanks for that. It went down well with the crowd. Dec was amongst friends here, always respected for his prowess on the field and his good nature off it, even by those who played for other teams. They had known his character over the years more than any member of the media. I could see how touched he was by their response, even though he was self-conscious about the spotlight being on him.
I glanced across the room and startled
at the presence of Greg Heyward. He raised his glass of wine at me, and I might have been so caught up in the moment that I mirrored his action with my own glass. Maybe even he could be human every now and again. Declan always said people could change, but sometimes they were just arseholes, and would remain arseholes with faint glints of humanity every now and again.
As soon as Dec came off the stage, he found himself surrounded by well-wishers who held him up in his journey back to our table. Photographers swooped down on us immediately, wanting captures of us together with the award. Dec’s arm proudly around my waist, I leaned into him far more closely than we usually did for these events.
The surreal feeling wasn’t fading but actually making me feel faint. As soon as the last photographer left us and Dec was pulled aside in conversation with some old teammates, I thankfully sank back into my chair.
Only to be overcome with a stabbing pain.
I quickly removed myself from the table and sought privacy in a stall in the toilets. With great trepidation, and not a small amount of agony, I pulled down my pants. They felt damp, and for a moment I was scared I had pissed myself.
It was worse.
Blood.
Enough to coat my fingers and glisten beneath the bright lights of the bathroom. Blood had never really fazed me; I had dealt with enough of Dec’s injuries and postoperation wounds and dressings to become an honorary nurse. But this was my blood, and I felt faint at knowing I had done some damage to myself.
I quickly wadded up some toilet paper and gingerly placed it in my underwear so I wouldn’t bleed any more through my pants. Once I was decent again, I washed my hands and studied my pale features in the mirror. Dec would be ropeable when he found out I had made his prophecy of me pushing myself too hard come true.
My heart racing, I made my way back to the table. Dec frowned when he registered the look on my face. And I had thought I was covering it up. I leaned down and whispered in Dec’s ear, “We’ve got to go.”
He immediately turned pale and got up, making excuses. Attention focused on us, and we probably made a scene that would be played out in the next day’s media. We couldn’t think of that right now, though.