Gay Marraige is Legal - Don't Panic!!!

Look, panicking can be fun. It can give us purpose, energy and lots to talk about. For about 34 years, I was a bit addicted to panic and I’d lose sleep over every expert claiming “the end is nigh!” I was so panicked, in fact, that in 2011, I bought two five-pound bags of flour because a conservative newscaster had me—a new and paranoid mother of one—convinced that the world was going to hell and I needed to stock up. (It took me batch after batch of cookies to finally finish that damn flour purchase and, you know, the world is still here and it’s even still pretty.)

So as much as I’d like to give a lot of credence to the panicking going on over the Supreme Court ruling this morning, there are several ways we can look at this—no matter where you stand on the issue—and find common ground and even a common goal for change.

First, of course, are the Christians saying that this is a sign Christ is coming back soon. Which is awesome. But kind of unlikely since that’s been said to be right around the corner by the original apostles. However, I’d just like it noted that if He is about to come back and solve all of these uncomfortable problems, I think most of the “burning” that will be happening will be of child abusers, rapists, murderers and mutilators (and if you like bad guys getting the rough treatment, you should read my new thriller, Stranglehold, which is only three bucks on Amazon, so....), but I kind of doubt He'll be mowing down consenting adults who are actually generous, conscientious, devoted people and happen to eschew marriage or live in a same sex one. I just, somehow, don’t think Christ would say, “Yeah, you help the poor, nurture many of my children, and bring joy to so many, but you’re a dude who likes dudes, so hell it is for you!”

But, still, if you’re a Christian, this is good news!

But if He doesn’t show, we have some things to discuss.

For instance, some may cry out that making it legal is somehow encouraging it. But, in all honestly, I can only say that the current state of society is exactly what religious conservatives have asked for.

Of course I’ll explain.

[But not before I first inform you that I am not a legal analyst, I did not read the decision word for word, and I don’t appreciate Supreme Court judges ruling on something that has nothing to do with the nation’s Constitution, as I am a proponent of state’s rights and would rather we the people rally for our own Constitutional amendment on this issue instead (as well as for a rescinding of Amendment 17 and for the creation of an amendment for term limits)—but we’re just too busy to educate ourselves enough to manage our own freedom, because, like, our Netflix queue is getting backed up, ya’ll, so thus it is.]

But back to the initial subject of my exquisite insights…

For the last few decades (probably more, but I was a toddler or unborn, so I can’t be sure), people have been harping on the shifting of American values and how this is a Christian nation (though that is not set forth in the Constitution, but you knew that). So Christians have demanded that the government rule them according to a certain belief system—enacting laws, forbidding things, granting things, going to war, etc. And so if a certain demographic wants the government to represent beliefs (which are largely emotional) and make laws according to the loudest cries of anguish (also emotional), then that government will shift according to the emotional arguments that best shift beliefs.

In essence, this is what you’ve wanted, this is how things have always been done—emotionally. But now the tables have turned.

I’m not antagonizing you. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m trying to convert you.

But bear with me.  I have another point to make.

As someone who was raised an LDS Christian, I cannot number the lessons we were taught about free agency, about how we wanted so badly to choose that we begged to come to earth and be tested, and that it was Satan’s plan to rob us of all choice.

Well, another option for marriage has been legalized. More choice. Could that really be a bad thing? I mean, wouldn’t it say more about a person’s faith to have all options and choose the path your faith defines?

Now, of course, so many will come at me with all kinds of options that should not be offered such as abortion, drugs, or other things that threaten life and property—but this does nothing of the sort. Same sex marriage, while new and largely untested, does not—as a concept or even in practice thus far—threaten life or property. Bend it this way or that, give me the worst case scenario, and, sure, you can imagine something horrible coming of this, but that’s panicking, and that’s not reasonable.

To be honest, religions have had a bit of struggle defining marriage throughout the centuries. And usually women were on the losing end of these experiments. Just read the Old Testament. Give that sucker a gander and you’ll see that men could pretty much own women at their whim. Even as recently as the 1800’s in America, Christian religions were popping up and either opening marriages to communal orgies or were simply allowing powerful men to hoard wives and send younger men out of the communities to hunt for mates.

So I guess if you want to be ruled by Christian values, you’re going to have to be pretty specific on the sect (and have all Christians agree on this sect—hahahah, best of luck because pretty much all differing sects think all of the other sects are dummies), and, if that sect is chosen, that sect had better have a pretty spotless history when it comes to marital doctrine and practice.

It isn’t possible. And while it’s scary to be ruled by different values or no values whatsoever, that is kind of what the founding fathers had in mind in creating a “charter of negative liberties,” so that the federal government would have little say in the day to day dealings of American citizens. So we don’t have to be scared. We can simply get back to basics and get back to minding our own business.

That said, I have to say that I’m not perfect in this regard. MYOB was not my strong suit in 2008. At the behest of my church—against my own judgment and experience—I supported Prop 8. I hated every minute of it, but I did it. And I paid heavily for it. And it will forever be a reminder to me to trust myself and never allow any institution to tell me to override bigger principles for petty ones.

And what are my principles? Do I have any values whatsoever? And what am I trying to convert you to?

That’s easy. Libertarianism.

No, not the college campus libertarianism where they argue for the legalization of drugs ad nauseam. (I’m a libertarian against the legalization of drugs, but that’s for a different post.) I’m talking about the grown up kind, where we have to come to a place of trusting good people, owning guns because bad people exist, and diminishing the idea that government is also religion and decides what is good and bad for us and society. If we had never allowed government to do this in the first place, I’m not sure we’d be here. In fact, I’m sure we wouldn’t be. Because the government would be so small and so limited to constructing roads, maintaining a military defense, and facilitating trade that we’d be like, “That’s nice, but just fix the potholes, please. We got this.” And same sex marriage would be defined by whatever sect would practice it and other sects would have a lot to say but little power to do much about it.

Politicians, activists, cable news anchors—they’re using you and messing with you. And they're making boat loads of money doing it.  

So join with me, please, in not giving a crap. In telling your children, “Be good, be honest, be giving, do good, work hard, and mind your own business.” And then start voting for small government candidates. And then start donating to charities so we take care of each other more and need government less. Because I believe in us. I believe we’ll take care of each other and be good to each other and find that, in this life, we’re all we’ve got and breaking each other builds nothing of worth.

Stranglehold, OUR and Tim Ballard

I get a certain question a lot. And, almost always, there’s an expression of concern or even caution on the asker’s face.

“Why do you write what you write? Where does it come from?”

Sometimes, depending on their eyes, the question I hear is, “Did you not get enough hugs as a kid? Is something wrong with you?”

I get it. What I write is unexpected. It’s dark. It’s difficult to get through at times.

And there’s a misconception out there that writers write from personal experience, especially if it’s written well. (I think I just paid myself a compliment, and I’m keeping it.) To a degree (small or large depending, obviously, since I’ve never been a vigilante assassin nor have I ever been a mother who lost a child), this may be true—for me. And if I ever write a memoir (psssssssh, doubt it), you can have fun connecting the dots.

But for now, the reason I write about darkness is to upchuck what I consume in learning about the sick capabilities of the barely-human in our species. Since I was a kid, I’ve had this problem of taking everything in and making it mine, putting myself in people’s shoes, truly trying to understand and imagining every detail. This wouldn’t be a problem if I liked living in a bubble and continually insulated myself from all things negative.

That’s not how I’m made.

And so, in 2007, with the new-ish popularity of Facebook, with the long, late hours of my husband, and with my need to be politically and worldly aware, I was given a couple of glimpses into the realm of human trafficking.

I was astonished and sickened and I immediately ferreted out articles, documentaries, exposés, anything.

At that point, there wasn’t much that could be done. But it was everywhere. Massage parlors, sweat shops, brothels, basements. And there were children, as young as toddlers, being stolen and sold. Mostly from third world countries where dirtbags were trapping and selling their own people into slavery (much as slavery has always been done).

As I wrote Stranglehold, I felt strongly that I needed to weave the sex trade into the storyline. People had to know. Yes, it was dark, yes, it was unfathomable, yes, it bordered on the ridiculous, because how could anyone be so evil and was I just stretching the truth as an author? No. I actually toned it down quite a bit, making it bearable for me to process into words and making it somewhat easier for readers to grasp.

But then there was a problem. How could I open people’s eyes to such a disturbing, disgusting, horrific reality and then end the fictional series and say, “Thanks for buying it! Take care!”

I couldn’t.

And so I searched for any organization that was doing something, anything, to stop this, to save those living under threat of such agony that they would endure the humiliation and torment of being raped multiple times a day. None such organization existed. Most of these victims came from countries with corrupt or inept governments. While I knew that the US ran sting operations through the vice sectors of their police departments (I’ve even been privy to the details of these operations through my friends in law enforcement and it’s truly nauseating), what was being done in elsewhere? Not much.

As I continued to write the series and delve deeper into the characters that perpetuated these crimes, and then portray the victims—some rescued and others lost—I felt the pit of dread within me deepen. How could I, in good conscience, detail the darkest of human capabilities with no solution to give my readers (and myself) some comfort?

I couldn’t.

I had drafted my entire 4-part series. As I put my efforts into getting it published, I could only hope that, sooner or later, I would find an organization that would kick ass and take names. Frankly, I wanted something heroic to happen. Something akin to what my characters in Stranglehold would do. Manipulate, lie, lure, laugh, and then break some necks. (Figuratively, I guess. *sigh*)

And then, one day early last year, something popped up in my newsfeed on Facebook.

A man named Tim Ballard was combatting human trafficking with a team of ass kickers and name takers.

Operation Underground Railroad was my answer.

After listening to the interview, relief washed through me, peace enfolded my darkened, heavy heart and I put my head on my desk and cried.

Finally.

These were men and women stepping away from safety and into the slippery and spiked darkness to pull the innocent to safety.

Having a close family member in law enforcement, I’ve learned a lot about what people will do to defend their seedy livelihoods. And I’m not talking about the heads of cartels. I’m talking about local drug dealers and identity thieves. When they’re found out, when they see cops coming, when they realize they’re about to lose it all, a flip is switched in some of them and finding a way to get a thirty-second head start becomes their only goal—whether that means hitting a cop or worse.

Now, imagine being in another country without a Constitution, without trial lawyers, without a vigilant (I use that term loosely) media, and without prisoners’ rights. Imagine the fight people on an OUR team face in case they’re found out. Imagine being in a situation where you’re playing at being one of the bad guys, so you can’t be decked out in tactical gear that will shield your most vital areas from bullets and punches. And imagine being in those situations thousands of miles from home where the medical treatment might be less than stellar.

I’d been writing about some majorly badass characters for years, and I’d been praying for badasses like them to save the women and children from the most scarring of invasions.

When I learned that OUR existed, I knew I had to help.

For a few years, I’ve toyed with how to tithe my earnings. I’ve donated to several charities, kind of spreading it out over a few causes that were dear to me. But, last year, after feeling like I had been kicked in the chest by the warmest fuzzies ever, I knew that my tithes needed to go to OUR. And I started sharing their information whenever and wherever I could.

I could tell my readers that, yes, they were going to read about some grimy things, but by simply purchasing my novel, they had already contributed toward the solution. Because a portion of my income from this series (yes, all 4 parts) is going to OUR to save more and more children and prevent so many more from ever seeing this living hell.

About six months after OUR was established, Carly, a friend of mine, mentioned that she’d seen my interest in OUR and that she wondered if I wanted to help put on an after party for an OUR 5K Rescue Run she was helping with. I was blown away for a second, but said, “Yeah. I mean, yeah! Of course.”

She said, “A mission costs twenty five thousand dollars,” she said. “That’s one mission. We want to raise that much.”

I thought about it for a second, realizing that if I shifted some things around, I could help.

“I can get you (this amount),” I told her. “We can pay that. We usually pay that at the end of the year, but we’ll make it work early if we have to.”

She stared at me for a moment.  “Kate, I can get you a booth for that. You could be a sponsor. You’d be on the t-shirts and everything.”

That made me stupid for a second. That sounded so grown up and, you know, official.

Fast forward another six months to the day of the event.

I was up before dawn. My supplies for my booth were all organized and ready. And I was dressed strategically—it would be a hot day and I wanted to be as much help to Carly, Rebeca, Renae, Jill and their crew as possible. So instead of heels, it was flats, and instead of long, glamorous curls, it was a high pony.

And the first thing I said to Carly that morning? “I hope I get to meet Tim Ballard.” The founder of OUR, he was speaking at the event and I just wanted to shake his hand.

I’ve met actors, musicians, famous people. They’re nice. If they’re at a distance, I don’t bother them. I point them out by saying, “Hey, there’s (that guy),” and then I go on with my day. I don’t rush in for a selfie or an autograph, mostly because I would HATE it if people were constantly interrupting my life.

But when it came to Mr. Ballard, it was different. This man is a hero. And so is his wife, dang it! (Maybe especially his wife, because some people are just made to do dangerous work and their minds don’t worry like the minds of their spouses who get it but don’t get it and who support it but also secretly—though maybe only slightly—hate it.) And I wanted to thank him. I had to thank him.

I was at my booth as much as possible, signing copies of my book, hugging friends, holding babies, taking pictures. It was fun. But when I heard Mr. Ballard’s voice through the speakers, I abruptly left a conversation to join the crowd, telling my hubs to take over and forge my signature if need be—I wasn’t going to miss this.

When Mr. Ballard descended the stage and was immediately engulfed in the crowd, I went back to my booth, thinking I’d see him pass by or something and be able to stop him for a moment.

 

 

Me and My Husband at the OUR Rescue Run, May 30

(Photo credit: Heather Foley DelHoyo)

But the day wore on, the heat of the day pushing down on every inch, and the event slowed to a stop. When my husband started breaking down my booth, I immediately sought out Mr. Ballard, finding his sister instead.

“He just drove off,” she said.

“Okay, alright,” I said. “That’s a bummer. Okay.”

But as I walked away, I teared up a bit.

Okay, fine, whatever. So you didn’t get to thank him. He probably gets it all the time. And you wouldn’t have had time to explain your gratitude anyway.  So what. He wouldn’t have remembered you with the millions of people he’s met and the dozens of people who shook his hand. Who cares. Would Gemma Pearl cry about this? Shaddup. You’re just tired. You need a nap.

The next morning, as I stood in old, stained clothes, sweating in my garage, sorting through things we’d stored for years and carefully covered in layers of dust, my cell phone rang. It was Renae, one of the coordinators of the race.

“Hey, Kate, want to meet Tim Ballard today?”

I started to speak but my throat cramped and it probably sounded more like a burp.

“We need you to bring him some medals from the race and present them to him and his family,” she said.

Want to hear some total boobishness? I started crying. (And yes, I was still tired and a nap would have been delicious!)

It wasn’t that I was starstruck or infatuated. Frankly, I get stupid over almost no one. I can look at others who are talented and successful and say, “We’re all good at different things,” and respect and value them. But it’s an entirely different emotional phenomena for me to meet a man who believes in the same cause but who risked everything—even his life—to do something about it. I didn’t. I just wanted to find someone to take my money and fix the problem. Sure, I can learn all about it and write about it, but leave my job and family to start a non-profit and then shake hands with child rapists in South America?

So, I have an immense respect for men on the OUR team, for their families, for their willingness to walk into a storm and carry children out of the nightmare. And what’s the least awkward way to tell a complete stranger that?

Well, this was my chance to figure that out.

“It’s not right that you didn’t get to meet him,” Renae told me. “Will you do this for us?”

I agreed hesitantly, not feeling that the honor was mine. I hadn’t done as much work as those ladies had done for the Rescue Run, but she insisted that it would be a big favor to her.

When I got off the phone, I looked up at my husband atop the step ladder and said, “You’re coming with me. Look pretty.”

Two hours later, I held the tangled medals in one hand and knocked on the door with the other.

Again, I had been strategic with my outfit choice.

Don’t wear heels. You’re 6’4” in heels and no one’s as tall as you and it’s distracting. Pull your hair back because it’s 500 degrees out. Red lipstick was a risk but it’s not on your teeth, so stop licking them.

My husband wore a button up shirt and jeans. It took him ten minutes. I doubt he was standing there thinking, “I hope this print doesn’t make me look bloated.” Infuriating. But he looked too damn good to be mad at. Which made me mad too.

Not a second later, Mr. Ballard opened the door. He stepped back, waving toward himself and saying, “Come on in.”

Upon stepping into the home and shaking his hand, I was completely disarmed. He took the medals with a smile, read them carefully with a bit of awe in his smile and then shared them with others who had wandered in.

And then he looked at me with a warm smile and waited, giving me my moment. I only wanted one.  And I wasn’t going to cry.

But something happened when I stepped into the presence of someone who is truly on an errand of hallowed devotion. I expected to be shaky, stuttering, sickened with nerves. But when I stood before someone humble and great, he didn’t look at me with expectation or urgency, and I went completely calm and I could speak plainly and I didn’t feel rushed or otherwise crushed.

So I thanked him. I thanked his wife. I gave him a copy of my book with a letter inside. I hugged him. I hugged his wife. I thanked them, over and over. And then my husband thanked them, saying, “Kate’s so passionate about this. She was so excited when she heard about what you guys do. Thanks for doing it.”

I won’t tell you everything we spoke about. But it was nice to tell the founder of an immense, powerful, needed organization that I stood with him and his team, that I was grateful for him and his team, and that I and the purchase my readers made of my work would contribute to the recovery and healing of the most precious who otherwise would have been lost.

 

Thank you for sharing a few moments with me, Mr. Ballard. Thank for being the immense and warm man that you are. I’m grateful that I could tell you of the miracles—big and small—that I’ve experienced so I could support OUR and, likely, because I have supported it. (One of them being not meeting you so I could then really meet you.) This has brought me so much peace and so much hope.

To the OUR team and their families, thank you. To those who gave and continue to give to OUR, thank you. To my readers, who spend their hard earned money on my books because of their love for me and for their support for OUR, thank you. Thank you.

Minutiae: A Short Story

 

I got the call just after I landed in London. It was Anna and her voice was shaking.

“Hank, there’s been an accident,” she told me quietly.

I could barely hear her. Putting my fingertips against my exposed ear to block out as much sound as possible, I asked, “Anna? Say that again. What’s wrong?”

“There was an accident,” she said. “Audrey’s been in an accident.”

I couldn’t take another step. I stopped dead in the middle of sitting area of the gate. Passengers filed around me, pulling their roller luggage and muttering under their breaths about the prig who’d clogged the exit in his shock.

“It was bad, Hank,” she said. “She lost her legs. They were just gone. And they could barely keep her alive. Just barely. They’re not sure they can work with anything.”

I couldn’t speak. “What, uh, what-”

“It was a car accident,” she said. “A pile up. She was crushed in her car.”

Sitting in the waiting room, after a thirteen hour return flight, leaning my elbows on my knees and staring down at the speckled white tile, the only prayer I said was, “I need her. Please, God, I need her.”

I’d arrived fifteen hours into a twenty-hour surgery. Still wearing my tailored suit and having forgotten to so much as loosen my tie, it didn’t even dawn on me to eat.

Over the phone as I boarded my plane, Anna told me that the doctors had an experimental option they could try, but it was risky. With no time for details, with no hope for her recovery otherwise, I told Anna to sign whatever she had to sign to get Audrey the treatment. Anything. The cost didn’t matter. I’d sell the house, get another job or five, and beg for money from anyone, everyone.

Of course, sitting there for hours, having no more information on the treatment or her condition, I allowed my mind to flip through the infinite possibilities of how our lives could change forever.

What if she were deformed? What if her face had been warped by fire or the impact of the steering wheel? What if she were no longer exquisitely beautiful or even at all familiar?

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

She’d lost her legs. So we’d have to change the house. I could have ramps built, get her a badass wheelchair, help train her when they gave her mechanical legs, because she’d want to jog again. It was her therapy, her connection to the world around her. She could get that back.

What if we couldn’t have kids? That was why we’d gotten married—to have children together.

But that wasn’t true. I married her because I loved her. It was a testament, a statement, an act that was proof of my devotion to her soul. There were no conditions on it. I had married her, not our future, not our potential, not our possibilities. Her.

And she was alive. Even if all of her hopes and dreams were crushed out of her, I would change my course and trod a new path with her. Just as long as she was with me.

But what if it failed? What if I lost her?

I couldn’t.

I’d have to call her parents, her siblings, her friends. I’d have to pick out a casket, pick out an outfit, give them a photo so they’d know how to paint her face. I’d have to say goodbye to a body, not to her. And not even her whole body. Parts of her.

I put my head in my hands, letting out a shaky but quiet sob.

Putting her in a hole in some strange park where there were only other strange, cold bodies.

I couldn’t.

I would go mad from having to drive away from her, all I’d known of her, all I’d felt from her, all I’d used to connect to that bright, warm soul of hers.

Our bed. I’d have to sleep alone in it. We’d bought it together. It had only been ours. And I couldn’t sleep without her in it.

Just the other night, I was having trouble sleeping—tossing and turning from the anxiety of my big trip to London—and she’d turned on her bedside lamp, climbed on top of me and pulled off her nightshirt.

Thirty minutes later, we were both sleeping soundly.

Never again? Was that it? Was that strong, responsive body of hers beginning its decay?

I wiped my face, looking  over at Anna as she stared ahead at nothing.

When a nurse came out, Anna was on her feet and jogging toward her.

We’d agreed on that—she would keep the doctors and nurses at a distance to get their updates on the surgery. Because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want the blow-by-blow, the ups-and-downs of whatever procedures they were performing. I just wanted to know if she made it once it was all over.

Anna returned, her gait relaxed but swift.

I knew all I needed to know with that and Anna sat down silently, giving me no details.

Audrey wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead.

I bowed my head again, trying not to think about the grief in our friends’ voices when I called them with the outcome—Audrey was gone, Audrey lost her legs, Audrey isn’t the same Audrey.

Regardless, all of that would be true in some way. Trauma like this, it changes people. But, in her core, she’d be Audrey and I’d find a way to reach that again. She’d need to be held—a lot. And she’d want to sleep on my chest or with a hand on my ribs. On any bad day, I could count on her needing me close. It would always soothe her hurting heart to sit in the cove of my arm and feel my random kisses on her scalp as we watched sitcoms.

I looked over at Anna, Audrey’s older sister, and I saw a brunette replica of my blonde wife. Would it always hurt for me to see Anna if Audrey’s face was horrifically warped? Would it always hurt Audrey to see her?

It didn’t matter. With the lights off, with Audrey in bed beside me laughing, it wouldn’t matter.

I needed Audrey. Her heart, her wisdom, her love for me. Unwavering. Unabashed. Unreal.

Shoes came squeaking toward us.

It wasn’t a nurse, but a doctor—a surgeon.

This time, I was on my feet and ready. But not. Not at all. Never ready.

“Mr. Webster,” he said, putting his hand out for me to shake.

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking into his wrinkled yet strangely youthful face and relaxing.

He seemed optimistic, even excited.

“It was a complete success,” he told me.

Anna slapped her hand over her mouth in her relief.

“What was?” I asked. “What does that mean? Can she walk? Is she whole? What does that mean for her?”

The doctor glanced at Anna with a bit of confusion.

“He didn’t want the details,” Anna informed him quietly, hesitantly.

Something was wrong. They were about to tell me something I wouldn’t be happy to hear.

“Well, Mr. Webster, we acted very, very quickly,” he said. “Audrey, she didn’t have time. Not even a minute to spare. The injuries were so extensive that she was bleeding everywhere and we couldn’t stop it. We had to act very, very quickly, and, fortunately, things aligned and we had an opportunity no one has ever seized before. We had a team of specialists, scientists and it was flawless. Truly an advancement that will help so many. So, so many. Starting with Audrey.”

I waited, glancing at Anna and then back at the doctor.

“Why does it seem like something bad has happened?” I asked. “She’s okay, right? You don’t think it would be a ‘success’ if she died, right?”

“No, not at all,” he said, glancing at Anna and giving her a bit of a scolding with his eyes.

Likely, he thought he’d be coming out to a celebration, not a difficult discussion, and our handling of the situation had dampened his triumph.

“Mr. Webster, your wife’s body had been broken beyond recovery,” he said. “There was absolutely no saving her without this particular procedure.”

“Just tell me,” I finally snapped.

“Your wife has been given an entirely new body,” he said.

I stared at him blankly, unable to process his words.

“Mr. Webster?”

“Hank?” Anna asked.

“So she’s fine,” I said. “She can walk and run and we can travel and maybe have kids, right? I mean, they wouldn’t genetically be Audrey’s, but they’d be ours. She’s okay.”

The doctor glanced at Anna again, pressing his lips together.

“What?” I asked. “Is it an older body? That’s fine. As long as she’s not a six year-old.”

“Mr. Webster, she was given the body of the genetic match for her heart and her brain.”

“You transplanted her heart and her brain?” I asked, my voice rising.

“Yes,” he said. “We were only concerned about finding a genetic match so that the new body wouldn’t reject her organs—the organs that make Audrey Audrey.”

“So, okay,” I said. “Why are you acting like I’m about to freak out?”

“It was the body of a twenty-nine year-old man,” he said.

I just stared at him.

“It’s just a body, Mr. Webster,” he said. “Her brain is female and it will regulate the hormones released, so the physique may become more feminized, but-”

“What about a sex change?” Anna asked.

“The physiology is very, very fragile and will be for some time,” he said. “Choosing any additional trauma would be reckless. Surgeries and hormone treatments would do more damage. This is a miracle. If she wakes up and knows who she is, with memories intact, with her relationships in her mental grasp, then she can go on to live a very healthy even rich life.”

But Anna went on. “Her relationship with Hank is the most important thing to her. That connection, that physical intimacy—it’s how she feels connected to him. It’s important.”

“She’ll have it,” I said quietly. “Whatever she wants. We’ll figure it out.”

Anna looked up at me, stunned.

“She’s alive,” I said. “The body is strong and healthy. She’s alive. It’s still her.”

“That’s what we’re hoping, yes,” he said.

She’d been in a car accident, been in excruciating pain, had likely been so close to death that her body giving out would have been a huge relief, yet she would awake in a strange body with my reassurance being the only thing that would comfort her.

It was just a body. He was right. It was only a body. It would still be her in there and she would need me.

“She’s going to have a hell of a lot to deal with when she wakes up,” I said.

“Yes,” the doctor said gently. “But we will be ready with physical therapists, emotional counselors, all kinds of specialists to make this adjustment with as much support as possible.”

“And when will she wake up?” I asked.

“We’re going to keep her isolated because her immune system has been repressed so that the body will better accept the new organs,” he said. “But she’ll be able to hear you. And there will be gloves in the curtains so you can hold her hand in a way.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where is she?”

She was on an upper floor of the hospital in her own large room with clear plastic curtains surrounding her bed, as if she had a communicable disease, when, actually, it was us. The mildest cold virus could kill her.

But was she a her anymore?

The form on the bed was male. He was young, he was thin but muscular, with dark brown, smooth skin, and strong hands. As I neared, I saw that he had a square jaw, full lips, a wide nose and perfectly curly eyelashes. It all fit together, though, and he wasn’t ugly.

She?

It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

With my hand over my mouth, I just stared at the form asleep on the bed with large bandages wrapped around the skull and more bandages taped to the chest.

Her mind and heart were in there.

And for days, as I sat at that bedside, staring at that young man’s body, I had time to imagine how badly she would need me when she woke to this. She would want my touch, my embrace, my kiss. She would need to believe I desired her—if not her body then her comfort from my closeness.

Could I? My God, could I?

And what would people think?

If I walked down the street, holding the hand of this man’s body—only my wife feeling it—would people think I was cheating on Audrey? That I was gay? That I was some kind of perverse reprobate?

What would my parents think? What would my parents’ friends think? What would people at church think? Would I have to wear some kind of explanatory t-shirt? And what would it say?

My Wife Had Her Brain Transplanted?

I’m Straight But My Wife’s A New Man?

Don’t Look at Us Like That or My Wife Will Kick Your Ass?

But after all of that, after all of that energy spent on hoping to make others understand, I realized it didn’t matter and the ideal t-shirt only required two words.

F*** Off.

They didn’t have to understand, they didn’t have to approve, they didn’t have a say. At the end of the day, we’d lock the doors on the world and have each other.

I didn’t marry her body. I married her soul. If that was in there, then that was where my heart was safe.

I chose her. I wanted her. I could have her.

We would figure out the details.

One day, when I arrived, they told me they had moved her to another room. I’d have to take a special shower and then put on the clothing they provided along with a mask before I could enter her room directly from that shower stall.

After days of watching the still, serene form in the bed, the doctors cut back on the sedation and her eyelids fluttered and opened, in search of something.

The search ended when her gaze settled on me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, already holding her hand.

“Hey, baby,” I said.

“Hank?” she asked weakly, startling herself with the strangeness of her voice.

“It’s okay,” I said, calming her. “Things will seem strange for a while, but it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

She smiled weakly, the full lips parting slightly to show straight white teeth.

“I have a headache,” she said. “Am I hungover? Did I have fun? Did I finally beat you at drunk arm wrestling?”

I laughed. “No, but I’m sure you’ll beat at me arm wrestling no matter what from now on.”

She examined me for a moment and then looked around at all of the machines and tubes and then she looked over my weird outfit.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You were in an accident,” I told her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

That was so her. Always checking on me first.

“You look tired,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine, Audrey,” I said, putting my gloved hand on her stubbled, warm cheek. “I’m good. I’m really, really good. Now. Finally.”

And I bowed my head to hide my tearful eyes.

It was her. She was in there. It was really her.

The rest was just details. Insignificant yet miraculous details.

She squeezed my hand, seeming instantly peaceful when I smoothed my thumb over her rough knuckles.

My touch could reach her heart and warm her soul. She’d want more and I’d give it.

She was her, and we were us, and I was lucky. Lucky as hell.  

 

KJeffries

051515

The Cruellest Kindness of a Stranger

It was a rainy day in May. Though I was six months pregnant, I hadn't yet resorted to the waddle that helps disperse the weight of the awkward belly.

I'm not one of those women who glows with pregnancy. In fact, if someone were to look at me during pregnancy, they would likely wonder what had been alluring enough about me for my husband to want me to contribute my genes to his offspring. My face immediately becomes haggard, splotchy and sunken while my nose, for some reason, swells just enough for me to avoid mirrors altogether. The exhaustion from not only lugging around a heavy belly but also getting less sleep shows in my gait as well as the bags beneath my eyes. Although, when pregnant, I do my makeup pretty regularly, my wonky, puffy lips are made all the more ridiculous with lipstick and I look altogether clownish in my attempts to glamorize the figurative mugging that comes with growing an infant.

Another bonus of baby incubating is that your body pretty much stops giving a damn about you. As a mommy, when you see others care for your child with tenderness and selflessness, it's a rather warming, restorative feeling. So, when thinking upon this ideal, I can theorize that I am grateful that my body has his same approach. But in reality, the whole Screw-You-Lady-I'm-Busy-With-Your-Spawn gets a little old when the host body is ill. When I get sick whilst pregnant, that phlegm ain't goin' nowhere for at least a month. And since my sleep is already impaired with a wriggling creature in my belly, having to wake myself AND that child to cough up a lung is rather inconvenient.

I avoided touching things as much as I could.

Getting sick--nope, not an option.

And so, one day, when my husband and I sauntered into the Valley Produce Market to do some comparison shopping, we decided to divide and conquer. I perused the produce section, looking over the fruits that help reduce water retention--not for vanity, but for reduction of cankles (they really do hurt).

I found a few things I wanted to try and I tore a plastic bag from the roll. Minding the arrows, I started rubbing the end of the bag with the opening. It wasn't opening. For an instant, I considered licking my fingertips but realized I had been out running errands and hadn't washed my hands and I didn't want to ingest whatever bacteria had accumulated on my hands as we'd toured the town. So I kept rubbing the end of the bag between my fingertips, hoping something would give.

Two women nearby noticed me and my belly, asking me when I was due. We made light conversation and their voices were just as sing-songy as most people's are when engaging strangers about happy possibilities. "Oh, how sweeeeeeeeeeet," and, "Aw, you don't knooooooow what you're haviiiiiiiiiiiiiing?" Lots of off-key warbling.

And then one of the women noticed that I had been maniacally rubbing the end of the bag between my fingers with absolutely no luck.

"You can't get it open?" she asked.

"No, and I don't want to lick my fingers," I said. "It'll give eventually."

She tore a bag from the roll, licked her fingers, rubbed the end of the bag with her spitty digits, and then handed the bag to me.

Horrified but smiling, I took the sealed end of the bag from her.

I couldn't breathe. This was too much. I wasn't even a germaphobe, but, oh hell, this woman was trying to kill me. What do I do with this? I can't. I just--who--I can't--that was so nice but so dumb--so, so dumb--but she was trying--and--nope--not okay.

"Don't worry, I'm not sick," she said, giving me a proud smile for her helpfulness and then getting back to sorting through the piles of produce for the gem of an apple she needed.

Still stunned with disgust and yet deeply touched at her motherly kindness, I didn't have the heart to shriek and stomp on the bag as if it were on fire. But I so wanted to.

Instead, I dropped the bag out of sight and kicked it under the avocado stand, at which time my frantic rubbing finally produced enough heat for the bag to give and open for me.

Stuffing the bag with a few avocados, I thanked her again and hustled off. Screw the rest of the produce. Like hell I could handle any more of that angelic woman's kindness.

Judging Robin Williams

My favorite nurse was Heidi. She was vivacious, blunt and she did nothing but inform and encourage me whenever she came into the room. More than a few times, she'd place her hands on my head and say, "You are incredible," and then she'd close her eyes and tilt her head back in dramatic regard for God. It always made me laugh, but then she'd say, "I'm being silly but I'm not joking. I'm so glad you're  my patient. I've been bragging about you all morning and all the other nurses are jealous."

I scoffed.

"You're working your ass off, Kate," she said. "You've been nursing that baby for three days straight and you're not quitting. I've never seen a mother so happy and determined as you are. And I just love when I get to come in here and check on you."

She had no idea what I'd been through that pregnancy. I hadn't slept for 3 months, I hadn't been able to take a deep breath for 2, and the last month had been so hot that I had barely wanted to move but had managed to spend a good portion of my days in the community pool with my toddler. The last 17 weeks of the pregnancy, I had worried about my baby's kidneys and that the pyelectasis had been a marker for Downs Syndrome.

But he had arrived safely, and he was strong and beautiful and so sweet, and I was safe, and I could breathe and the nausea was gone, and I could finally hold my baby - I never wanted to put him down. He was finally with me, safe, and so tiny, and hungry as hell. So, yes, I had to nurse him around the clock because my body had NEVER gotten the hang of producing much, but I didn't mind because I was grateful - so stupid-crazy grateful.

"Your abdomen is still distended more than I like to see," Heidi told me. "So we're going to keep you here for one more day and hope we see improvement tomorrow. But you'll likely go home tomorrow afternoon."

As much as I hated the hospital, and as badly as I wanted to get home to my toddler, I was fine with it.

For the rest of the day, I held my baby whenever I was awake, stroking his silky dark hair and watching him sleep or nurse. My husband convinced me to let him hold him so I could sleep, and I got a good 3 hours before the baby needed me again. I was excited to have him back and quickly got to work nursing him, no matter the horrific pain of it.

Heidi came back in a few hours later to tell me it was the end of her shift and the next day was her day off, so this was it for us. She hugged me tightly, told me she had never seen a mother so happy and so bright before, and then passed me off to another nurse, who said, "Heidi told me all about you. She said you're her favorite patient. We're going to have fun. " Her name was Vanessa.

That night, my husband left for home to give our toddler some dinner, a bath, and a goodnight kiss for me.

Me and my baby were on our own for a little bit, and I didn't mind whatsoever.

I'd had a good dinner, drunk a lot of water, and nursed him for a good two hours. I needed a bathroom break.

I swaddled him tightly, put him back in his little hospital box thingy, and used the facilities, making sure I washed my hands thoroughly.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I stood over my baby as he looked around and fought sleep.

So sweet, so beautiful. I willed myself toward him but didn't move.

A strange, cold, spiny dread had sprung in my gut.

Looking at him, seeing how tiny and perfect he was, I reminded myself that I loved him.

I had to remind myself. You love him, Kate. You love him, remember?

Yes, I could remember. Clearly. I had a perfect recollection of it. It was only moments ago.

I can't pick him up. I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to do this. I need to leave. I can't breathe. I can't stop shaking. My husband took the car. Is there anywhere for me to hide? Can I walk to a hotel? Do I have my wallet? I need to leave. I have to go. I can't do this.

Knock, knock. Nurse Vanessa.

She saw my face and immediately smiled warmly.

She knew. She must have seen this face before. She must have understood. And I was going to get in trouble. They were going to take my baby away and my husband would never forgive me.

"What's going on?" she asked. "What's going through your mind right now?"

"I don't know," I said shakily. "I was fine a minute ago. I don't know what happened."

I had to be careful what I said, or they'd take him away and put me on psychiatric hold.

"I can't stop crying," I said. "I just can't stop."

She told me I needed to sleep, to try to lay down and sleep.

A few hours later, while my husband slept on the chair in the corner and the baby slept in the box thingy, I sneaked out of the room. Holding my hospital gown shut by gripping one of the ties at my hip, I wandered the halls. I had no place to go, no place to be, and I couldn't sleep. The shaking, the panic, the crying - I couldn't sleep. Especially not with the baby right next to me. I couldn't have him anywhere near me.

And so I wandered, and paced, and sobbed as quietly as I could for an hour before Vanessa found me and walked with me. She asked me questions, so many questions, and I had to be careful how I answered.

What I wanted to say:

I don't want to do this. I don't want my family anymore. I want to run away and die. I can't do this. I'm in so much pain, my heart is tearing open with each beat and I feel like I'm turning inside out, and I wish I could die, because I can't do this. I can't. I don't want to. It's too much and I'm too tired and I just want to lay down and never wake up.

What I actually said amidst hiccupping sobs:

"He deserves a better mother than me. I don't know why I feel this way. One minute I was fine, and then it was like I was hit with a baseball bat and I can't breathe or sleep and I feel like throwing up. I shouldn't be his mom - he needs someone else."

Vanessa got on the phone with the doctor on call to get me a prescription for anti-anxiety medication, ordered the nursery nurses to take the baby into the nursery, and took me to my room. I didn't want my husband awakened but she woke him anyway and told him what I was going through as I took the pill that would knock me out for a few hours.

Then, the next day, they sent me home.

I woke up crying, went to sleep crying, sat on the couch nursing my baby while my toddler played nearby and I just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. When my husband took the baby, I'd go into my bedroom, fall to the floor and cry so hard that my abdominal muscles burned. (Nope, it didn't help me get my pre-baby six pack back, dammit.) And I'd sit at the dinner table, crying while I ate. And my husband would send me out to get some fresh air, and I'd find a curb far away from home where I could sit and cry into my knees.

I couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't stop crying, I couldn't cry hard enough, and I never wanted to go back home.

I remember, one day, before I headed out for a walk, my husband put his hands on my face and asked, "You're going to come home, right?" I nodded, telling myself he'd be fine if I didn't.

And I had visitors, and people asked, "Have you tried praying to feel better?" I considered acting on my rage by punching them repeatedly, wondering if it would cure me, but I simply answered, "Every minute since it hit."

People told me to eat right, to get exercise, and to be grateful. They worried I didn't love my baby.

And I'd go into my room and cry again, feeling like I didn't have enough faith, that I didn't love my baby enough, that I was a spoiled brat who couldn't be happy having everything wonderful I'd ever wanted.

But even then I knew - this wasn't me. This was my body. My body was doing this. It wasn't my fault.

But I didn't believe - not even for a second - that I would ever feel better.

When I was in it, that was it - this was my new reality and I would just have to pull myself through every horrible moment of it for others' sakes. I was drowning in despair, trying so hard to override it all with my mind, trying to control it, trying to push it down, trying to overturn every bad thought with a good one, but it wasn't working. I was choosing to be happy, I wanted joy, I had earned bliss, and I deserved peace. I wasn't sinful, I wasn't lazy, I wasn't attention hungry. If anything, I wanted to be left alone completely. I wanted to face no one.

I wanted escape.

It had been weeks. Weeks.

And even though my husband had put me in the guest room to sleep while he fed the baby at night so I could have a break from nursing to allow some healing (my baby actually vomited my blood, which did wonders for my mindset!), and even though I was getting a little more sleep and was forcing food into my belly and cinching my throat shut to hold it down, and even though I had amazingly supportive, understanding and generous friends, I was still hoping for some kind of escape.

Maybe I wouldn't wake up the next morning, maybe I'd get hit by a car on my walk, maybe the earth would swallow me whole.

My parents offered to watch my children so I could get out with my husband, but I didn't want to leave the house - and, what, bawl in the middle of a nice restaurant? And then have to come home - ugh - to nurse again. I didn't care how badly I was suffocating - I couldn't go out in public.

I was a failure, and I was sure people were scared of me, and I was positive I was a horrible mother and my family would be better off if I just left. My faith hadn't cured me, others' faith hadn't cured me, and I simply wasn't strong enough to cure myself.

I wanted so badly to be happy. Those first few days after my second child's birth were among the happiest days in my life. How did this happen? Why did I have lose that? And would I ever get it back?

Two weeks after the birth of my perfect little boy, two weeks into the darkest hell of my life, two weeks of surviving and taking weird pills and hating living, I sat on the couch with my husband by my side and we watched television. It was usually one of the worst times I day - I would just sit silently and cry, wiping my face with burp rags and dreading bedtime.

But that night, things were different. As I sat there with my baby sleeping on my chest, I said, "I feel better."

My husband perked up. "You what?"

"I feel better," I said. "I don't know. I just feel better." And I even smiled.

The next day was easier. I didn't cry.

The day after that, we went to the park as a family.

Three weeks after his birth, I looked forward to getting him up from his nap and holding him and playing with him. I was proud of him, and I found small joys in him, and I wanted him and my toddler around.

A month later, it was possible I was going to be okay. I finally believed that. I was going to be fine.

I've been in ruts, or funks, or had hard times before and since. I know when I'm getting over a breakup, or am overwhelmed with the holidays, or am grieving a lost loved one. I know when it's circumstance and I know when it's chemical. And, yes, I can choose joy when I'm going through a hard time, and I can look for the good to pull myself out of a rut, and I can pray away a funk or two.

But there are times when that just isn't possible.

And so when I read that Robin Williams was hurting so badly that he hurt himself to death, I understood and I grieved because of how much pain he must have been in. Because I know when you can't escape yourself, when your own mind is self-destructing and when you can no longer sense reality.

It's easy to call him selfish, to blame his ego, to even be angry at him. And, conversely, it's easy to say that we shouldn't honor him because it might encourage others. But only people who cannot imagine that kind of pain are the ones fearful that random people will simply end themselves. No, healthy, happy, occasionally troubled people don't just kill themselves. Not often. And so paying respects to a brilliant man in too much pain to live won't likely give others ideas. It's an exquisite pain that drives someone to that point.

Yes, you can choose to live. And you should. He should have. It pains me that he suffered and that he's gone. It hurts me that his family is beside themselves with shock and grief - a grief that will never, ever go away. And what is even more frustrating is that he could have been helped and he could have gotten better. But to say depression is a choice or a chosen mindset is irresponsible at least.

I wanted to be joyful. I loved my baby, my toddler and my husband, but I was in an immense struggle with my brain and I was injured from childbirth and burdened with expectations. It was my mind that was breaking me. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it. No amount of praying, gratitude, or positive thinking could change anything. I knew, rationally, so many things, but reality was still falling apart.

No, you can't snap out of it. No, you can't pray for God to fix it. No, you can't just hope for the best and not think about it anymore. Do we tell that to patients who've had heart attacks? No, they take aspirin and other meds. Do we say that to type 1 diabetics? No, we give them insulin. Do we say that to people with ear infections? No, they get antibiotics.

This is the human mind gone haywire - a chemical, a hormone, a gland is off course and it needs correction. And it's not your fault, and you don't deserve it, and you can get better.

There is help. A better life is ahead, I assure you. It might take some different attempts at different medications and it might require some lifestyle changes and sacrifices, but you are worth it because you are needed here. People love you, people would hurt at losing you, and you would miss so many beautiful things here. The first cool, crisp breeze of autumn, good belly laughs, deep kisses, the smell of new rain, Jimmy Fallon, hearing a song on the radio for the first time and loving it immediately, warm cookies... 

Life isn't perfect. It's hard. People are in pain everywhere. But we can find joy in so many things, in each other, in our own little quiet corners that we've carved out for ourselves and a few loved ones. And we can know pain and regard pain and let pain pass so we can have a few moments of peace and even delight.

There is help. From one hopeless person who truly felt the substance of me had gone dark, I can tell you that I hadn't realized how simple the solution was and how bright the world would become.

You don't deserve to be in pain and you don't deserve to die. Stay, try, find help. It's here. You're worth it.