Living, Dying, & The Shape of My Heart

I had no idea I’d be dying somewhat slowly but surely on a rainy Monday March morning. 

In 2010, at the age of 37, I was closer to death than many get that are lucky enough to make the trip back from the abyss.

I wasn't feeling too great the week before, but that weekend had been judging at a leather contest weekend in Indiana.  Because you know, leather never sleeps.  I was fortunate to share the weekend and general frivolities with a good number of my leather family and we were making the most of the time, as we do. 

Returning home on Sunday, I didn’t feel great and I attributed it to being away, drinking too much alcohol, eating differently… you know, a leather weekend.  I told myself I would feel better after some rest in my own bed.  But when I woke up Monday, I felt worse.  I’m not an alarmist so I knew some bed rest world help me feel better.  On a trip out of bed to get some water, I felt a stabbing pain in my abdomen.  Something was very wrong, and at that point primal instinct of “get back to a safe place in bed” was all I knew. 

After a somewhat dismissive and disoriented conversation with Michael where I asked him to go to the drugstore and talk to the pharmacist for an easy fix, he knew something was wrong and came home from work.  I’m lucky he did, as he’s one of people who saved my life that day. 

Twelve hours later after much medical ado and morphine, I was told by personnel that I was going to emergency surgery in fifteen minutes.  They also told me if I made it through my life might not be the same again. 

Twelve hours earlier, the pain I felt was my intestine rupturing.  I hope you heard some of the amusing rumors which went around after word of my surgery and hospitalization got out.  If only it was some exotic anal intrusion… sigh.  The source of this situation was nothing more glamorous then non-diagnosed and asymptomatic diverticulitis.  At least that’s what they tell me. 

Michael was by my side the entire time.  I had not wanted to worry my birth family; I thought I’d be in and out.  But when I heard fifteen minutes, the only thing on my mind was making sure I made the most of the time to reassure the ones I loved the most that I did. 

I shared what I thought were my last words to Michael while a phone was being located for me to make a few calls. 

I quickly took stock; no regrets but wishes for more time with the ones I loved, even though I lived a full life.  I didn't think of money, possessions, loans, obligations, or banking.  All I could feel was pain in my body, and in my mind,  intense sadness at the thought of no more time with loved ones.  Up to this point in my life, I feel I had lived in a loving fashion and had appreciated those who mattered to me.  But it didn't feel like enough.  I hadn't loved enough. 

I made calls to two people, explained quickly why I was calling, spilled tears, and told them in no uncertain terms how much I loved them.  But it didn't seem like enough.  Did they know the depth of feeling I had for them?  Had I expressed myself thoroughly up to the point of my death?  And was my feeling for them great enough for them to hold after I was gone?

I completed my calls and spent the rest of my time looking at Michael; doing my best to communicate all I felt in what I thought were my last words ever to him.  By that point we had been together over a decade, and had forged our own unconventional, but happy way the side by side.  We had celebrated little moments and big moments alike, and shared everything.  I always had been communicative, and had told him I love him every day.  But it wasn’t enough.

Before I was to be wheeled to surgery, I asked him for the lipstick from my purse, because I wasn't meeting my demise without it.  Live a femme, die a femme.  He gave it to me; he’s a good man.

When one is dying, the brain releases dimethlyltryptamine, the chemical in the body which causes us to dream.  Between dreamtime chemicals, pain, morphine, and raw emotion, I was feeling a bit “floaty”.  Factoring all those things which could dull the mind, coming as close to death as I had solidified this crystal clear ideal.  The most important truth in this life was love, and the most valuable legacy we can leave is our loved ones. 

I was pleasantly surprised to wake up after the four hour surgery.  Total joy was short lived when I discovered how much tubing and how many machines I was connected to.  Combine mechanics, physical duress, two collapsed lungs as a result of surgery and healing time; those things lead to a five day total state of being incapacitated.  My mind seldom rested.  I set myself little goals to make it through painful hours and morphine nightmares; in between I considered my relationships with loved ones.  There are no words to describe the sense of opportunity I felt when I felt I might have a little more time. 

After a week in the hospital, losing a foot of colon, gaining twenty-six surgical staples, and three weeks spent in total bed rest at home, I was very much looking forward to living and loving again.  You should have been there when I asked my elderly surgeon with his attending student doctor if I was still able to have anal sex.  The elder stammered his answer, the young doc just smiled… widely.

This experience was one of major ones which formed the shape of my heart.  My heart, it has a few dents and patches, aches with loss, and at times feels held together by a promise alone.  Other times it beats strongly, with blood and passion flowing through little reservation, and loving well past its four chambered capacity.  It’s not perfect, but it’s mine.

Friend, family, or lover, if I tell you I love you, believe it… I have thought long and hard on the nature of love and my part in it.  I damn well mean it.  It’s been a journey to death and back to tell you.

I won't face death one more time and wonder, "Did I love enough?" I didn't survive to let love pass me by because I was too blind to see it.  If you made it past my defenses to the four rooms of my beating heart, I will love you as unconditionally as possible and with all my being.

Don’t be afraid to love.  Be afraid not to.

If you want to call me a foolish romantic, you can.

Or, if you want to call me crazy, you can as well. 

But, the shape of my heart is mine and I own it.  Its condition has been earned by use:  time and trial, joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain; she’s got some mileage but runs well. 

Want a ride?

She's Here In A Man's Bar

This small piece  was written for last week's launch of e.Gay Magazine.  

http://www.calameo.com/read/002670361b3dbbdcb387e?authid=2SWfp8S6ZZiI&view=book

It does my heart well to see the community outpouring of support for transgender men, but I have to say I wonder when the same level of support will be behind the women who have earned a place in the leather community.

***

The lone, and potentially uncomfortable, woman you take a moment to say hello at a bar night to could be the next woman to make a huge impact in the leather community.

I’m not talking about the obnoxious groups of bachelorettes which occasionally pop into the bars, and just so you know, leather women aren’t fans of them either.  I’m referring to the woman quietly observing, taking everything in, and hoping someone makes eye contact with her. 

Please don’t be tempted to shun her because of her gender, or even to ridicule her based upon it.  You could probably put money on the fact she would have your back if someone made a homophobic slur or tried to bash you leaving the bar tonight. 

All a man needs to be accepted with open arms into the leather realm is a penis and a reasonably fair attitude.  You recognize I’m being kind here; all you really need is a penis.  But a woman needs to be brave, unafraid of work, dedicated, resilient, and able to hold her own… without a penis.

She might not be able to be served at the bar, have a place to empty her bladder, or afforded the same courtesy as the men there.  She might be ignored totally or verbally abused; I am not yet sure which is best for what she hopes to accomplish.

She might not own any leather yet, but look carefully and try to see her for who she is and for the leatherwoman she could become. 

All she wants is to be able to learn your ways, contribute as she can, earn a place to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, and hopefully be accepted for who she is. 

She’s here in a man’s bar because she feels this is her tribe; she’s on a journey with no map to find her way home… and wondering if she will find a locked door when she arrives.

While I don’t know the exact stories of all leatherwomen, I know this is the common story of people whom are minorities in some fashion.

I know the road is easier with people who love and accept us.  I’d like to say thank you to those loved ones, friends and family, who have made my journey what it is and I am sure these women feel the same.  

No matter if you are a leatherman or a leatherwoman, we all want the same things.  Freedom of expression and sexuality, equal rights, a space to call home, love, a cure for HIV, happiness, stability, peace, and to get our freak on with the ones we choose. 

I wonder if we can do those things together without sex being the almighty divider.

Love and Leather,

Lady Justice