In Sickness and in Health

BY MICHAEL ANTHONY

We are literally climbing two stories down the side of a Royal Caribbean cruise boat on a rope ladder, attempting to jump into a tug boat the size of a port-o-potty... and about as clean. My partner is quickly going blind, the victim of a genetic retinal detachment in overdrive, and we are being evacuated from our Mediterranean vacation.

Our bumpy, one-hour ride via the tug delivers us to the shore of a small town about 100 miles outside of Messina, Italy, where we are then whisked off to a hospital that can only be described as the ninth circle of medicinal hell. The doctor that sees my partner has the bedside manner of a brick wall; the growing black spots in his eyes are apparently, “of, how you says, no… uh, concerns.” We are discharged with only a couple of Tylenol and a cold shoulder.

Thanks to the amazing intervention of my parents, $5,000-plus plane tickets are purchased and we take a series of flights on little to no sleep, and arrive at LAX three days and nine time zones later. The waiting ambulance speeds us to the new emergency room at UCLA. Here we sit, hand in hand, waiting for one of the world’s most renowned retina specialists to pay my man’s baby blues a visit.

And now, in the tranquil eye of our ensuing storm, I find the calm to be all too much for my all too fragile state. I make an excuse for the bathroom, lock myself into a stall and dissolve into heaving sobs, allowing every ounce of fear, anger and sadness from within to erupt forth.

What the fuck is happening? To our vacation? To me? To him? To us? To... everything?!

No answer comes.

Three emergency procedures, two sleepless nights and countless coming-and-going lab coats ensue: “There is hope… There is a 60 percent chance that he’ll recover.”

So I sit in the waiting room and pray for that 60 percent, and ponder the other 40. Although we previously made those time-honored good/bad, rich/poor and sickness/health vows, it was time to put my actions where my promises were. Can I do it? More importantly, will I do it?

You see, he’s 49 (the day of our evacuation being his 49th birthday to be exact) and I am just barely 26.

But this has nothing to do with the May/December-ness that was our union, for I know all too well that the gift of healthy living is just that—a gift.

My college roommate was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at 19. My high school boyfriend was permanently scarred after a moped accident. My younger cousin was struck with a degenerative nerve disease since her premature birth.

Sickness knows no age, and I know this down to the bones of my healthy body, yet I matured unscathed.

Right here and now, I find myself young and healthy, so I ask if I want to spend my ‘20s carting around a near-blind man and sitting in hospital waiting rooms? I signed on for fabulous dinners, circuit parties, globe-trotting vacations and all things amazing. Not this.

Still afraid, angry, sad and exhausted after three days of waiting in the ICU, I call my beau’s best friend. “Can you take over? I really need to get out of here.”

He comes to his friend-in-need and I take off, absconding as quickly as possible. I put peddle to the metal and within hours find myself at a five-star hotel in Palm Springs courtesy of my man’s AMEX. Sunning myself poolside, I rationalize my seemingly heartless jaunt: I should be in Florence or walking the Spanish Steps while indulging in pizzettes. He and his retinal-forsaken eyes owe me at least this much, don’t they?

But the afternoon eventually gives way to sunset, and the descending darkness finds me on my cell phone with my mentor, my great-uncle Joseph. Uncle Joseph (or “Jo”) is more than a fabulous family member; he is my top advisor to the properly played rules of our team. Along with his partner of 46 years, my “uncle” Bill, they were my teachers in the school of growing up gay.

With uncle Jo having lost Bill to a 10-year battle with multiple cancers, I ask for his insights and advice. If he had it to do all over again, would he? Jo doesn’t know. Was he glad he stood by his man, in health and also in sickness? Most definitely. Was it easy? Yes. Was it hard? Double yes. And was it worth it? Yes, yes and yes.

“But what should I do,” I ask, somehow, yet again, making everything about me.

I expect some cheesy clichéd reply, like, “what would you want him to do if the hospital bootie was on the other foot?” None came. Instead, Jo’s response is simple.

“Nothing.”

To paraphrase his ensuing explanation: “Do nothing. Do everything. It doesn’t matter because whatever you’re going to do, you’re going to do for you, not him. The damage done is already done. He might recover, and there’s a good chance he won’t, but there’s nothing you can do to save, change or help him. Being there for him and staying true to your relationship is something that you do for you, not him. And if you choose to walk away, it won’t change his future. But it will most definitely cheapen yours.”

Simple, semi-sweet and somewhat shocking, always the advice of Uncle Jo. And that’s why, once again, I find myself back at the UCLA hospital, sitting at my man’s bedside, the smell of the sterile tile floor sickening me, the talk of “additional and troubling retinal tears” terrifying me, and prescriptions for twice-daily Atropine Sulfate Ophthalmic solution, every-six-hours Pred Forte drops and nonstop Vigamox drip confusing me.

But instead of running from these feelings, squelching them in the way that a “good little caretaker” would, I talk to him about them. I embrace them. And in doing so, in making this as much about me as it is about him, I find myself in his position, my very own future now heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

And instead of scaring me, these feelings warm me, because now we are finally in this together.

BOYFRIEND MATERIAL

Name: Mark

Age: 51

Occupation: Bank Processor

E-mail: markthomasbradley@yahoo.com

Ideal first date: A walk around WeHo while we talk, preceeded by, or following a coffee, lots of laughter, some hand-holding, a kiss, a discussion about family, love, music, dogs, working out; maybe a glass of wine. An easy and fun conversation.

Little-known fact: I have lived and worked in many places in the U.S., and also in Europe. My great great great great (not sure how many greats...) grandfather was one of the bodyguards for George Washington.

Are you, or is anyone you know, Boyfriend Material? Fill out the above survey and send a high-resolution image to Jocelyn.Loren@frontierspublishing.com.