Spark of Wisdom: Gay Men Have Husbands as Next of Kin

This is a guest post from Sparky, of Spark in Darkness.  Many of you are  familiar with him from Livejournal, as well as from his insightful and often hilarious commentary here. Each Tuesday, Womanist Musings will be featuring a post from Sparky.

This is not an eloquent post, no promise it’ll even be remotely rational considering the meds I’m on. 

Unfortunately today I find myself rather inconvenienced, due to rather rapidly descending a beautiful stone staircase. An extremely long and sweeping and paved with extremely hard, sharp edged stone staircase which I very nearly covered with my blood and brains – which would have clashed rather.

So it was a somewhat eventful and rather unpleasant day. I have bruises on my bruises and everything hurts. Some people when hurt are tough and strong, they nobly endure any level of torment with a mighty fortitude. I am not one of them. I’m damn pathetic and hellaciously whiny when I’m sick or injured. And for this, laying all in pain at the foot of a ridiculously long staircase I wanted Beloved for me to whine to. 

And this was harder than it should have been. I had nearly my entire firm contacted first and when they showed up they contacted my friends, they contacted my family – they even contacted my brother who lives in Wales before they contacted Beloved. My firm knew he was my emergency contact number, knew he was my husband – and it occurred to no-one to call him until I asked. 

They bundled me to the hospital since I couldn’t walk away where I finally found Beloved in the waiting room (after seeing me. He asked an, admittedly harried, receptionist where I was but it got confused when they started looking for a “Mrs {Beloved’s last name}”). But he found me and I promptly began to whine at him and demand lots of hugs and sympathy.

Well, sympathy, anyway. When people start looking at me I get uncomfortable with public displays of affection and with a waiting room full of a gazillion people who has nothing better to do than staaaaaaaaare (or pointedly look away. Or tut, or mutter comments in that “you’re not supposed to hear but it’s just loud enough so you can hear” style whisper).
We entered the system and I had him called my “friend” by 101 nurses, orderlies and doctors (the doctor is cute though so is Forgiven. And for repeatedly poking my wrist) which had me wheeled around the place being steadily more grumpy (but not more whiney. I was already whining at an epic level). Several times I had to insist to the nice medical people that, yes, I wanted him to stay.

All of these are very petty things – very silly things to worry about considering the broken bones, throbbing head, aching body and general unpleasantness that came from – it was just trying to squeeze ol’ gay me through a heteronormative world that just rasped at an already very unamused me by making the whole thing more difficult than it needed to be. Of course, it could just be that I feel a need to keep whining and be grumpy – and that the pills they’ve given me are sending my thoughts down random tracks. Random, whiney tracks. :)

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