Sick Bed

Nothing will get attention from friends and family like an unexpected hospitalization.

Dacia and Jane stopped by on Saturday, bearing chocolate-chip banana bread and a stack of books. John Rechy, J T LeRoy, Michelle Tea, Phoebe Gloeckner . . . all first person sex narratives! Yes, dear reader, your favorite sex bloggers really do their research, all for you.

The ladies agreed that I looked pretty gender-bendy now that I had a breast growing out of my neck. Jane photographed me in bed, looking as sick as I could manage. “That picture is for the obituary,” Dacia said.

We gossiped for a while until Lucy stopped by with the kids. Never one to be subtle, Lucy asked the ladies to leave. They set out in search of brunch while the kids got acquainted with the gears and buttons of my hospital bed.

Lucy had stopped by my apartment to pick up pajamas, toothpaste, my cell charger and a few other essentials. Her eyes avoided my IV; she has a terrible aversion to medical procedures. Just being in a hospital meant summoning a reservoir of courage. She did it, though, for me and for the kids.

It helped the kids to see that Dad was not in dire straights. The swelling in my neck had begun to subside, and I was in good spirits. This was especially comforting to our youngest son, who had cried when a schoolmate explained that hospitals are where people go to die.

We passed the afternoon, eating Dacia’s banana bread and my bland lunch as a football playoff alternated with “Rugrats” on television.

After their visit, I recharged my cell and made a few calls. Mom, Rachel, Jennifer, Marcus, Scarlet . . . Anna offered some cooing sex talk as evening settled. Lucy called, and we talked for a long time.

The day’s longest conversation, though, had occurred before visiting hours. I had not spoken with May since her instant message break up. I really couldn’t sit in the hospital without letting her know what had happened to me.

I didn’t have much juice on my cell when I called, but I gave her the run down on my condition. She was certain that I had the same thing she been recuperating from, but that was unlikely: we had not seen each other in five weeks or so, and the symptoms were so different.

There was no way to avoid the subject of our break up. She brought it up.

You might think that my being hospitalized would trump May’s appetite for break up drama, but apparently not. I had time to kill and the cell wasn’t going to last long, so I let it go.

She was very sad that things had gone so badly lately. I reiterated that I had assumed things were okay until she let me know otherwise.

She complained about her job, and how miserable her life has been lately. She began to cry. I consoled her. How are things going with the job opportunity in California, I asked?

“Oh,” she brightened, “I’m there now!”

“You’re in California now?”

Yes, she was. She told me about her interview for the job, her salary negotiations, her plans to share an apartment with an old friend. “I’ll be back and forth for a month or so,” she said. “But it looks very good here.”

“I’m glad it’s working out for you,” I said.

“Me too! I needed to feel happy and optimistic about this.” Her depression of a few minutes before had been replaced by a cheery mania. “I’m just sorry about things with us. We’re still friends, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I want to see you when I am on the east coast again—maybe next weekend?”

I averred that my weekend plans were up in the air, given my hospitalization and all, but we could talk about it once I was out.

About that time, the cell phone gave out. Our conversation had pretty much ended anyway, after nearly an hour.

After twenty minutes or so, the phone on my night table rang. It was May. It took me some time to find you, she said. I forgot the name of your hospital, so I had to call all the ones beginning with “Saint.”

I wondered how many dozens of those there must be. May went on talking about her new job for the next hour or so.