* ~ I will never forget the incredible spirit of the hospital staff that pervaded St. Vincent ’s Hospital in Manhattan
* * * * * * *
It is early autumn 1996. The trees are still green, but the air has begun to take on a chill. Nearly two seasons have come and gone, and Blanche is finally gonna be released from St. Vincent ’s. He gives me this incredible news via telephone, a couple of days before our regular Saturday visit.
Blanche: “GURL. They are springing this jailbird in a day or two, The Higher Power-willing!”
Me: “O, my GOD. Hiram – they’re releasing you???”
Blanche: “YES, baby – yes. Hopefully by Saturday. YOU hereby have MY PERMISSION to SKIP THIS WEEK’S VISIT, BLANCHE.”
He sounds so happy. I’m bursting with a million questions but before I can form one, he rattles off the rest of his news.
First, the good: The fevers are all but diminished and his blood cell counts have stabilized considerably. Given how sick he’s been, the staff at St. Vin’s have now taken to calling him their ‘Miracle Baby’.
But then, the not-so-good. His condition has been identified.
“Hodgkins Lymphoma.” He states this defiantly, empowered with this knowledge. Now that it has a name and a face, he will battle the enemy head-on. His first chemo treatment will be ASAP – just prior to his release - and after that he will have weekly radiation and chemo on an out-patient basis.
Me: “Should I pick you up from the hospital, Blanche? Do you have a plan?”
Blanche: “WHO would I be without a PLAN, my love? PETER – the mother-hen - is coming to get me. I’m going to be staying with him for a few weeks at least.”
Peter is about 10 years older and deeply in love with Blanche. Well, deeply in lust. He’s newly divorced and newly sober - the two met in recovery. He also happens to be HIV-positive. Blanche cares for Peter, but mostly in friendship mode, as he puts it. At any rate, Peter has been a doting presence throughout this hospital ordeal and Blanche feels he will be in good hands during his chemo/recuperation at Peter’s house.
A lot has happened over the summer. I’ve given up my studio apartment and moved in with Chris, clear across town. The weird thing this is, turns out PETER’s house is DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET from where my old studio apartment was. Whatever. Just weird!
Blanche is reclusive during his first weeks home from the hospital. The chemo is: “Whooping my butt – but wait until you see me, Blanche. I might have a new career as a runway model. Watch OUT, Miss Kate Moss – move your boney ass OVER.”
I don’t want to bother him, but one beautiful fall day I’m out shopping and I decide to call Blanche to see if there’s anything I can bring him. Peter answers the phone and is yammering away at me – somewhat annoyingly – until I finally say: “Listen, Peter - is Hiram THERE? I’m at a payphone, here.” Peter sounds miffed, tells me to hold on.
Blanche fairly jumps thru the phone: “MY LOVE – what is this ESP and WHY are we so GIFTED?? I was JUST thinking of my boo-boo.”
Me: “How are you, bubby? You sound terrific!”
Blanche: “I’m having a pretty good day, actually. Climbing the walls a little bit, but…”
Me: “Well, listen – I’m riding around doing a little shopping. Are you hungry? Maybe I could pick us up some lunch and bring it over?”
Blanche: “PIZZA!!! O MY GAWD!!! And a CALZONE. With EXTRA CHEESE and SAUSAGE – ! AND TWO CANS OF COKE – not the DIET, BLANCHE – FULL SUGAR ONSLAUGHT!”
Me: “Seriously?”
Blanche: “Gurl, I feel FAMISHED! I am starved for that calzone AND for the presence of my home-girl.”
I hit Glendale Pizza and arrive at Peter’s house with THE GOODS in record time. I’ve only met Peter once before, at the hospital when he was arriving and I was leaving.
Now Peter answers the door with a somewhat manic look on his blotchy, typical Irishman’s face. He grabs the pizza box from me. I hold onto the bag containing Hiram’s calzone. Peter is yammering again - about anything, everything and nothing. He says that Blanche will be downstairs in a moment. The way that he refers to Hiram is decidedly possessive. While he is not actually UNpleasant, I do not find him particularly pleasant, either. And I REALLY don’t appreciate the fact that he thinks he can call me Blanche.
Blanche doesn’t come down. From the top of the staircase, he calls for me to come up.
Peter: “HIRAM – THE FOOD WILL GET COLD.”
Blanche (Ignoring him): “COME on UP, BLANCHE!”
Peter sniffs huffily as I head up the stairs.
Blanche: “In here, baby.”
I turn into the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. The sun is streaming in on him: Skeletal, sitting on the edge of his bed, he is as white as the sheets. He turns his huge brown eyes to me and smiles. Hairless as a newborn, he is stunning: A glowing, living spirit. I sit next to him on the bed. No huge record-breaking hugs today – his arms might snap off – but a long embrace that more than suffices.
Me: “Hey there, bubby. I hope you’re still hungry.”
Blanche (rolling his eyes): “I AM, I AM – but between you and me, Blanche, MISS PETER needs to find a hobby that does not include CLIMBING UP MY ASS ALL DAY.”
We head downstairs and have our lunch. Blanche eats with his old gusto and talks about how he’s looking forward to going back to his recovery meetings and re-joining the human race. Peter seems antsy and keeps yapping way too much. Blanche swings his eyes at me imperceptibly and winks happily, ricotta dripping down his chin. I can read his thoughts: He won’t be living here much longer.
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