Recovering

She reluctantly spends Christmas eve in the ER. IV lasix hung with care. She returns to the nursing facility with only one ask: “When can I have sex?” I promptly pen a prescription for sex with groom of sixty-five years and a daily glass of wine, then play their song, “My Prayer” by the Platters.

Danielle Snyderman
Flourtown, Pennsylvania

DRIVEN

My wife closes her eyes as I pull out of our driveway. She usually navigates, but not today. Pale as a ghost, she dozes off.

Even with GPS, I feel lost.

Finally, we arrive at our destination. I position the car carefully so she can get out without falling. As I watch her gathering up her things, I remind her that she’s brought too much—there’s no way she’ll use it all.

Since November 6, 2024, nothing has been routine for health care providers like me who proudly provide gender-affirming health care to trans and gender-diverse people. Now, every medical visit is marked with a pregnant pause after I enter the exam room, say hello, and ask how the patient is today . . . after which each patient expresses their profound fears and anxieties about whether they will be able to continue to get the care they need to be healthy and safe. My clinical sessions are packed with patients, and discussions such as these need time and attention, so now I run more behind than ever.

I’ve always enjoyed being around people, both at work and with friends. I also liked daily biking and sailing off and on. Then, in 1990, a neuroimmune illness hit me out of the blue. Since that time, the disease has kept me almost completely housebound and able to tolerate only brief personal contacts.

I just returned from the cemetery. It was 10 years ago today—November 1—that my beloved father died in my arms. The sun has daily risen and set during this past decade; I have gone about my business of reading, attending theatrical productions, napping, and meeting with friends. My children and I have gotten closer. But there is a hole in my soul from which I will never recover. Until I take my last breath, I will miss, mourn, celebrate, and love my father.

Dear readers,

I’m still recovering from my diagnosis of type 1 diabetes forty years ago. The recovery involves daily injections of insulin, a continuous glucose monitor affixed to my upper arm and a hovering awareness of where my blood sugar is at any moment and which way it’s headed.

Recovering isn’t just about getting over an operation or a brief illness, although life does offer us some quick recoveries: At age five I got over my tonsillectomy in a week or two; and, luckily for me, my bout of COVID last winter left no lasting effects.