Next of Kin

Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”

The Early Nineties

A number of things happened the moment I realized I was gay. From the moment I came out to myself and to those around me, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. The sky was brighter, the air crisper. I felt free, excited by the world and all it had to offer.

How could it have taken forty-four years to work this out? I kept asking myself.

It was if I’d been chugging along on a quiet, calm railway track, accepting the way life was, accepting the way my marriage was—until I fell in love with a woman, and she fell in love with me.

From the moment I worked it all out, my life changed forever. It was as if I’d jumped from one railway track to another—a track that was about to veer off in a totally different direction. Being married to my husband was no longer possible.

From that time on, I no longer experienced the heterosexual privilege of being a white cis woman married to a white cis man. I felt different. I was different. I was a lesbian.

But I was happy. Within the gay community, we had such fun. We went out together. We had dinners together. All of our kids went to the same school in inner north Canberra. Amongst ourselves, we were totally at ease. We loved our life.

But outside of that world, it wasn’t so easy. Both of my parents were doctors. One was a general practitioner, one a pediatrician. Both were staunch Christians. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t like the fact I was now a lesbian, that I’d left my marriage and was living with a woman. They sent long letters critical of my new life, filled with Bible verses and homophobic sentiment. It made our relationship very difficult.

Being gay brought shame and disgrace. I could feel other people’s curiosity—sometimes their discomfort and mistrust, sometimes their outright disdain. People would stare and giggle as my partner and I walked past. Old friends would avert their eyes. They no longer invited me out—I was an embarrassment. Young men would come up to us in the street. They would jeer, point and laugh. They shouted homophobic slurs.

I became cautious. I learned to hide my sexuality from others—from my work colleagues and, in particular, from doctors. I became good at keeping myself to myself. At not letting on.

The Late Nineties

The ambulance delivered my eleven-year-old daughter and me to the emergency department. She had just fallen off a wall at the botanical gardens. Her leg looked awful—bone was showing through a big gash in her shin.

I stood at the admissions desk, shaking and worried. My partner wasn’t there yet—she was coming in the car behind us.

“Who’s your next of kin?” the clerk asked.

I thought for a moment. Who was my next of kin, now that I was no longer married to my daughter’s father? My ex-husband had remarried—he was no longer my next of kin. My partner and I had been living together for five years, but next of kin is a legal category. She and I had no legal rights.

Without thinking, I gave the name of one of my sisters, who also lived in Canberra.

But for my partner, it wasn’t so easy. When she arrived at the front desk, she wasn’t allowed into the ward to see my daughter and me.

“Family only,” the clerk had said.

This meant my partner wasn’t there when I had to make decisions about whether to transfer my daughter to another hospital. She wasn’t there when my daughter’s leg was sewn up, nor when my daughter cried out in pain.

It was only much later, after sitting in the waiting room for what seemed like ages, that my partner tried again. She approached a different clerk and told the clerk that she was my sister. This time, it worked.

The Dawn of the 21st Century

I walked in to see my family doctor. I still hadn’t told her that I’d separated from my husband. I liked her, and she was a good doctor. But I didn’t feel confident enough to come out to her.

What would I say? That I was gay? That I was a lesbian? I worried about how she’d react. I didn’t want to see that slight pulling back, that imperceptible distancing I’d seen on so many faces before. She’d known me for years—from when I was in a heterosexual relationship. I didn’t want to disappoint her expectations.

Internalized homophobia: It was there in every facet of my life. It was there when we booked accommodations—my partner would stay in the car, so no one would see that we were two women. It was there when we went shopping—we wouldn’t hold hands or kiss in public. It was there when tradesmen came to the house—only one of us would deal with them so they wouldn’t know that we lived together. Two women.

Internalized homophobia: Being too scared to test the response. Do I bring my same-sex partner to the parent-teacher night? The answer was no. Do I come out at work? No. I became good at hiding my life from my colleagues, good at referring to my same-sex partner as “they” rather than “she.”

But there were wonderful things as well—positive things. Being gay enabled me to experience and understand otherness in a new and different way.

I saw the marginalization of those who were disadvantaged and less fortunate—those who didn’t have a college education, who didn’t own their own home, who didn’t have a job, who were homeless. I saw the marginalization of trans men and women, of those who were disabled, who couldn’t easily take public transportation, who were looked down on, who had to fight for basic rights. I saw the stress caused by not being able to speak or understand English. I realized how difficult it was for newly arrived migrants and refugees. I understood their anxiety and concern at not fully understanding the system, at not knowing what the doctors were saying. Finding translators and interpreters was not easy—they were few and far between.


2010 

This was a big year. My partner and I got “civil-partnered”—the closest thing to a marriage that Canberra had finally permitted (only in the territory, not nationwide). At least, and at last, after fourteen years together, we had legal status.

But this was also the year my partner was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died two and a half years later. During that time we saw doctors, specialists, hospital and palliative-care staff, all of whom treated us with dignity and respect. I was my partner’s legal next of kin, with power of attorney. If homophobia was present in the Canberra hospital system, we didn’t see it.


2015

It was my turn to be hospitalized. My new partner stayed overnight with me—both of us squeezed onto the narrow hospital bed. The nurse smiled each time she came over to take my vital signs.

2017

On December 9, 2017, the Australian Marriage Act was amended nationwide to allow same-sex couples to legally marry. I felt my internalized homophobia recede. The thought of being out to doctors and specialists no longer filled me with dread. I no longer worried about their possible reactions or possible discrimination. I could hold my head up with pride.

2023

My current partner is about to have an operation. The hospital has just rung to ask who will pick her up from the hospital after the procedure.

“My wife,” she answers.