Lightness, Darkness, Transition

"Light from the Darkness" was produced by European Southern Observatory (ESO).

“Light from the Darkness” was produced by European Southern Observatory (ESO).

When the winter solstice arrived, we went from the darkest days of the year to a gradual increase of light. Now, as the snow promises to melt and winter is on its way out, the days seem much longer and the darkness much shorter.

Those themes of light and dark usually accompany me in the Spring and, when thinking about light and dark, this story came to mind. It takes place a few winters ago when my grandmother was in the hospital.

The story is not about her passing, but takes place near the end of her life.

My light at that time was my passage into a long awaited physical transition. I was living in Brooklyn and had just starting taking hormones. I was ritually checking my face every morning to see if I magically sprouted a beard overnight and wondering if people would still recognize me—although after 3 months on on hormones, I can say that I looked pretty similar to before I started.

However, I was more masculine presenting and my friends commented on how my energy was shifting. I had come out to most of the people in my life, but had been a little lax on telling relatives.  I only told my grandparents when it felt like I absolutely had to, when I actually started growing a beard. But, that winter wasn’t the right time to tell my grandmother, she was in and out of the hospital and I didn’t want to confuse her.

My lightness was my transition, but my darkness was understanding that my grandmother was at the end of her life.

On a visit home to Boston, my mother and I headed to the hospital during the first few hours of a long, rainy-sleety winter storm. As you may have experienced with sickness or relatives or friends in the hospital, sometimes things move very fast. Although we had just come to visit, complications brought my grandmother into the ER, and my mother and I ended up spending most of the night in the hospital. It was the only place I wanted to be. Living in Brooklyn, it was hard to feel like I was supporting the family through my grandmother’s sickness and being present with my mother felt like a sacred task.

When we were allowed to see my grandmother, I stood by her bedside—and I thought, this must be so bizarre for her, does she see the changes in me? Won’t she be confused by the person she thinks is her granddaughter? We stayed by her bedside while she drifted in and out of sleep, and eventually my anxieties floated away.

When my grandmother started to open her eyes and realize we were sitting next to her, she looked right at me. Her wrinkled hand lifted out of the hospital blankets and pointed (shakily) at me. She said my name quietly.

Growing louder, she shouted, “there’s a stain on your sweater!” As my mother and I tried not to laugh, I looked down and realized there was indeed a stain on my sweater.

I am not sure how much my grandmother understood my transition, but it didn’t matter in that moment. Family is family and as she pointed out, stains are stains. Her comment had provided just the light I needed during that dark night.

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