She Said “I’m Sorry.”

This month it will mark four years. Four years from that Friday afternoon we opened the email from our son. Our firstborn. Our pride and joy. He was ending his first year of college and seemed to be adjusting really well. He always was precocious, struggled socially, and was plagued by rigidity of thought, but this year seemed to be going well. He had made friends and overcome obstacles. We were hopeful. Then we opened that email.

It was an apology and an announcement. It said, “I’m trans.” The amount of shock and fear and confusion that would become our constant companions was palpable. It grabbed our chins and forced us to look this new reality in the face. It never let go. We looked but we couldn’t understand. There had been no signs. No warning. It just was. And it still is.

The days and months that followed are a blur of physical and emotional turmoil and grief. So many tears, even more questions, and so very many times I locked myself in the bathroom, public or private, just to try and regain some sense of composure. Everything and everyone reminded me of my loss and grief even though almost no one knew. I walked as a stranger among friends and family members who would never have guessed the weight on my chest, the tears behind my eyes, the shattered dreams and any hope for the future.

The calendar marked a year and then longer and it started to become clear this wasn’t something he was trying out. This wasn’t a “phase.” There was medicalization and visible changes - changes to his body and changes to our relationship. Every passing day brought more things to let go of, more memories that were now stained, more photographs too painful display. Sometimes I get a jolt of shock at the memory of all the things I’ve done and endured in the past few years.

We did eventually start to cry less, to escape to the bathroom less, and learn how to be reminded and yet not fall apart. We are functioning. A few more people know now, but not many. Our wound that keeps deepening and getting reopened is not the kind other people can see. It isn’t cancer. It isn’t job loss. It isn’t a death. The few people who do know hesitate to bring it up or, when they do, it is all the more painful due to awkwardness that is not their fault. Worse yet, they’ll say “I’m sure it’s too painful to talk about.” Of course it’s too painful to talk about, I want to shout, but that doesn’t let you off the hook! I know this really means it’s too painful for them to hear. I never bring it up, although it is all I want to talk about.

I’ve had to pay a stranger to talk to me about it. Therapy has been exceedingly helpful, but it is still therapy. It is not a person I had a relationship with during the “before” period of my life. She came “after” and “because of” that fateful day. That day that divided my life into a before and after. She’s never met my son, let alone known him, watched him grow, loved him. I have come to accept this over the years. I’ve learned to be more compassionate with people. Learned they’re trying their best in an impossible situation. That doesn’t make the void I feel go away, but it makes the relationship with others more grace filled.

In January I traveled to my hometown to attend the memorial service for my grandmother. I don’t know how many of my family know about my son. I’ve only told my mom and my two sisters, but I understand this kind of thing leaks out. Everyone played by the rules and we stuck to fond memories and pleasant current circumstances in our conversations. It was a wonderful time remembering the carefree days of my childhood and seeing people who loved me simply because I was family.

The room was familiar. I’d never been in it, but I’ve been in many like it. A multi-purpose space in the basement of a hospital or nursing home. We all trickled in and filled our plates with the typical post-funeral food through a buffet line. After talking and eating, eating some more and talking some more, people started to say their goodbyes. I mingled a bit as I moved closer and closer to the door. My sisters were standing near me but talking with others. Then my mom’s cousin turned to me as if to say the obligatory “It was good to chat with you again! It’s been too long.” Instead, when her eyes fell on me her face changed. Her face fell. She put her hand on my arm, looked into my eyes and said, “I’m just so sorry.” A sob and an incomplete “oh!” choked in my throat. It felt like it echoed through the room. Tears instantly swelled as my insides shook. I had never told her about my pain and social convention dictated she not acknowledge that she knew. But she stepped outside of all the formalities. She left her chance for a nice and neat exit and she went into the place of my deepest pain. In her face I could see she longed to do something for me, to take it away, but also knew she was powerless to do so. We both quickly composed ourselves, gave a hug and finished our requisite parting words.

The impact of seeing compassion and care, free of any judgement or questions, or worse, any answer or advice was profound. I felt that she saw her small offering as inadequate, but truth be told it was the most consolation I had felt from another human being. In that moment I knew all I wanted from the world was for them to come around me, put their hands on me, and to say “I’m just so sorry. I’m just so very sorry.”

I pray you too, readers, find compassion and care. And perhaps we can offer this solace more meaningfully and skillfully to others suffering because of this unique pain we carry.