Lives in Transition: A Personal Journey

By Jane Latus

“First of all, no thanks.”

My wife Kendra was talking back to a sign. It was stenciled in all-caps on a streetside dining booth that we were approaching while walking down 3rd Avenue. Kendra’s doctor wanted her to take lots of short walks. She’d been discharged from the hospital that morning, five days after surgery.

“Second of all,” she told the sign, “too late.” By five days, to be exact. The sign said, “STAY COCKY NYC”.

It was August in Manhattan, and the garbage along the streets had reached sunbaked, high-stank level. New Yorkers who could were outta there for friendlier air. But that day, in that city, was a happy milestone for us.

My family seems to have made a habit of doing big, gay things in the summer. Monumental, life-altering, happily-forever-after kinds of things—and with an almost gleeful disregard to comfort, climate or seasonal timeliness. Nine summers ago, I spent a few weeks with our son Elliott as he had and recovered from top surgery—in Miami. You know, where the crowds clamor every June for the 24/7 peak humidity and constant temp of nearly 100.

It isn’t always hot, humid, or smelly, and it doesn’t always involve doctors. It may be tons of fun! But it’ll be queer.

Because Elliott and I were in Miami that June, we missed something I’d once thought would never happen: my brother’s wedding. Tom married Sanford in Pennsylvania. The next week, the Supreme Court ruled for James Obergefell, and the Obamas lit up the White House like a rainbow.

In August 2023, we missed our other son Ian’s wedding to Evan, his boyfriend of 13 years. At least this time we didn’t miss it because we were doing a different gay thing. Nobody got to go. It was just them and a justice of the peace, in a little New Hampshire town hall.

We did, though, kick off that summer of 2023 with Kendra’s top surgery. It was June second, and the last thing she heard before going under anesthesia was the nurse leaning over her, whispering, “Happy Pride.”

An acquaintance once told me, “Your family really is interesting,” and I discounted it. Aren’t all families interesting in their way? Maybe it’s less common that we aren’t all cisgender or straight, but does that make us interesting? I only decided she might be right when Kendra found out who her biological father was. DNA and a little sleuthing unearthed the secret her mother thought she’d kept: that dad was the local, married, father-of-four, Episcopal priest. Okay, I thought, that’s as good as fiction, like the plot of my favorite novel, A Prayer for Owen Meany.

Things weren’t always like this. Initially, I never thought about gay stuff. I didn’t have to, because I was cisgender and straight—until I was a teenager and my brother Tom told me he’s gay. I was just a kid and only knew what I’d been told by the priest: it’s a sinful abomination. But fortunately, also by my innately skeptical gut: it’s cool. And until I started having slight girls-also-seem-kinda-squeezable thoughts.

One June I married a cisgender guy– so we both thought. We had a daughter – so we thought. That‘s Elliott. I’d given transgender people some thought, but nothing like when our child told us he’s trans. Then we had a son. That’s Ian. A few years ago, Kendra was diagnosed with cancer in a body part she wished wasn’t there. It became obvious to her that it was now time to live as a woman. I got to discover that her changed body is just fine with me, too.

Ian was in high school when Connecticut’s Supreme Court ruled for same-sex marriage, and he changed his Facebook status to “Gay and Proud of It.” People started texting me. Ian’s gay? Good for Ian! Tell Ian congrats on coming out.

“Congratulations, I hear you’re gay,” I said when he came home from school. He said, “What? Oh. I thought you knew.” It was the best kind of coming out—almost not one at all, unremarkable.

Being trans is unfortunately way too remarkable, for reasons I can’t fathom except for unnecessary, misplaced projections of internal guilt and shame. Why anyone cares about other people’s bodies is a mystery to me, unless it’s some deep-seated desperation for control over their own deeper issues.

Elliott struggles with PTSD over his experiences, some of them low-level but long-term, and some from outright ill-intentions. Kendra increasingly struggled with her gender identity, until prostate cancer and ensuing complications clarified that she needed confirmation surgery for her health and happiness.

I’m unusually patient, but I have none for people who think it’s possible to decide your gender, or who you’re attracted to. FFS! And, BTW, I don’t mean the conventionally vulgar acronym but “Facial Feminization Surgery,”  which Kendra had this fall. FFS (in the other meaning), what is wrong with people who think it’s a choice? Have they tried it? How did it go? And do they think people who opt for surgery do so on a whim? Show me all those millionaires with high pain tolerances and no need to show up to work, who “change” their genders and bodies as often as they easily swap swimsuits for sweaters.

To be trans takes knowing yourself. Better than cis people do. It takes fortitude. Even practically, it’s tough. It’s expensive. Not every gender nonconforming person wants surgery, but may want electrolysis, or hormone therapy, or puberty blockers and, at least, good medical care. Even with insurance, Kendra’s high deductible and the cost to stay in New York for weeks made this an experience we couldn’t afford to repeat.

Nor could our blood pressure bear repeating it. Kendra’s insurance is through the Affordable Care Act so must cover gender affirming care. However, the insurer’s almost admirably steadfast determination to pay nothing, ever, is inhumane and borderline criminal. You may not want the details,  but remember this: the state Office of the Healthcare Advocate will help you, for free. Our bulldog on staff there, attorney Sarah Carr, kept Kendra from losing it as Anthem denied, denied, denied.

Our queer summer doings weren’t in far-flung places because that’s our style. Elliott’s insurance didn’t cover his surgery anyway, so he chose the best doctor in a reasonable distance from his southern home. (I needed a plane.) There isn’t a doctor in Connecticut who does Kendra’s surgery. She’s lucky that her first choice is in New York. Lucky is, at least, one way to look at the outcome of a difficult journey.

Honestly though, a lot of it was difficult (and not our fault), so getting anything done feels so damn good.

The downsides (to repeat, none of them self-inflicted) of being queer now having been addressed, there is nothing like the kind of closeness and love that comes from getting to really know your children, your siblings, your spouse, your parent. A dad of a trans girl told me, back when I was worried whether Elliott would be okay, that not only would he be, but he’d be happier than ever, and we’d grow closer than I could imagine. It was 1,000 percent true.

While we were in New York this summer for Kendra’s surgery, we started helping Ian and Evan plan their wedding celebration, which they decided to hold this fall in our backyard. They invited only family members, and they’re mostly distant, so we expected 35 or 40. But 67 RSVP’d. I wished it was 68. I’m sorry I can’t meet Evan’s late grandmother, who once hugged him goodbye with an “I love you,” then turned to our son, hugged him and said, “And I love you because you love him.”

There were serious things Kendra and I addressed in our marriage, but geez it’s been 42 years. None were related to our or our kids’ identities. Except for external issues, all that gay business has been nothing but joyful. Fortunately, frequently even uninteresting.