Queer old Me - EP15

It's time to face surgery.

Jul 22, 2026

Queer Old me is an evolving queer memoir—written in real time—by a non-binary author navigating cancer, desire, and identity. It’s a sex-positive (sometimes raunchy), literary record of illness, intimacy, and becoming.

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Five AM. My eyes shot wide open. I flung aside my duvet, grabbed my phone and disabled the alarms before they had timed to pipe up. I stood, fully erect, in the middle of my bedroom and chuckled. One last hard-on before the chop.

In the kitchen, I popped a Lorazepam and stared at my coffee machine. I waited for the pill to dissolve under my tongue. My only nourishment of the day. I was not allowed food, not allowed coffee, not even allowed water. Yet, I felt strangely sprightly.

I set a timer and brushed my teeth patiently. Three whole minutes. Then, I rinsed my mouth with a pre-packaged mouthwash the hospital had given me. I gurgled as instructed. The antiseptic stung my tongue and made me grimace. I spat it out into the sink and took one last look at myself. You’ve got this. There is nothing more to be done. It’s in their hands now. Not yours. I stepped into the shower and slid the partition behind me. My back to the showerhead, I let the water burn my skin. I ran my head under the stream a few times, tossing hair I didn’t have. I tore open the sponge wrapped in plastic that the nurses had given me and lathered up. The sponge didn’t hold much soap and I soon ran out. I did the best I could and rubbed myself up and down with a sad bit of polyester. I was clean enough. They weren’t supposed to cut through my skin anyway. They were only slashing the inside of my throat. Cutiepie would need to shower too and so I quickly turned off the tap. I dried myself carefully and got dressed. I had opted for baggy sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt and a hoody. I didn’t put on shoes and slid into my Crocs instead.

Cutiepie emerged soon after and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He hugged me mid-yawn.

“Coffee?” He asked.

“Sure, I’ll make you one. You do love to torture me.”

“Oh right, shit. You’re not allowed anything, are you? I’ll make it, ba-by.” This was the sleepiest “ba-by” I had ever heard.

“Sit your ass down. I’ll get the coffee.”

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Strangely calm actually. Whatever will be will be, right?” I locked the portafilter in place and pressed for a double.

The coffee dripped into the cup, its aroma tingling my nostrils. I inhaled the steam and stayed there for a beat. Just me and the rising hot steam of a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

“I’m jumping into the shower!” I saw a flash of naked flesh rushing through the bathroom. I nursed his coffee that I held with both hands, warming me.

“Is that mine?” He said, still dripping wet. I handed over the cup.

“Before we go, I’m going to leave these on the coffee table.” I placed two pink envelopes in front of him.

“What…” I didn’t let him finish.

“These are to be opened if I don’t wake up. The first one has a detailed sequence of events for you to follow as well as all my codes to access my phone and all its content. The second one is my will. I’m not sure it’s worth anything. I didn’t think to get it approved by a notary. I…”

“You wrote your will?”

“I did.”

“Baby!”

“Shush! I’m OK. It’s OK. I… er… you know I might not wake up. I needed to make sure everything was in order. Mum knows what’s in it. I just hope they respect my last wishes. Don’t look at me like that. I’m OK, I said. I have made my peace. Really!”

Cutiepie stood up and hugged me a little too long.

“Come on.” I said. “Let’s go!”

Before I turned around and locked the front door behind me, I took a minute to look at my flat. I pressed a palm against the gotelé of the wall, closed my eyes and whispered “Thank you.”

I had mapped out the several blocks long hospital ahead of time to identify exactly in front of which door we were supposed to stand at seven o’clock. Cutiepie followed me quietly.

“One more turn.” I said.

“Righty-O Captain!”

A couple was already standing in front of the door, visibly shaken. They did not acknowledge our presence and we did not acknowledge theirs. More people joined us in grapes of two. The last to arrive addressed us all.

“¿Quién es el último?”

“We haven’t really been keeping track.” A woman said.

“How are we supposed to know in which order to go in if you haven’t kept track?”

“Well, I…” The woman paused, confused by the man’s aggressive tone. “We are all having surgery, they’ll tell us.”

“I don’t think it matters which order we go in.” A younger woman added.

“Well, I’m not taking any risks.” And the man stood right in front of the door.

“Sir!” An older man interrupted. He was met with an icy glare from the man hanging on the door.

I smiled at the woman next to me and shrugged. I wasn’t in a hurry to die. He could go first.

It’s the price of a cup of coffee!

The door opened and everyone rushed in. Behind the door, a desk and two nurses. The man who had taken the entrance hostage was the first one to say his name to the nurse. They ticked his name off the list and he shuffled down another corridor, towards another door. People pushed and shoved. I let them. As I said, not in a hurry. Cutiepie had melted against a wall and was making himself as small as he could be.

They ticked my name off the list and we entered the waiting room. All the pairs were there, spread throughout rows of chairs. None sat next to each other.

“What the fuck is up with these people?” Cutiepie whispered.

“They’re stressed. It’s a big day for all of us.”

“How are you?”

“I’m OK.”

We watched as every pair got called in and disappeared. Soon, we were the only two left in the room. I stood up and stretched.

“I think we have time for a tune.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure!” I took out my phone and played Defying Gravity from the Wicked Soundtrack. I closed my eyes, the music wafted me away. My fingers wiggled and my arms spread open. My head swung from side to side and soon I was twirling, waltzing through the empty rows of plastic chairs. I kept my eyes firmly closed. I was in Oz. Cynthia Erivo belted her battle cry and I sang along, whispering mine. As I perched myself on a chair, the door burst open and a nurse called my name. She cocked her head and sighed. “Could you please get off the chair and follow me?”

She ushered us into a changing room and handed me a white bin bag.

“Take everything off. Underwear and socks included and put it all in this bag.” She raised an eyebrow. “All that jewellery too, piercing included. And put on the hair net and the blue gown.” She spoke fast.

“¿Perdona, me lo puedes repetir?”

She did.

“You want me to put a hair net on?” I pointed at my very bald head.

“It’s protocol.” She didn’t laugh at my joke, didn’t even smile.

The blue gown was a flimsy plastic apron that barely covered me. If I ever sat down, my balls would be hanging freely for all to see. I tied the strings in the back with difficulty and knew my ass was still hanging out. I shoved my sweatpants, t-shirt, hoodie, underwear and Crocs in the white bin bags and tucked my piercings away in my wallet. I took a selfie in the mirror.

“Do you mind walking in front of me?”

“Why?”

“I… this apron thingy isn’t covering the whole of me!”

“Lemme see!” Cutiepie fluttered around me all giggly.

“Stop it!” I laughed.

“Lemme see… lemme see…”

The nurse sighed heavily.

“Are you two quite done?”

“Yes ma’am.” We said in unison.

They placed me in a bed and Cutiepie settled on a chair next to me.

I lifted the hospital sheet and covered myself up. I memorised the place: the empty beds, the old fashioned heaters, the curtains separating the few of us waiting to be taken away, paint flakes exposing another shade beneath, the absence of smells, the stillness of it all. Cutiepie didn’t say anything. He reached out and held my hand.

“Here we go!” A chirpy nurse breezed in with his colleague. They unmoored my bed and rolled me away. They were both distractingly attractive. A tall, muscular Spaniard whose scrubs barely contained his muscles and a scrawny hipster with a manbun and septum piercing. They chatted about God knows what as they steered me through corridors and lifts. Cutiepie joined in and they all blabbered in a frenzy. I caught none of it.

“Alright, that’s where the journey ends for you.” The muscular one said to Cutiepie. “You have to wait here.”

I surrendered my phone and my glasses to my friend.

“I’m right here!” He said. “I’m not going anywhere. Right here.” As he pointed at the floor, the double door swung closed in front of him. He didn’t say “Ba-by!”

They parked me next to another patient in between operating rooms. I sat up and looked at the man. He was disheveled and gaunt and not in the mood to deal with my perky self. I turned my attention to the dizzying ballet of nurses and doctors coming and going from every which way, talking loudly, joking, laughing, humming. There was a palpable buzz in the air, like something cool was about to happen. Three men huddled not too far from me and I caught a snippet of their conversation: “¡No! Vamos a pasar por la nariz y hacer una endoscopia.” I hoped they were talking about my nose, that they had changed their minds and were not going to cut my throat open. In a whirl, I was pushed into the operating room. They lifted me out of my bed and plopped me onto a yellow crucifix. It was narrow and hard. They grabbed my right arm and made a joke. I heard something about a urinary catheter. Then, a large needle pierced my vein. No oxygen mask. No countdown. No warnings. No nothing.

And I was gone.

Queer Old Me returns on the 2nd of September 2026.

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