Good as New
It's really awkward, actually. All of the strange looks he gets from the nurses who don't know him—aren't aware of his case. They give his file a quick, questioning glance before turning their attention to him, glazing their face over with neutrality and issuing him a smile. Blaine's used to it, and by now he finds it funny. There's a dark humor to these women—sometimes men—who look back and forth from his file to his face, trying to understand what they're reading, trying to apply it to him. Blaine just issues them his award winning smile, waiting for it to all catch up to them and for them to understand. Often times when it eventually does, they just emit a quiet and shy, "Oh," before looking him in the eyes, a faint blush covering their cheeks. One time the nurse was so lost that Blaine had to assure her that she didn't have the wrong file, that yes, this was his case. When she asked for his ID, just to make sure, Blaine actually laughed out loud and gladly handed it over. His mother was mortified, clanging down the halls of the hospital asking for the Resident Director or the doctor or anyone in charge, screaming threats of harassment and lawsuits. Blaine was just happy that he apparently passed so perfectly that even nurses doubted the truth.
Blaine's used to it. Really, he is. But he's definitely happy that this is the last time he'll be here, in this position. He's now sitting on the hospital bed in his gown. He showed up about an hour ago. It's early morning, the summer before his senior year of college.
The hospital bed is hard and sterile. Blaine has an IV drip needle inserted into a vein in his right hand. His surgery is in another hour, so for now he just sits and waits. He's adding a few last words to his journal—an old assignment his psychiatrist used to issue him back when he was a child. He continued it, though, finding it therapeutic—a great way to focalize his thoughts and feelings.
"How're you feeling, honey?" His mom asks. Blaine doesn't even hear her come into the room.
He finishes the sentence in his journal, closes it, and caps his pen before placing is aside on the meal desk that was moved over his bed. He looks up at his mother and smiles, open and bright for all the world to see.
"Fantastic," he responds. "And excited. A bit nervous. But so, so excited."
His mother gives him a smile, sitting on the side of the bed. She has some tears in her eyes as she cups Blaine's cheek, lifting his head up so she can look into his eyes.
"I am so incredibly proud of you, Blaine." Her voice is watery, and she has to remove her hand for a moment to wipe the tears away with her sleeve. She grabs Blaine's hand afterwards and squeezes. "I am so proud to call you my son." She breaks down on the last word, small and silent sobs escaping.
It takes a lot for Blaine to hold it together—he barely manages. Instead, he squeezes his mother's hand back and says, "I'm so incredibly proud to call you my mom." A few tears escape his eyes and he laughs and wipes them off.
While he and his mom sit there, smiling anxious smiles and clasping hands, a nurse comes in and tells him that it's time to prep him for surgery. His mom gives him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek and forehead.
"Catch you on the other side," she says, looking at him intently in the eyes and smiling.
"Where I'll be as good as new," Blaine says.
They have said that every time Blaine has gone to the doctor for some life-altering procedure. It hits Blaine, as he walks down the hall with the nurse, IV drip rolling alongside him, that this is the last time he'll have to say that to his mother. It's bittersweet. But ultimately he's happy to be saying those words one last time.
Because right now, at age twenty-one, Blaine is going into surgery for a hysterectomy. It's the final procedure he will need before he feels one-hundred percent that his body is his. And he could not be more excited.