I was recovering from ankle surgery. Resting in “my room” in what had become a home to me. It was the summer after my junior year in college. It all started with this nagging pain in my ankle that made walking extremely painful and difficult. So, I ask my boss, BJ, if I could take a few hours off work. I took two city buses across town to meet with an orthopedic doctor who determined that the pin inserted in my ankle since Middle School had slipped and was the cause of the pain. His diagnosis, remove the pin. It all felt like a doable thing on my own, except that I would have several weeks of recovery that would require me to stay completely off my feet. I trudged back to work several hours later than I had intended and revealed nothing, certain that I would find my way around the obstacles that this situation presented.
Before I scheduled the surgery, I went home to visit my adoptive family, to see if I could spend my recuperation time at home. They lived in a one-story three-bedroom house, and my two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a two-story high-rise, made staying off my feet an unlikely option. But my adoptive father’s answer to my request was “no”.
There wasn't really any room for me, and the only place I could stay would be on the couch, which he assured me would be uncomfortable at best. I tried to assure him that the couch would be fine. But he held fast to his quiet but intentional “no”. Later that week my boss, BJ asked what seemed to be bothering me. Although she was my boss and had been for several summers, she had become a confidant, a mother figure. I remember standing in her office after the close of business, preparing to exit the building for the day. As usual she was going to drop me off at the subway station, on her way home. My heart and thoughts started to race, as I tried to ponder what parts of my story to reveal. I explained that I would need several weeks off work, because I needed to have surgery on my ankle. And that I needed to find a place to recover. She asked the question that most people would ask, “Why don't you go home and recover with your family?” My whispered answer, “They said no.”. The shock on her face surprised me. And so, I explained as quietly, quickly, and with as few words as possible, that that was not welcomed in their home, probably because I had accused their two eldest sons of abuse.
“It’s settled,” she said, “you’ll come home with me.” “Don't you have to ask your family? Don't you have to ask your husband if that's okay?” “No” was her only reply. “Now, what’s the name of the orthopedist, because I need to talk to him, I need to make sure that all of this is set.” In the days that followed, she called the doctor, scheduled a consultation, and accompanied me to meet the orthopedist, simply to make sure that everything would go smoothly. On the day of the surgery, she took the day off, and sat with me in the hospital, until I saw her again in recovery. And then BJ and her husband, welcomed me to room that would eventually become known as mine.
As I rested in my room, my adoptive father dropped in to visit. I don't remember much of the conversation, except as he went to leave, he offered for me to come home with him. Said that I was welcome, and they’d do what they could to make me comfortable. But I politely declined. As they left, BJ sat with me and asked if we could talk. “Give me an honest answer, to this one question, would you like to go home with them? Its ok if you do,” she said. I wanted to say no. I want to live here. I want to stay here! I love it here! But I simply said a very quiet, “no thank you”. And with that one answer, her whole demeanor changed. She was furious at their presence in her home. “They won’t be welcomed here again.” But I was. I was welcome for as long as I felt comfortable. For as long as I needed her.
