How my dad's nurse turned him into a gay ally
My dad didn't want me to go to hell. I didn't want him to die a bigot. A nurse named Terry settled it.
It's been said that you should never bring up religion or politics at the dinner table.
My father, Doug Kerr, didn't confine himself to the dinner table. Particularly with religion. God was one of his favourite topics. And as it so happened, God was also one of my favourite topics — to challenge him on.
Often when I came to visit my parents, my father and I would sit outside on the porch, smoking cigarettes and revelling in the small-town midnight ambience. And then one of us would screw it all up by bringing up God.
For me, it was God and gay people. I never got how God could say, "Love thy neighbor... but y'know, not like that." I mean, wasn't Jesus, like, the first hippie? He had to have been cool with it.
I'm not gay, but my father made me wish I was, just so I'd have the upper hand.
I'm not gay, but my father made me wish I was, just so I'd have the upper hand.
As it was, we were like the two balls at the end of Newton's cradle; constantly clacking at each other with even force.
"Why is God so hung up about gay people, anyway?" Clack.
"Because the Bible says that a man who lies with another man is committing a mortal sin." Clack.
"Yeah, but gay people don't choose to be gay. They just are. So why is God making gay people if only to condemn them to hell?" Clack.
And so it went. The crickets chirped. The stars twinkled. We... clacked.
The Terry effect
In January 2015, my father was diagnosed with a rare endocrine cancer that had been slowly growing in him for over 20 years.
In February, he had surgery to remove 98 per cent of it. But there were complications.
"It was two days after the operation," my mom remembers. "The doctor came in and he says, 'Oh my, this is all infected.' So then they ripped the stitches out…and then they put a pump on him."
Once Dad went home, he started getting home visits by a VON (Victorian Order of Nurses).
My father's nurse turned out to be a man named Terry Crick. And at some point, Terry revealed he was gay.
Mom was there when Terry nonchalantly strode out of the closet. "I think [Terry] said 'his partner.' And Doug kind of looked at him. He goes, 'Your partner?' And he said, like, a male partner. [Doug] just kind of looked surprised."
I tracked down Terry asked if I could talk to him about my dad. Terry had just returned from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he runs a bed and breakfast called Casa Rio Danubio four months of the year.
"You know, of course his wife's there. And she's doing a lot of talking anyway."
Of course she was. I could just imagine Mom talking effusively about anything else, anything at all, in hopes to drown out whatever Dad would say next.
Dad could have responded in a number of ways to this reveal. He could have started talking about the evils of homosexuality, or sent Terry away and asked for someone less... heathenish, but that wasn't what happened at all.
Big gay questions
My dad was a deeply curious person, as Terry was about to find out. Never having met a real live gay person before, my father began asking Terry questions.
"How did you know you were gay?"
"Did you ever have a female partner?"
The more questions he asked, the more personal they became. My mother was mortified. She'd scold Dad afterwards: "You can't just ask people that!"
But Terry was cool with all of it. "He asked me more about my family, what does my partner do."
During one of Terry's homecare visits, he remembers my dad turning to him and saying, "I don't really know of any gay people."
Terry replied, "Well, you do now!"
The more they got to know each other, the closer they became. In fact, if Dad was Terry's last call of the day, Terry would stick around and they would hang out on the porch together, chatting about whatever. (I'm guessing God was left out.)
But Dad didn't just befriend Terry. He actually became protective of him.
I remember once, a bunch of us were hanging out on the porch (let's be honest, this is pretty much the only place my father hung out). Someone made a joke about Dad's gay nurse. My father, always ready with a joke of his own, grew somber.
"He's a great guy. Truth is, I don't care if he's gay." And then, with a shrug: "He's just like you or me."
You could have knocked me over with Freddie Mercury's feathered jacket. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but in this case, it absolutely murdered Dad's homophobia.
Every time my dad and I argued about God and the gay thing, we argued out of love.
Eleven months after his diagnosis, my father's health took a rapid turn for the worse. He had gone septic, and was rushed to the hospital in terrible pain. He died several days later.
Terry and my dad never got a chance to say their goodbyes. I didn't, either. Dad died while I was outside, having a smoke.
Every time my dad and I argued about God and the gay thing, we argued out of love. We just wanted the best for each other. My dad didn't want me to burn in hell. I didn't want him to die a bigot.
When I thank Terry for converting my dad into a gay ally, his response is just as unflappable as he was answering all those awkward questions.
"That's great," he says. "You know, I'm glad."
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About the Producer
"Queer Eye for the Dying Guy" was written and produced with Jennifer Warren. It was mixed by Julia Pagel.