Realignment

I remember holding a wide-temple pair of black D&G knockoff sunglasses in my hand. What I don't remember was how I ended up on the ground at the Valley StreamWal-Mart on Long Island. So when I came to and found hair accessories strewn around my long legs, and my mother at my side asking if I was OK, I was agitated. Worse were the pitying faces of the other shoppers gathered around me.

It was my third fainting spell—and a direct result of a car accident I had last year. My first spill took place six months earlier when I was living at my best friend's house in Northern California during my initial phase of physical therapy. The second thud occurred at another friend's house three weeks before the Wal-Mart incident.

Both my mother, who was originally from Boligee, Ala., and my father, a West Indian from St. Vincent, were happy I had come home. Their less-than-subtle campaign to lure me back East had grown stronger as my symptoms worsened. Even my 25-year-old brother, who'd had to move out of the well-furnished bedroom I'd left behind, was glad to have me closer. Returning meant having my retired social-worker dad on hand to take care of me. But it also meant surrendering my independence—something I love almost as much as my family. We reached a compromise: I would stay for a few weeks then head back out West.

Three decades before my accident, during another shopping expedition with my mom, I had watched from the periphery as a woman had a seizure in a department store. She flailed on the faux-marble floor as her sister dithered between clearing the crowd and calling for help. The memory of that bug-eyed woman came to the surface as I tried to recall what had taken place during my seizure. This time, I was the spectacle, not the spectator, and I wasn't sure what had happened between my reaching for the shelf and the moment when I landed on the floor.

My mother, a freelance court reporter, was able to fill in the details of my blackout. After placing the sunglasses on the shelf in front of me, I rose to a standing position with open but glazed eyes. I then tumbled backward in slow motion—eyes still open—snagging my T shirt on the barrette and scrunchie hooks before falling. The incident lasted less than 30 seconds and inspired a new family rule: I was not allowed to leave the house without a chaperone. Not exactly good times for a 6-foot-4 gay man who'd lived alone since college.

I'd come to New York to consult with Dr. John Bendo, an orthopedic surgeon at NYU's Hospital for Joint Diseases about the injuries I had sustained in the accident: two herniated cervical discs (C4-5, C5-6) and spinal damage. My West Coast neurosurgeon, Dr. Benny Branvold, thought the blackouts were related to the spinal injuries. He'd recommended a double anterior discectomy, where they remove the discs in the neck and fuse the bones together with titanium pins. Bendo had performed a similar surgery on me five years earlier when shooting pains resulted in a herniated disc (C6-7) that caused a significant loss of arm strength. Since the surgery had been a resounding success (I had been able to resume my yoga, cycling, and Rollerblading), I thought it best to see him for this new problem.