World AIDS Day

I first wrote about my dad on this blog here.  Here is another piece of our story.

My dad got sick when I was 9 or so (and he was 28). He was in and out of the hospital but we (his 4 kids) weren’t told why. He lost his job when they found out about his illness. He took a trip to Arizona to visit his best friend and see the place where we lived when I was a born, then he came back to Sacramento and was admitted to the hospital a short time later. He withered away there before being moved to a nursing home when there was nothing more they could do for him. Once he moved there, it was only a short time before he passed away.

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It’s unbelievable to me that that was 18 years ago.  Even more unbelievable is how much it still hurts me and how clear the memories are of him in that hospital bed.  I remember the hospital in more detail than I remember life before he got sick.  I remember the smell of the place he got transferred to once the hospital knew they could do nothing else for him.  I remember the morning he died and the years of swearing I saw sightings of him everywhere.  His death still haunts me.  I’m sure as an adult it is awful to see someone die from AIDS but as a kid it was terrifying, as well. My dad had such vitality, being an all-American type who was a star athlete, a musician, and an artist. In a matter of months, he went from being a strong, energetic man to being a skeletal human smaller than his young kids.

Like I said, we weren’t told that my dad had AIDS. My mom told us that he had Meningitis and Encephalitis (which I think are the things that actually did him in). I was finally told the truth about a year after he died but was sworn to secrecy (even from my siblings). I can’t tell you how many times I sat silently through nasty comments about people with HIV/AIDS. I can’t even articulate how misinformed people are. I think it’s a shame that I had to keep it such a secret, when it would have been better to share my story and get people more familiar with who is affected by it. Back then it was still considered a gay disease and I am sure that all of the misinformation contributed to the state of things now with so many heterosexuals thinking they weren’t at risk. It’s very unfortunate that this disease is still wreaking havoc and so widespread. It’s sad that even now those suffering with it are discriminated against. It’s disappointing that after more than two decades of the disease there is no cure or vaccine. I hope to see one of those in my lifetime.

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The first man I saw crying

Annika linked to a photo collection of male actors crying today and I had an immediate reaction to the photos.  I know this is completely different from what I usually write, but I think it’s worth sharing here.  I realize this could be a sensitive topic to many, so feel free to pass on by today.

His strained voice called to us from the only bedroom in the basement apartment. “Kids, come in here. I have something to tell you.”

The air thickened around me. I shuffled my 7 year old sister and 5 year old brother from the living room to where our dad stood bent, hands braced against a dresser for support. The three of us lined up inside the doorway, blue eyes wide and staring at the broken man before us.

“Sit down,” he whispered.

My sister and brother complied, but I stood there frozen. When my father began to choke on his tears, I thought of my step-sister’s tentative words to me during a recent visit…

“Your dad has AIDS. That’s why he keeps going back into the hospital.”
“He does not have AIDS! I would know if he did!”
“Yes he does, Crystal. I overheard my dad talking to your mom about it.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying!”

Fear flamed in my chest and I ran away from that room. I didn’t want to hear what my dad had to say, didn’t want him to know that I knew already, and most of all I didn’t want my step-sister’s words to be true.

I grabbed my dad’s car keys on the way out the door and locked myself into his rusty grey VW Beatle, sobbing. I kept hoping that he would come after me, that he would tell me that I had no reason to run away and no reason to be afraid. He did not come. I sat alone and cried until I was dry, until my head felt water-logged and achey. I wiped away the tears and waited what seemed like hours until the swollen skin around my eyes returned to normal. I steeled myself and walked back into the apartment.

My dad’s courage had left him when I ran out the door and he said nothing of what he had been about to tell us. We ate lunch instead and the day continued as normal. Life went on for a little while.

My sister, brother and I pretended that the breakdown had never happened. It was a shock to us when he died several months later, and we believed it when we were told that Meningitis and Encephalitis had killed our father.