Introspection

[Craiger]

This is a recollection of some events in my life, mostly bittersweet, which I call, “Introspection.” Dealing with life and death, it entails the devastating epidemic of AIDS during the 1980's and 1990's. It is somewhat dark in nature, but my hope is that the light and love overshadows that darkness.


I am not a writer and have very little experience in writing so I would beg that you bear with me and forgive any errors that may appear. Some chapters may be fairly long and a few rather short, so again, I apologize.


Also, I would welcome anyone that has similar stories to share them as well. I know there must be many that can relate their own survival and involvement with friends and loved ones during those devastating times. And hopefully, by telling their stories they may not only experience some closure, but also remember those that we lost.

INTROSPECTION​

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Chapter 1 ------ The Beginning​

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My fascination with death has been with me for as long as I can remember. I wonder many times what may have brought this about. Was it the fact that my father died when I was fourteen months old and my first experience with death was seeing him lying in his casket, though I don’t consciously remember it? Was it because it was such a hushed up subject around my home for many years? Who knows.


As I grew into my teens, I had thoughts and desires to go into mortuary science. However, that was quickly squashed and my family insisted that I become a doctor. The medical field wasn’t a complete stranger to me as both my sisters became nurses and would come home telling of the exciting and sometimes bazaar things that happened through their training. I thought being a doctor wouldn’t be that bad.


Well, as things would have it, university was not as easy going for me as high school had been. I tried staying with pre-med but became less and less interested in the intense study it required. Reading text books became a chore, however, lab work and things I could do with my hands came easy for me. Later in life I found I had a mild dyslexia. This somewhat answered many of the questions I had throughout my life.


In my very early twenties I had finally given up on studying but the interest in the medical field still remained. As it turned out, I began working as an orderly at the hospital where both my sisters worked.


I was taken under wing by the nursing staff and soon became quite adept to the requirements I had to preform with my job. This is where I consciously witnessed my first death of another human being. The experience was not a terrifying event. It was sad, yet there was a sense of relief after I had regained some perspective, knowing that this is a part of the cycle of life. At first I was astounded that the doctor had not been able to do things to keep this person alive. In my naivety I had assumed the doctors had more control in such situations.


As time went on, I became more and more adept at my job which I enjoyed immensely. Seeing the progress most patients made in their healing process, but also the decline and finally death of some.


The hospital was an older well established one, in fact it is where my father had died some years before. They had the typical combination of private rooms, two bed and four bed wards. The city had no physical morgue and consequently the three mortuaries in town would alternate each month in receiving any coroner cases if the families did not have their own preference.


This all brings me to a couple of the incidences that happened during my several years at the hospital.


During these years, there were no electrically controlled beds. Our beds had two cranks at the foot of the bed to adjust the head elevation and the knees. The rooms were pleasantly colored with a very pale green. Above each bed was a chain controlled light with a half glass shade. Also a small bare light bulb of about seven watts to be used as a night light. I always worked the PM shift of three to eleven at night. This was probably due to the fact that I disliked giving bed baths which always occurred on the day shift.


One evening, after nightfall, one of our older gentlemen patients expired and his family had been notified. Fortunately, being in a two bed ward, the other bed was empty and it would not cause any unpleasant disruption when the family came to visit before the morticians would make their removal. As was the custom, the bed and room were straightened up and the body was arranged to look as though they were sleeping.


Because some of the staff did not feel comfortable in these situations, I was asked to go into the room and prepare him for the family’s visit. I cleared things from the bedside table, straightened the bedding, making a nice clean looking cuff over the blankets, fluffed the pillow up and placed it under his head. I pulled the switch on the overhead light leaving only the small night light on and started to leave.


Glancing back before going through the door, I decided that lying flat in the bed, he did not look like he was in a comfortable sleep. So, I went back to the end of the bed and slowly cranked the head up just a bit. Just as I was accomplishing this task, I heard a low, rather deep moan...


Instantaneously, being in the darkened room with nothing but the night light to give illumination, I froze. Shear panic took hold and I immediately stopped cranking the bed. I literally couldn’t move for a few seconds. Fortunately for me, logic flashed back into my mind and I realized that he was still lying there, not moving and certainly nothing to be afraid of and that it was just the release of air from his chest as I raised his head. Still I left the room with a bit of shaky knees after making sure he did appear being in a comfortable sleep.


Working in the hospital lab was a young woman friend who told me one day that she had never seen a dead person. Her curiosity was so great that she asked that next time someone died on my floor, I would call her before the morticians made their removal. Being young and foolish, though I knew it was against the rules, I agreed to call her when such an event happened.




Several weeks later, one of our patients in a private room passed. The morticians had removed the body when it dawned on me that I had promised to call Amy. I felt badly that I had forgotten and when talking with the other orderly on duty he suggested that we play a joke on her. Unfortunately it didn’t take much to convince me. So we pulled the sheets and bedding off the bed and John climbed on the bed and I covered him with a clean sheet. Little did I realize but the sheet slipped over his shoes which were showing bigger than life. I called Amy and she came up immediately. We were standing outside the room and she was so nervous. The room was dark with only the small night light on when we went in. Slowly she moved to the foot of the bed and I saw the shoes so I thought the game was up and that she had noticed them as well. However, that was not the case. Her nervousness was so intense that she missed it. That is when John moved in the bed and she screamed and literally jumped into my arms. By her reaction it frightened me as well and we rushed out of the room. That’s when John came out laughing.




It was a terrible thing to do to someone and she was angry with us for some time. All I can say is we were extremely fortunate that she forgave us and had no lasting effects from it. Of course the nurses and staff were never told of our little prank and we learned some lessons from it.


Death, being one of the extreme mysteries of our existence, can hold us in fear and in awe. There can be a beauty in the final hours that transcends any fear attached to it. The eighty’s proved that to me.


During the horrific 1980's and the AIDS epidemic that raced through the country I lost many good friends. Having the experience of working in the hospital, I became a care giver for many of them. Through that era I learned that each person tends to orchestrate their own demise. At least those that have the opportunity.

In the next chapter I will begin my journey into the 1980's.

 

[ronboy]

I think that this thread is going to be shocking to some, and a look back on a long, sad journey for others. Thanks for telling your story, Craiger. It is thought provoking reading!

 

[Kyanimal]

As a Preacher's Kid I was raised around hospitals, mortuaries, etc. For a short time in college, I also worked as a lab tech., on the "blood team", carrying my tray of test tubes, needles, and test orders, often waking patients up to draw the required samples. The good thing about that was they could have breakfast once I had visited them.

I was not shielded from death, but rather taught it was part of the cycle of Life. I vaguely recall seeing my first dead body when I was around 3, though that wasn't "on purpose", and I was shooed away, after a short time, when my presence was discovered.

I, too, lived through the advent of AIDS, and lost many friends during those devastating times. It is certainly not something that should ever be forgotten!

Though I can understand, as ronboy has said, that this thread may prove shocking to some, I still highly recommend that they read it, as it seems to have the potential to open eyes to something incredibly important to all of us.

Thank You!, Craiger, for starting this! I'm looking forward to your posting more.

All the more reasons to ... No Matter What ... Seriously ... and without any disrespect ...

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Craiger]

Thank you Ronboy and Chaz. I hope people do not find it depressing as a lot of love was involved and as none of us can escape the inevitable and sometimes speaking about it can bring understanding and hopefully peace of mind.

Chapter 2 ------ John

My first charge came in 1982. John was a friend of a friend. We met at a Labor Day celebration where we had a BBQ and pool party. He appeared to be in good health. Fun, energetic and just a very personable young man. When I found that he was infected with what was to be known later as HIV, it gave me a feeling of sadness and despair. My second meeting with him was at his apartment when a group of us met to play scrabble. The evening was fun and high spirited. No sense of despair or gloominess. It so happened that the next week was going to be a time for vacation from my job and I casually asked John if he would like to take a day trip and enjoy the good weather. He agreed and we had a delightful time on our outing.

Having still more free time left in the week, I found that he had an appointment with his doctor at the clinic. I offered to drive him there and make sure he got home again safely. This became a standard procedure between us. Being free from my work every afternoon, I could take him for his different errands and appointments.

One day, before stating out on an errand as we sat talking in his apartment, being close to noon, he asked if I would like one of the delicious cookies his mother had made for him. I accepted and he reached into the jar and held out a cookie for me. My first reaction was, in that split second, “Oh my gosh, he is handing me a cookie.” I hesitated, but quickly took it and began to eat it. I saw a look of delight on his face and I realized he was testing me. Would I take the cookie from his hand and eat it? After that quick realization of what his motive was, I figured that if I was to contract HIV from this event, then that is how it was to be. John and I bonded in that particular moment and we began the journey to what would be a very close friendship.


Time went on and between his many stays in the hospital and better times as health improved I was honored to meet and be accepted by his family. His mother, father and one sister would come up from Southern California as often as was possible. He had a brother and another sister living in the Bay Area.

By the Fall of 1983, John’s health had started to deteriorate. Complications from his HIV status had developed into full blown AIDS. In November he became completely bed ridden and we arranged for a hospital bed and hospice care in his apartment. Every day, after work, I would sit by his bedside and talk. Many times just sitting and watching him as he nodded off. His family had come and his mother would bustle around in the kitchen while the rest of us would take turns just being there for him. Around the second week of November he began sleeping most of the time and seldom would speak. On the 13th or 14th he fell into an almost comatose state. It was obvious that he was still aware of us, but he did not speak. The fifteenth day of November, as I was sitting at his side and holding his hand with his younger sister on the other side, we talked about general things. Mostly his sister would tell stories of their childhood. She mentioned the little dog he had as a boy and we noticed a small tear fall from his eye.

Suddenly breaking the mood he spoke very clearly calling his mother. Coming in from the kitchen he said to her, “Mom, I just want to go.” She wiped his forehead and said, “Just go, Johnny, just go.” Not realizing what he had said or meant, she went back to her chores in the kitchen and his sister and I again took up the conversation. I kept feeling his pulse without being obvious to his sister and it felt weaker and weaker. At this point his sister said she was going to get a quick bite to eat and asked if I wanted anything. Saying no and that I would just sit there with John, she left. By this time, John’s breathing had become very shallow and his pulse very intermittent.

The hospice nurse had just appeared and I told her of my concerns and she checked his pulse as well. John took his last breath and passed. He had orchestrated his passing by receiving his mother’s permission and waiting for his sister to leave the room as he knew what their reaction would be. And it was as he could have expected. We called his family back in immediately and his mother rushed in, hugging him and calling for him to come back. His sister cried hysterically, cursing him for leaving while she was out of the room.

In time the entire family had arrived and the mood was, as always, very intense. The nurse and I had straightened him up and allowed the family to spend time with him. It wasn’t until the mortuary had sent their men to make the removal that I was able to let my feeling come into play. As the men were leaving with John, I watched out the front window, finally sobbing at the loss, and as the morticians placed him in the hearse, I became aware of a beautiful little yellow butterfly that flitted just outside the window. It stayed for a few seconds and slowly flew away. My heart was so heavy, but I knew that the butterfly was John making his last goodbye. My friend was gone, but his spirit still remained to see that all of us were OK. John was only 28 years old. Such a horrific loss of a beautiful young man.

The loss of John was profound. There was a extreme void in my life and I was not satisfied with the status quo. I started going to the AIDS ward at the hospital. Having met so many of the staff and patients while being with John, it felt very natural in visiting and seeing many of the other men in the ward. As Thanksgiving was approaching, I worried that those at the hospital would not have a day like all the rest of us could enjoy, so I purchased a baked turkey and called to ask if it would be alright for me to bring it to the ward. I was told they would be happy to have it and asked if I would stay and have dinner with all of them at the hospital. I imagined it would be hard seeing these guys not being able to be home for the holiday, but to my surprise when arriving at the ward, there was an abundance of food of all sorts. Such overpowering joy to see the compassion and love that had been afforded these men. It had to be one of the best Thanksgivings I have ever spent.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 3 ------ Bruce

Time flew passed and by April of 1984 I had again met a friend of a friend who was in need of some help. In fact I had actually met Bruce at the Thanksgiving dinner at the hospital. But it wasn’t until this time that I found he had to move out of his apartment. His apartment was located on the north side of a building. The apartment wall was of a cement nature and there was a heavy amount of mold that would form during wet and cold days. A condition that was extremely unhealthy for anyone, let alone someone with AIDS.

Bruce moved into my home in April. I had set up the library/den with a queen sized bed. There is a bathroom connected to the room, which gave Bruce his privacy. This was a much different arrangement than I had with John. It made it much easier to be of assistance to Bruce who was basically in good health. He had gone through different bouts with pneumocystis but had recovered well each time. He was plagued with Kaposi’s Sarcoma, but with only a few lesions.

Bruce was tall, 6'3", and thin in stature. He had a fun personality tinged with a little sarcasm at times. It was interesting to have someone actually living in the house with me. I had another tenant, but he had a small studio apartment on the ground floor. Bruce had worked with the local telephone company until such time that his disability became harder for him to maintain his job. We ate out quite a bit as I am not known to be much of a chef. Bruce eating the heaviest of meals while I, trying to maintain my figure, would usually have soup and salad.

My time with Bruce was fairly short. But that did not preclude us from becoming fast friends. He had a optimistic view on life. I remember when they prescribed a different medication for him in June, he became agitated and said, “I don’t want to have to take this medication for the rest of my life!” Unfortunately, he did and his life with us came to a close July 27, 1984.

However, another side of Bruce appeared in an article of the “San Francisco Chronicle”, dated January 15, 1984. The article was in their special report magazine called “This World, Life on Ward 5B.” Bruce’s photo is the front cover, lying in his hospital bed with his stuffed bulldog “BUTCH” by his side.


In the article written by Randy Shilts, it states:

“The texture of life and death in Ward 5B is described most succinctly in the nightmares of the patients. For Bruce S., the recurring nightmare has him fading, dissolving like some phantasm into the air. His friends hover in the vague distance, asking him: ‘”Bruce, why are you fading away?”’ He tries to answer, but they don’t hear; he just continues to fade away.
The dream has come many times in the two months that Bruce has been in the hospital. Before August, when his illness started, Bruce was just another hard-working guy in the Castro, holding down a weekday job with the phone company and pulling in weekend shifts as a brunch cook. Within weeks of the diagnosis of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, however, Bruce wound up in the hospital, his night filled with bad dreams. At times the days, too, are plagued with the hopeless, terrified moods of nightmares.
‘”You’ll talk to somebody here one day and they’ll say that they’re feeling better,” Bruce says. “The next day you’ll see the nurses taking the sheets off the bed. You don’t have to ask what happened because you know.”’
Often fatigued and sometimes depressed, Bruce spends most of his time watching television. Much of what he sees doesn’t make sense now. The commercials about retirement accounts and pension funds are particularly painful. A normal 30-year-old single male like Bruce should expect to live 43.2 years more, according to insurance actuarial tables. But the average victim of PCP can expect to live 10 months after diagnosis; few have survived for longer than two years.
Bruce S’s voice barely carries over the hum of traffic on the freeway a few hundred feet from the window of his corner room.
‘”Every day, you watch television, for some word, some sign that maybe they’ve found something, some miracle cure, some quick fix,” he says. “You’re on Death Row here, but maybe you’ll get a reprieve from the governor. Maybe you’ll get another chance.”’

These statistics held true for Bruce... He passed eleven months after his diagnosis.

We had our ups and downs, mostly ups. It was a strain at times, and I would ask his friends to help me by taking him to a movie or a restaurant. Just give me a little break, but inevitably they would come by and want to know if I would be joining them. This made it very hard on both Bruce and myself to explain that I needed, and he needed, time away from one another.

July rolled around and Bruce began to deteriorate in health. His strength was waning and walking became more and more of a chore. Before one of his last visits to Ward 86 Clinic, I told him that I would not be joining him in the room with the doctor because I thought he needed to have some private time so he could ask the doctor questions that may be hard to state in front of another person. He seemed a little hurt about it and because of his optimistic sense did not understand what I was saying. When we arrived for his appointment he told the clinic’s counselor my decision. The counselor asked if he could sit in with the doctor and of course Bruce agreed. I made a special point to speak with the doctor prior to him seeing Bruce and suggested that it would be a good time to talk about quality of life.

After the meeting, as we were preparing to go home, the counselor asked if we could meet him in the hospital cafeteria for a cup of coffee. We agreed and as we met, the counselor asked Bruce if he understood what the doctor had been saying. Bruce stated a few things that he felt were said, but nothing to do with quality of life. The counselor agreed with the things Bruce had stated, but said that the doctor had been talking about the uphill and downhill side of life. He mentioned that the doctor had said that Bruce was on the downhill side... At this Bruce stared blankly at the counselor and said, “Are you saying that I am dying!” The counselor realized that Bruce had missed to entire point of the conversation with the doctor. We left with him apologizing profusely to Bruce and with Bruce in tears. All the way home tears flowed, not only from Bruce, but from me. How hard it was to see him in this condition. When we arrived home we sat and talked and he became calmer as time passed. How devastating to see such an optimistic man be confronted with the inevitable.

Throughout our talk that evening, we confided things to one another that had yet been told. Bruce inferred that he was an illegitimate child, that he remembered a rather heartless and unloving childhood. He told me how afraid he was to die. I tried to console him with a belief that I have had for many years. I told him that for me there was nothing to fear about death. It would be like walking through a door into a new experience and looking back and wondering what all the fuss was about. Certainly there is some trepidation about leaving all we know behind, but by looking at it as new journey, that anxiety can be lessened greatly. It could be compared to what it would be like when we traveled and experienced new cultures or different people. Arriving at our destination and looking back, the mystery would dissipate and turn into a joy of experiencing something new and beautiful. The only remaining thoughts would be our awe and wonder.

This also is where our relationship turned into a deeper sense than mere friendship. A feeling of spirituality that had formed. On one occasion as Bruce, laying in his bed, a friend and I were visiting and he asked if we had seen the little girl that had been sitting in the chair across the room. The friends asked what little girl he was referring to. I said nothing. Bruce immediately changed the subject and became very flustered. Later that evening, Bruce and I were quietly talking and I asked him if he had seen the little girl again. He again became a little flustered and asked what little girl. I said the little girl that sits in the chair across the room. I told him I believed that he had seen her and that there was nothing to worry about. He calmed down and said, “Not this evening.” We discussed some of our thoughts and beliefs. He told me he loved me and that I was the closest thing he had to a father. What an honor, what a truly beautiful feeling.


Bruce had been raised as a Roman Catholic but had long been non practicing and sometimes non-believing. After somewhat coming to terms with his mortality he asked that a priest come to talk with him. Father Chris was a young Jesuit that came to minister to Bruce. This helped immensely in lifting Bruce’s spirits. I, too, enjoyed when Father Chris would come as we also talked when he finished praying with Bruce.

As with John, Bruce became unable to speak by the end of July. He had developed a tenseness that caused his right arm to stiffen and his hand became like a claw. Nothing seemed to relieve the rigidness. We knew a woman that worked with the men in the AIDS ward giving massages. Irene was called and she came almost immediately to see Bruce. She sat by his bedside and gently massaged his arm and hand and calmly spoke to him. I left them in privacy. Around a half hour later she came out and ask me to come see Bruce. The tenseness and rigidity was completely gone and he was more relax than I had seen in quite some time.

I was still at my job working the early morning shift so we had to have hospice care come in until I came home mid morning and then again throughout the night. Bruce was completely bedridden. We had put him on morphine those last few days. By the twenty-sixth of July his breathing had become extremely labored and we all knew that time was near. I went to bed that evening with the next day being my day off. About eight-thirty in the morning I heard a gentle knock on my door and the night man asked if I could come in to see Bruce. I quickly dressed and went to Bruce’s room. His breathing was very labored and shallow. The man left us and I sat rubbing his arm and telling him not to be afraid and to go. The experience with John and his mother had remained so close to me and I realized Bruce was also waiting for permission. Within fifteen minutes, my dear friend Bruce drew his last breath and calmly passed on.

I called the hospice nurse and she came over immediately to handle the necessary calls. I had straightened the bedding and fluffed the pillow as I had been taught so many years ago. He looked so peaceful. The ravages that the disease had caused were lessened and he appeared to be sleeping comfortably.

Irene came over as well and brought some pastries with her. I fixed coffee. The nurse, Irene and I sat with Bruce, quietly talking, eating our pastry and drinking our coffee. Reminiscing about our wonderful times with him. His good friend, Cliff, made all the arrangements for his funeral and the morticians came by for the removal.

Here starts another void in my life. I am once again alone in my home. The relief and grief laying heavily upon me. A happiness, to a point, in that my dear friend Bruce was relieved of this worldly pain and suffering. But the void is large.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 4 is rather short so I will include two chapters tonight.

Chapter 4 ------ Tony

Time passed and slowly but surely life began to return to what seemed a normal pace. However, was it really normal? The scourge of AIDS was rampant and continued to take friends and acquaintances in it’s wake. Each day news came of another who had fallen or been diagnosed with HIV. The weekly news carried the obituaries and was beginning to consume more pages.

My good friend Harry, through whom I had met John, mentioned a friend who was then on disability. Tony had his own home and was being watched over carefully by his mother, but she had no driving skills or ability to take Tony to his different appointments, which, for the most part, were in the afternoons. With my work schedule and free time I was able to accommodate them and make sure he was able to meet them all.

Tony’s mother was a charming, beautiful soul. However, being in a different atmosphere than her adopted England, it wore heavily on her. The small group of friends that helped with Tony’s needs also tried to assist her in hers as well. We celebrated her seventieth birthday at a small intimate dinner at my house. For years after Tony’s death, I would receive letters and cards from London where she had made her home.

Tony began witnessing the effects of dementia and became more and more difficult to care for.
He also became bedridden which precluded his moving and exercising. This in turn brought on quickly a bout of pneumocystis. He died on June 6, 1985. He was only 36 years old.

Chapter 5 ------ Milton

Again returning to visit and help where I could at the AIDS Ward I encountered a very gregarious young black man. Milton approached me asking if I could help him move from where he had been living to his new apartment. He was charming and devious. In first meeting I heard stories which I found later not to be absolutely true, but nothing that caused harm to anyone.

Moving him was a simple task as he had very little. We began speaking on the phone periodically at which times he would ask a favor of some sort or another. I enjoyed his company and found most of his stories intriguing. He could be demanding in some of his requests which brought me to explain that I was trying to be his friend and that friends do not treat each other in such a way. He apologized profusely and I never saw that side of him again.

After truly getting to know and understand Milton, I realized his stories and made-up adventures were mostly coming from an insecurity. His life had be full of adventures in truth, but he loved to embellish them to an extreme.

As our friendship developed he realized that I and many of his close friends were aware of his embellishments and when he understood the loyalty that we had for him, he became more truthful with us. We then began to know the little boy Milton.

Milton was a fairly light skinned black man. Some stories told of his mother being white and his father black, but then at another time it would be visa-versa. It wasn’t until a couple of days before he died that his estranged mother came in from Reno and we were aware of her being black. He had been raised partially in Oakland and also in Juneau, Alaska. His maternal grandmother lived in Juneau and she was the major force in his young life.

His adult life had been one on which he had to depend only on himself. He had a few brushes with the authorities, but nothing of great consequence. Nothing more than any young man of the times. He had dabbled in the world of pornography which had afforded him a basic living. Though these characteristics were nothing to be ashamed of, he still felt the need to exaggerate and present himself as a person that was in no need for friends or assistance. His world crashed for him once the thoughts of his mortality changed so abruptly.

This began an entire reversal of his demeanor. Not only was he beginning to trust his friends but he had a desire to atone for much of his past self-centeredness. Being diagnosed with AIDS he volunteered for many phases of treatments, particularly those concerning Kaposi’s Sarcoma. Although Milton had a good sized fan base, his closest and most trusted friends remained a selected few. He had become connected to the Shanti Project which afforded him the love and care of several members.

As time progressed and as the abundance of energy Milton had at his command began to wane, the disease, as was the case with most involved, took its toll and day by day that energy diminished. His Shanti counselor had finally reached and persuaded his mother to reconnect. The day she arrived and after meeting with Milton and the rest of us it became apparent that she was touched deeply by the love and devotion displayed and afforded her son. Unfortunately the time she was able to recapture with Milton was extremely short. He passed away peacefully on September 15, 1985, just a few days after realizing his last desire in seeing his mother once again. The symbolic permission had been received. Milton was 30 years old.

Another of his last wishes was to have his ashes scattered on his grandmother’s grave in Juneau. This seemed like a daunting task for his Shanti counselor and the organization could not afford to consider this request. However, in working for the airlines, I was able to obtain a trip to Alaska and promised Milton I would try to carry out his wish.

The last week in September I had my flight all planned on Alaska Airlines. We had transferred Milton’s ashes into a carrying container and I arrived in Juneau in mid week. Arriving late in the afternoon I checked into the hotel having to wait until morning to do my research in finding Milton’s grandmother’s grave. No one had any information other than her name and I was not entirely sure I would find any more concerning her. We did not even know the year of her death.

The next morning, after having my breakfast, I went to the court house to enquire with the Department of Vital Statistics. Not having much to go on and not being a relative, the clerk was a little hesitant to help. I explained my situation and he quickly took her name and as I waited he went to the back. Soon he came back with the death certificate, which again he could not release to me, but copied down the vital information I needed. I asked where I could find information about the cemetery he had listed and he referred me to the Park and Recreation Department in another building. He was very pleasant and intrigued after knowing my purpose in Juneau.

After locating the Park and Recreation building, I was referred to a woman who could give me the information I needed. Again I had to explain the reason for my research and she immediately pulled the plats of the cemetery. Not that familiar with this particular cemetery, she asked one of her co-workers for advice. Now I had two people so interested and appreciative of my goal. They made copies of two plats that would guide me, explaining that the grave had no headstone but a small metal marker with the number of the plot etched on it. The gentleman knew the cemetery fairly well and gave me guide points and markers that would take me directly to the grave. I left the office with their blessings and encouragement. The sun was bright and the weather warm. It was getting close to noon and I decided that I would make the trip to the cemetery after lunch.

Disaster struck. While eating lunch, the weather changed and it began snowing. I quickly rushed to the hotel, dressed in the warmest clothes I had and with Milton left for the cemetery. It wasn’t all that far to the cemetery, but the storm had become almost a blizzard by this time and finding the correct road was iffy. I finally found the cemetery entrance but by this time the snow was close to two or three inches deep. My heart was sinking fast, but I continued on finding one or two of the guide points. I was at the place that I was sure would be her grave, but I could not locate any marker. I kept kicking the snow away searching for that marker. My frustration and the cold were taking their toll and in desperation I called out, “Milton, if you want me to place your ashes on your grandmother’s grave you’re going to have to help me.” I kicked one more time and to my surprise there was the marker. The light in the sky had darkened and to be positive I cleared the marker completely free of snow and dirt. A sense of awe came over me and I truly felt that Milton had answered my plea. My quest had been fulfilled and I knew Milton and hopefully his grandmother were pleased.

I had served in the military in Alaska for two years and swore that I would never return to that State, however, my duty to Milton and those close to him changed all that. I have often wondered what people thought when the Spring came and the snow had melted off the ground, seeing Milton’s ashes scattered over the area. That is if there were any left to see. At least he is at rest where he wanted to be.

 

[Kyanimal]

There is certainly a lot of sadness here. However, there is also a LOT of Celebration in remembering the Lives that were so enjoyed before being tragically taken.

One thing I experienced, during those devastating times, was the Ignorance surrounding the virus, and how it was transmitted. That lead to something even more feared than our evident mortality. And, that was social rejection!

So many "lost" friends, and family members, to having them stay away, turn their backs, before they themselves, those infected, were Lost to all of us!

THANK YOU!, Craiger, for sharing your stories! The fact that You remained a friend, and more, is Outstanding, and Commendable! All of "US" can certainly learn some valuable lessons from You!

All the more reasons to ... No Matter What ... Seriously ...

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Craiger]

Thank you Chaz. I appreciate your understanding and recollection of those trying times.

It is true that there is an abundance of sadness within these stories, however the sadness was overwhelming during those years. Each time you turned around another friend or acquaintance had been diagnosed and it started the count-down clock marking an unknown ticking and fear as to whether you may ever see them again.

To counteract the fear and isolation that most of them felt we all had to assist them and treat them as the normal people they were. Grouping together and supporting them with love and understanding was a large portion of the treatment for their survival, even if it was just for a few months.

One of the most wonderful turn of events during those years was the love and devotion that was given by the lesbian community. In times before, the two communities seemed unable to come to terms. But, the minute our guys began suffering, those awesome women came to our aid. Everyone pitched in to solidify the LGBT community we have today.

Chapter 6 ------ Barry

Barry was a handsome, charismatic man, full of plans and dreams, most of which would never come to fruition. We met a few years after I had purchased my home. He was looking for a living situation and at the time I had an in-law apartment to rent. After coming home from Vietnam and finishing nursing school in his home state of Pennsylvania, he came West and started his nursing career here in the Bay Area.

Living in the downstairs studio gave him a sense of security, and he settled in fairly quickly. He was a cat lover and found the company of a small kitten he called, “Willie.” Also during this period the “Waterbed” had become the rage. He asked if he could put one in the apartment, which I was skeptical of as I was not sure what effect the extreme weight would have on that area. Also, I brought up the fact that he had Willie who, like any cat, would be scratching and might puncture the mattress. He laughed at my worries and assured me everything would be fine. I could not resist his charming explanations and allowed the bed.

Now being a somewhat conventional type person, I would never have thought of having a waterbed. The thought of rocking back and forth on a mattress was not my idea of a restful sleep. Time went by and Willie grew, but remained extremely playful. At one point Barry left for a visit back East and I was left to take care of Willie. Curiosity finally got the better of me and one night I decided to stay in the apartment with Willie and experience what everyone claimed to be the most comfortable nights rest. I took Mucho, my small dog, and readied myself for bed. Willie and Mucho had been friends and playmates so I had no worries of any confrontation. I climbed onto the mattress, turned out the lamp, and after a few swaying movements settled into a fairly calm and comfortable position.

This lasted all of ten minutes. Not ready for sleep, the two fun loving animals decided to romp and play which meant jumping on the bed. All of a sudden, I began sloshing back and forth. It felt like a tidal wave had hit and any thoughts of a restful sleep were dashed upon the rocks..... I arose and with Mucho in toe, retreated back to my solid bed in my own bedroom. Poor Willie, spending the night alone. Barry laughed so hard on his return and hearing my experience on his waterbed. I returned to my stodgy ways, never again to attempt to modernize my thinking on sleeping conditions.

By this time, a friend and I had purchased a two flat building and having the bottom unit free, Barry, who had been seeing someone special, moved into the unit. He remained a good tenant for a couple of years before moving to the North, Santa Rosa. His work had carried him to one of the hospitals in that area. While living in San Francisco he had experienced a couple of different hospitals, namely Davies Medical Center and the Veteran’s Hospital.

In moving to Santa Rosa, one of his grand plans began to form. He was going to buy some property and establish a ranch for Arabian horses. This, of course, was never to be. But, it took a while for him to realize that the money needed would never be available.

We kept in touch, with his coming to visit and through our long phone conversations. During this time he had developed what they said was Lymphoma. This seemed to go into a remission and he assured me his health was fine. But as time went on, he began realizing that his immune system was beginning to fail, and he tested positive with HIV.

Also at this time, the wanderlust bug had bitten Barry. Still being in fairly good health, he decided to take a cruise in the Caribbean on what was called the Windjammer Circuit. He planned his trip and was gone for almost a month. Coming home, he could not stop telling us what a wonderful time he had had. His stories were fun and being the charismatic person he was, had established a good friendship with the crew of the Windjammer.

Feeling that he had nothing to hold him here, he decided to move to Nevis. One of the islands in the Caribbean he regarded as paradise. Plans were set and he packed up “Tom”, his black and white cat and ventured forth on another of his life’s dreams.

Renting a cottage from a Canadian gentleman, Barry set up his new life on this small, but beautiful island. As the months progressed and his health slowly waned, he began to realize the boredom of having nothing but time on his hands. He also found the native people of Nevis to be less friendly and more homophobic. His toned body began wasting and with each day more and more distant the people became. Finally, after about six months, he realized that he needed better medical care and decided to move back home to San Francisco.

Now the problems began to arise. Not only was his strength beginning to fail him, but he was having difficulties with the authorities in regards to “Tom.” They were refusing to ship the cat, claiming the paper work was not sufficient. Eventually they allowed the two to leave for their flight home.

After hours on one plane or another he finally made it home to San Francisco. I picked Barry up at the airport and as I watched him deplane, my heart sank. No longer the handsome, physically fit man of 38, but a mere skeleton of himself. Dressed in white duck pants that were visibly stained with urine. His demeanor, however, was one of elation and faux exuberance. His pride would not allow himself to be pitied or care what the surrounding crowd thought of his appearance. He was home and that was all he needed.

We collected his baggage and went to the baggage office to retrieve “Tom.” Again my heart sank. The poor animal had obviously had problems, he and the cage were foul with feces. We were able to get the cat to a good friend who promise to clean him up, feed and care for him until Barry could get settled.

Arriving at the house and being exhausted from the trip, I got Barry into bed. We talked for a short while, then I left him to rest. Within a short time, while checking on him, I realized he was burning up with fever. I insisted that we go to the Veterans Hospital so he could be examined. When we got there, they immediately began running tests, including Xrays. When they came back to talk to us, the diagnosis was pneumocystis. He was immediately admitted to the hospital November 9, 1986.

They began treating him with the proper antibiotics and after a day he seemed to be progressing very well. His demeanor improved greatly and he was his cheery self again. The rest was doing him good and each evening I would go and spend a couple of hours talking and reminiscing about our past together. We watched “Mash” on TV.


Wednesday, November 12th, I received a package and letter from Little John, a member of the “Barefoot Rogue,” a Windjammer cruise ship that Barry had taken earlier that summer. The cruise and the comradery with the crew drew Barry into his desire to move to Nevis. Little John had sent him a collar for “Tom” his cat. In his letter he said, “Sorry to hear that things got bad for you in Nevis. Just goes to show, Paradise is in the mind and heart, not the environment, still it was worth the attempt.” Barry read the letter and was so thrilled that they had remembered him.

The nurse came in that evening to adjust his I.V. and he patted her on the behind. She acted indignant, told him to watch it and then we all cracked up laughing. Barry and she truly enjoyed each others sense of humor. I kissed him on his forehead and he smiled. I left promising to bring him his watch the next evening, but he decided not to wait. The staff checked on him at 1:30 am and again at 3 am and he joked with them at that time. Then he just went to sleep. No pain, no fighting, just quietly left.

Around 6 am I was awakened by the phone ringing. Never a good sign when the phone rings that early, but I answered it and it was the hospital asking if I could come. Barry had passed away at 5:20 am. Shock and confusion filled my mind. How could he have died when just the evening before we had had such a good couple of hours together.

I rushed to the hospital and the nurses were very kind to let me sit with Barry for about an hour. Sitting there holding his hand, I cried and talked to him, questioning why he left so abruptly. It didn’t make sense, the medications seemed to be doing their job. My handsome Barry was gone at only 38.

I made arrangements for his cremation, contacted the VA for a grave marker and arranged for his ashes to be buried next to his mother in Pennsylvania.

About a week later I had contacted several of Barry’s friends and we had a quiet memorial for him at my home. It wasn’t until August of 1989 that I made arrangements to fly to Morgantown, Pennsylvania, near Reading, to bury his ashes.

I was met by an old childhood friend and with him and a lovely elderly mother of another childhood friend we had a short ceremony at the cemetery and committed him next to his parents.
It was somewhat bittersweet traveling to Barry’s hometown and meeting some of his friends. Not one of his relatives, and there were aunts and uncles, seemed available to attend.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 7 ------ Harry

Harry and my friendship went back to the mid ‘70's. He was an off and on boyfriend of Stephen, one of my best friends. Also the past boyfriend of John, my first experience with being a care giver. Harry was a calm soul, impeccable in his choice of clothing with a striking gentleman’s persona.

We enjoyed movies, plays and even went to a couple of “adult bars” together. We laughed at the seriousness of some of the other patrons and were, of course, entertained by the “cast of characters.”

One of my fondest memories of both Harry and Stephen was my 50th birthday. As usual, I do not advertise my birthdays and prefer to remain somewhat anonymous during that day. Well, I received a call from Harry asking is I could come by as he had some questions he need to talk to me about. He had already been diagnosed with HIV and I worried that something had arisen to cause him concern. I arrived and he buzzed me into the building. As I approached his apartment door, I could hear his dog, Tuna, sniffing under the door. I rang his bell, and heard him call out, “Just a minute, I’m in the bathroom.” This struck me funny as knowing the layout of his apartment, I would not have been able to hear him call from the bathroom. I suddenly became suspicious and waited another minute or so until I heard the door begin to open. As I walked in I was confronted with a huge bonfire in his dining area with Stephen and he yelling, “Happy Birthday.” They knew I liked pumpkin pie and had placed 50 candles on a very large pie which was blazing away. Friends like that can sometimes be few and far between. Truly a wonderful experience, particularly being my 50th. Consequently that particular birthday was not the usual “Woe is me! I’m a half century old” day.

Harry’s health remained fairly stable throughout 1986. He had a couple of scares where we needed to get him to the hospital for a blood transfusion due to anemia. He developed a few KS lesions that, fortunately, were not visible and a few bouts of the dreaded thrush. By the fall of 1986 he took disability and left his job with the IRS.

He was originally from up state New York and his mother came to visit several times. She was very much like Harry in that her demeanor was calm and equally charming. Brother and sister-in-law also came to visit from Pennsylvania. Oddly enough from Reading and I was able to visit them when I had taken Barry’s ashes home to Pennsylvania. Harry was one of the more fortunate to have such a loving and caring family and group of friends.

During this time, my retirement from TWA had caused me to search out different positions and I worked with a temporary agency. In the late part of 1986 I began a temporary position doing data processing at one of the shipyards. It was a 3 to 11:30 pm shift. Enjoyable enough as there were only a few of us in the office at that time.

This extended into January of 1987 and by this time Harry’s health had begun to decline. He had become weak and it made it difficult to maneuver him around for his appointments. However, being that I worked a late shift, I was able to help him through the first part of the day.

The last week of January Harry’s condition turned for the worse. He was admitted to the hospital with obvious liver problems, becoming more jaundiced each day. The family flew in immediately from New York and Pennsylvania to be at his side. On the morning of January 29th, Harry went into a coma. I immediately called my supervisor at the temp agency an asked if I could take the evening off. Her response was, “Yes, but we will have to replace you with someone else”. I tried to explain that a dear friend was in a coma and not expect to last and I would like to be by his side. Again her response was, “There is nothing you can do for him”. I was flabbergasted and disillusioned by such a heartless comment. However, in speaking with the family, they insisted I go to my job and hopefully Harry would live through the night. He did not.... He passed away that evening, but fortunately, with his family there to attend him. He was 40 years old.

I made arrangements for the family at a lovely Mortuary. His mother insisted, even though he was to be cremated, that a viewing be in the chapel. This was accomplish and the family and I were present. Harry appeared to be at such peace compared to the last few weeks of his illness.

Then, on the following Sunday we had a memorial service at his apartment. I spent the day Saturday contacting the many friends Harry had listed for us to contact. It was a large group that came and a lovely, but short, ceremony led by Josh, a very good friend of Harry’s that was studying for the priesthood. Several gave stories of their friendship and the many good time they had spent with him. The only thing that bothered me to a degree was that Harry had a lovely framed portrait of John on a table and his mother insisted that the photo be removed as she felt that it was through John that Harry had contracted this dreadful disease. I understand fully her angst, but who knows where or when he developed this status. But, those were the times and, like it or not and in such an emotional state, people had to have a scapegoat. You cannot begrudge a mother’s despair in the loss of her son.

As time progressed we distributed his furniture and belongings. In the Spring, Harry’s mother was coming back to observe the ordination of Josh and at that time, she and a good friend that lived in the Harry’s apartment complex and I distributed some of Harry’s ashes under the rhododendron bushes in Golden Gate Park. A favorite place Harry would take Tuna for her walks. I have since had the pleasure of maintaining a close relationship with Harry’s family with many visits as they return to San Francisco.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 8 ------ Stephen


It seems that these days and years were the worst. By this time so many had passed and every day I would hear of another friend who had seroconverted. Stephen, my best friend, had also been diagnosed with HIV. He had also lost many good friends from AIDS, but his acceptance of the disease was somewhat remarkable. With calmness and even humor, he plodded on with a fairly healthy stamina. We still went to dinner, movies and generally normal everyday living throughout 1988.

During this time another friend of a friend, Jack, had been diagnosed and I took on the mantle of talking and advising him the best I could. So, through 1988 I had two wonderful guys to watch over. But for Jack, I will tell his story at a later time.

Steve worked for Macy’s in the IT department for many years. He was very intelligent, but not overly impressed with himself. He loved animals, loved cooking and experimenting with new and gourmet recipes. Down to earth and logical in nature. Once a friend, always a friend. It would take a major catastrophe to sway him to the negative, but in the same token, never allowing a situation to get far enough out of control to stir such a catastrophe.

Steve watched his health the best he could. He had one bout of pneumocystis but rallied well with the antibiotics. We all were completely aware of our health through eating right and generally observing our body language. He developed a few KS lesions and unfortunately a couple were on his face and neck. This didn’t dissuade him from being active and facing the public.

In the Spring of 1989, Steve began losing weight. He was never on the heavy side, but this weight loss was very evident. With this came fatigue and weakness. His appointments with the doctors became much more frequent.

April 22, 1989, Steve developed another bout of pneumocystis. He began having difficulty with his breathing and another good friend, Ed, took him to his doctor. He was immediately admitted to the ICU at Children’s Hospital. As his breathing became more and more labored, he was put on a respirator. Still aware and cognizant, Steve would write to us on a small pad of paper.

He requested that I fill out forms for Power of Attorney both to become his agent for health care and a General Power of Attorney dealing with his home and affairs. While in the process of this, his mental state began to decline and by April 30th he descended into a coma. In many ways, in my opinion, it was best that those Powers of Attorney were never completed. It could have had far reaching repercussions with his family.

On May 2, 1989, Steve left us, with Ed and myself by his side. Through extremely emotional sobs I notified his brother immediately and they flew out from Florida to administer his estate. They were very grateful for all the friends he had who had supported him throughout his illness. His brother and I arranged his cremation and his ashes were to be given to me for disposition.

Being the low keyed person he was, we did not have a memorial except for the few very close friends and our reminiscing of our life with our Stephen. I miss him dearly. He was 43.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 9 ------ Jack

Jack! Beautiful Jack. Italian to the core and with the real name that he would never tell people, Giochino. Only his father called him that. Mostly Jack, but at times, Giochino.

I first really met Jack one Halloween when I was to help my friend Ed with their scary makeup. This was just a chance meeting but would soon become one much more in depth. The next encounter was in the fall of 1986. I received a call from Ed telling me that Jack had been diagnosed with HIV and since I had been a care giver for other friends would I meet with him to give him some insight on where to proceed. The three of us met and had lunch and we discussed different options of agencies that could help him. That was the only meeting we had until I received another call from Ed telling me that Jack was now in the hospital with acute bacterial meningitis. He said they needed someone to sit with him through the night and, knowing that I had hospital work from the past, would I be willing to do it. With no hesitation I went to the hospital and began my night shift watching over Jack. He was still in a semi coma, but the medications were working and my presence was more to make sure he remained in bed and be aware if there were other changes in his condition.

The first night was uneventful. Jack remained fairly calm during the night, but was still sedated and semi conscious. By the next day, his parents arrived from San Diego to be with him.

This is the first time I met his parents. His mother was a lovely person and grateful for my giving of my time. His father, on the other hand, was pleasant but obviously a bit homophobic. Jack and his father had had difficulties for several years due to his being gay. But this situation had taken a toll on his father and he was sincerely worried. The second evening he asked me what he could do to reach his son being that he was still semi conscious. I told him to sit quietly by the bed and talk to him as if he were awake and tell him how much he loved him and what he meant to him. He seemed to understand and I left the room to give them privacy. Shortly he came out and said he was unable to do it, that it didn’t seem real to him. What a pity I thought. What an opportunity to reconnect with his oldest son and it was lost because of his macho fears of being weak.

It was December 23, 1986, and Jack had improved well enough that they were going to discharge him the next day so he could be home for Christmas. His parents had left for Southern California and I knew Jack would be alone on Christmas. I called my sister and informed her that I wouldn’t be coming down for Christmas and explained why. She was devastated, but understood. That would be the first time in many years I wouldn’t be there for the holiday.

We brought Jack home to his apartment on Christmas Eve day and he immediately went to bed. I had planned on trying to cook something special for him on Christmas, but when I arrive that morning, he said he wasn’t that hungry and so we just spend the day talking and him resting.

It was frightening to see Jack as he had lost so much weight and muscle mass. Still the handsome Italian, but only a mere figure of himself. Jack had been a typical gym bunny and had a physique of a Roman God. Now a frail man who was frightened.

Time changes all and soon Jack had gain some weight back, but he never regained the strapping youthful appearance. His appointments were frequent and he allowed me to begin helping him. We had even planned a possible trip to Europe. That didn’t seem to gel as there was much controversy of HIV people being allowed through immigration in Europe. But things went well for us for several months and then I noticed he was starting to pull away. My taking him to appointments wasn’t as frequent as before.


When it became apparent that something had changed, I asked. He told me that a mutual friend of ours had said I thrived on AIDS patients. I was devastated. My only reply was that I guess I needed to re-evaluate my friendship with this person as we only had one mutual friend. It was his decision that we not see or spend time together any more. Things that I had loaned him were returned, gifts that I had given were returned. I was crushed, but honored his decision. If I saw him on the same side of the street in the Castro, I would quickly change sides as to not make him uncomfortable.

Then one day after about 4 months later, without realizing it, our paths crossed. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I just said hi and started to walk on. Jack called me back and asked if we could talk. I said yes and we went to a quiet area of a park and sat and talked.

He apologized and all was forgiven on both sides. But, now, he was truly in a dilemma. He had a close friend that was dying at that very time and the fellows boyfriend and others did not know what to do. Could I come and help them!

We immediately went over to his friends house and I talked with those that were present trying to console them as well and advise them. Jack and those downstairs had already made their peace with his friend and the only person left with him was his boyfriend. After a few hours his boyfriend came down and said he was gone.

We called a mortuary and made the arrangements for his removal. Everyone was both physically and emotionally exhausted. But, I was happy to have been of some service.

From that point on, Jack and I re-established our friendship. Much to the point of my being his main support. When he started on a new medication it was evident he needed daily infusions. I became a part of that group as we all would sit around laughing and joking while those in need were being infused. What an honor to be amongst those that, at that time, were living out their lives in hope of any new option to maintain that life. They were strong and everyone had a lesson to teach those of us not infected.

Jack, in particular, at least for me, was one of the strongest. He was to suffer so many twists and turns. I know many others did the same, but he was the one most close to me. The overwhelming odds that he faced, I am not sure I would be able to do the same.

Besides his HIV/AIDS status, Jack had herpes. At some point the herpes zoster infection developed in his right eye. It was called herpes keratitis. We would go to the opthamologist and he would inject the eye with a saline solution. The acyclovir helped some, but the pain in his eye would become excruciating. Jack lost the sight in that eye.

At one point he became hospitalized with such pain in his legs he was bed ridden. I would spend a great deal of time massaging his legs, which seemed to be the only relief.

But his medical condition wasn’t the only problem Jack faced. He was on disability and still had many bill outstanding. To correct this he finally agreed to file for bankruptcy. This was after he fretted about that fact that he would loose his credit rating and never be able to buy a house. Dreams that were sometimes the only things that keep these dear men alive. There is always hope.

I remember one day arriving at the house and when I walked into his bedroom he was in tears. I asked what was wrong and he told me he had just been talking to a representative from Macy’s that was claiming he wasn’t sick and needed to face his responsibilities of paying his debts. I was furious. We had sent Macy’s and other creditors the bankruptcy information and yet they still would call and dun him for payment. I called them back immediately and demanded that they remove Jack from the calling list and if they continued the harassment after receiving all the legal forms we would be talking to an attorney to file suit. At least Macy’s stopped their actions.

Jack truly relished life to the fullest, pursuing his passion and love for birds, animals, music, electronic gadgets and friends. In 1986 he hatched and raised four white ducks, eventually releasing them at a small lake in Golden Gate Park. When we would take a drive to the park and go by the lake, he would get out and “quack” and they would come rushing to his call.

The summer of 1989, Jack’s brother was to be married in San Diego and he flew down to celebrate with the family. During the ceremony they celebrated the Eucharist. Jack’s mother whispered to him that she didn’t feel right about receiving it as she had not been to confession. He told her to say an "act of contrition" and it would be fine. This she did and went to receive her communion. Jack’s father then said let’s go and Jack said no you go I’ll just sit here. With that his father grabbed he hand and pulled him to the communion line. Not to cause a scene Jack complied. After the wedding and at the reception Jack began to feel weak and went to the trailer they had set up for him to rest. His father came in after drinking and he told his father unequivocally to never, never do that to him again. That his father could continue living his life in the catholic faith even though he never went to church, but never to bring him into such a situation again. Of course this didn’t set well with his father, but no more was said. Jack was livid when he returned to San Francisco and related this experience to all of us.

As the summer was coming to a close, I decided that it was time to take Barry’s ashes to Pennsylvania, so, August 7, 1989, I flew to Reading. While I was gone, I had asked another friend to take Jack to his daily infusion. I returned on August 9th in the early afternoon. I was told by Michael that Jack had had trouble climbing his stairs and that they had admitted him to the hospital that morning. I rushed over, happy to find him resting, but he was a bit angry at me for leaving when I did. I fully understood this as he had become very dependent on me.

While sitting there and talking, I brought up the question of what his expectations were for the quality of life he was facing. Did he want heroics? To all my questions his answer was no. The doctor came in as we talked and I explained what we had just discussed and we went over it again with the doctor. No heroics, no ventilator. He seemed very comfortable and adamant about it. Being tired from the flight home, I told him I was going home to rest a bit and would be back in short time to be with him. That was fine with him and I left about 4 pm.

At six the phone rang and I was told Jack was in Intensive Care on a ventilator. I rushed back and being on his Power of Attorney for Health Care I was allowed to see him. At first I was confused as to what happened after we had discussed these things just a couple of hours ago, but then I realized, when breathing become difficult, panic sets in and the first thing anyone would want is to relieve that fear. I say the same things about myself, no heroics, etc, but who know how I will feel if and when that time comes.

His parents were notified immediately and they started driving up to arrive very early on the 10th. Jack was conscious and recognized all of us, communicating with his eyes. Beautiful eyes. The parents spent most of the day with him, but his father abruptly decided to leave for San Diego that evening. When asked why he was leaving so soon, his response was that he had other family members to look after at home. What the................? I felt so sorry for Jack’s mother. She obviously had nothing to say about the situation. But, who am I to judge. One thing his father insisted on with the nurses, was that a priest was to be called and he was to be given “Last Rights.” They left and when the nurse told me a priest had been called, I blew up and explained what had happened at the brothers wedding and how Jack had reacted. Of course there was nothing the nurses could do but to follow the fathers wishes.

The priest came and I met him before he went into Jack’s room. Again I explain the happenings at the wedding and that Jack considered himself a not practicing catholic. I said if he were to present himself to Jack and begin the anointing it would kill Jack for sure. The priest was extremely understanding and said he would just go to the foot of the bed and say a prayer for Jack. Which he did. I gave the priest the name and a good friend of Jack’s in San Diego who himself was a priest. He said he would contact him and explain what he did so the father would know that a priest was called.

As was expected, Jack’s father called to confirm that a priest had been called. He was assured by the nursing staff that it had been done and that a priest had come. This was not sufficient for him and he demanded to know if “Last Rights” were administered. It wasn’t until the two priests had conferred and that the priest from San Diego spoke with him that he dropped his demands.

On Saturday, two days after being placed on a ventilator, Jack fell into a coma. Those of us that were allowed in the ICU with him kept vigil with someone being there most of the time. We talked with him as if he were just resting and tried to keep a cheery presence.

Slowly Jack’s body began to fail, however, he had such a strong heart and will to live. All his extremities began developing a necrosis. Within another couple of days the necrosis had reached his upper calves and the majority of his hands. What a disheartening things for someone that had had such an attractive presence.


Jack fought strongly, but finally gave up that fight around 6 am on Wednesday, August 16, 1989. The hospital called and for the last time I went to the ICU room to sit with Jack and say my goodbye. As I sat there, I tried to bring the sadness to the forefront, but it would not come. It was more of a feeling of relief for Jack that the horrific endurance of his struggles were finally ended. I remained for close to an hour, but realized that the goodbye had to end and let the hospital get back to it’s purpose in serving others.

I left the room, rode the elevator down to the main floor and began to walk to my car. It was at that time the sobs began and the tears began to flow. One might assume that with the number of deaths over the span of 6 years that a numbness would prevail. Not so, each of those with whom I had to fortunate honor to know and care for were loved unconditionally and each left a void that was extremely hard to fill. This decade was depleting the nation of many wonderful souls, and still not recognized by those in power.

His parents, again, made the trip up from San Diego. It had been Jack’s wish to have his ashes scattered in the city he loved so dearly and he vehemently made this wish known to family and friends. So many times Jack had remarked about the “ugly” cemetery in San Diego and that he did not want to be buried there. His father and I made arrangements for his cremation with the condition that a portion of his cremains would be retained in San Francisco. They left the same day they arrived with the promise that they would return to retrieve any items of Jack’s that they wanted.

I quickly scoured through Jack’s room to remove any items that could be an embarrassment to him. Early that following Saturday the entire family arrived, chose and removing all items they wanted and quickly left again before noon. I did see them that morning, but had returned to my house to print and secure some affidavits needed for the family to send to different creditors and by noon when I returned to Jack’s apartment, they were gone.

It may seem I want to portray the family as greedy and uncaring. This is not the case, for I know his mother, sister and brother were all shaken by his death. His father also, but being in such control over the family, his wishes were those that were followed. For a number of years after, I would receive a warm and loving card during the Christmas holiday from his mother.

I have written a great deal about Jack and his trials and this is because of the still remaining attitude of many families and even friends during those days toward these human beings. The stigma that had been attached to those with HIV/AIDS was astounding.

One last part of Jack’s chapter is the small close group of his friends. We met, August 19th, at one home and enjoyed sharing how each of us had known and interacted with Jack. Again on the 23rd we met at the lake in Golden Gate Park. I had divided a small portion of Jack’s ashes into small individual containers for those that were comfortable and wanted to, allowing them to go off by themselves and spend some time with Jack and distribute the ashes where they desired. We did see the ducks as well, but no one thought it proper to call to them.

Later the next Spring, I took Jack and we went down to a beach just under the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was not the most sunny of days, but that was fine as Jack enjoyed the fog. The tide seemed to be out and I walked quite a ways down to the waters edge. There didn’t seem to be any movement or activity with the waves. I scattered the ashes along the water and still no movement. As I turned and walked back toward the beach I said, “OK, Jack, it’s up to you now.” I hadn’t walked but a few yards and I hear a roar. I looked back and could see a very large wave heading toward me. I ran to avoid being drenched and as it approached the area I had scattered the ashes, it stopped and retreated, pulling every bit of the ashes with it. My heart leapt with joy and such a warmth took over me. Jack had fulfilled his dream of having his ashes scattered at the Gold Gate. Jack was just 30 at his death.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 10 ------ John V.

I met John with the group on those being infused with Jack in 1989. John was a slender, quiet, somewhat shy young man. Average height, good looking. I remember how interesting and fun those groups were and he was an integral part of the group. Such a mixture of personalities, but all striving for the same goal, life.

John lived just a short distance from me so it was not out of my way to give him a ride home when he needed it. He had purchased a condominium, which was the envy of many in the group.

My association with John was rather short, but none the less important. After Jack’s death in August, John began depending on just a couple of us to fill his social and medical needs. Through the Winter and Spring his health remained fairly steady. His family was from the valley and I met his mother several times. A very pleasant and quiet person much like John.

John was very self-supporting. He managed most of his affairs and truly did not need or want the intense care that others had sought. He developed pneumocystis and succumbed quietly on December 10, 1990 at Davies Hospital. John was a mere 40 years old.

Chapter 11 ------ Bud

Lawrence (Bud) was a large strapping man of Greek origin. Artist, draftsman, chorister, bicyclist, traveler, you name it, that was Bud. Graying, almost white hair, crew cut and sporting a near handlebar mustache. Always in shorts or cut-offs, even on the coldest of days.

I was forced to meet Bud....It must have been mid 1991 and I would sit at the café enjoying my coffee and reading the paper when Bud and his friend, Esther, would always come to “share” my table with me. Once seated, they would never allow me to read my paper as they would begin playing some card game and boisterously disrupt my quiet space........but, they were fun and very interesting. It didn’t take long before Bud and I were good friends.

He was never shy about talking about his HIV status and he seemed to be in ruggedly good health. Never afraid to tell me I had to take him to an appointment or run some errand. Gregarious to a fault. However always extremely and emotionally thankful for the help he requested. In reality, he was a big old bear with emotions just skin deep.

He sang with the Symphony Chorus and loved classical music. He had worked in Chicago for the large department stores designing and setting up their Christmas displays for six months of the year and the other six months travel. I often wondered if there truly was a place on this earth he had not been. From down under to the far north. Bud lived in a duplex type building where he had the upper apartment and his “nephew” (boyfriend) lived below. That was the strange part of Bud, he had no qualms of telling everything except that he and his “nephew” were really boyfriends. That and his age. He was very protective of his age.

There were a couple of times we had to admit him to the hospital with pneumocystis. Both times he responded well to the antibiotics and spent just short stays. Bud would go on to develop KS lesions and when they began to appear on his face he panicked. I would take him to Kaiser and he would have the lesions injected, which, for the most part, masked the tell-tell discolorations.

We had one incidence with one of the female doctors that was to inject his face. She was a large Germanic woman who came across very abrasively. We were ushered into her office and as usual, Bud insisted on me being present. Her sterile technique was appalling and some mention of it was made. She ruffled and ask who I was and why I was even present. I loudly replied because I was his friend and concerned about his health. She more carefully injected him and we left with him refusing to ever see her again. As we were driving to his house, he began to cry and became very emotional. When I asked him what was wrong, he said it was because I had said I was his friend and concerned about him. It was strange to see this big man become so emotional, but that was Bud.

In the Spring of 1993, Bud’s condition began to change. He was having more difficulty in walking and weakness started setting in. Living upstairs became a problem and I had to install a railing on the wall so he could basically pull himself up the stairs. We managed the best we could until finally he became bed ridden and by this time, Hospice had taken charge of his care.

Bud had once seen a comic movie where one of three men died and had told his friends that he wanted a Viking funeral. The remaining two put him in a row boat, set it on fire and push it out into the water. This scene was ingrained in Bud’s memory and he said he wanted the same. He talked about it for so long that finally we, his “nephew,” Esther and myself, agreed to give him a Viking funeral.

So, in early June, 1993, I started sculpting a serpent head in clay. By the 19th I had it completed and took photos to show Bud. He was thrilled. I made arrangements with a young woman to make a plaster casting of the head. All the while this was happening, I began building what turned out to be a seven foot boat in my garage. I would take pictures of it’s progress and take them to Bud for his enjoyment. We decided that we would play Siegfried’s Funeral March from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. I took a CD of the music and set up a player in his bedroom so he could hear it. Oh, what emotions, both joy and sadness he displayed. Through tears he said, “Oh, I wish I could be there to see and hear this!” We laughed and said you’ll be the main character in this production.

Time past and by July 12th I had the hull basically finished, a mast with a huge red and white sail and the cast of the head propped up to take a photo to show Bud. Again he was thrilled. But this is where the story takes on a different twist.

In mid June, Bud, who was always asking questions of the Hospice nurse wanted to know how long she thought he had to live. Unbelievably she said about 3 weeks. I have never witnessed a nurse, doctor or any care giver give such a point blank answer to a terminal person. I’m sure it wasn’t meant as a definitive time, but her quick answer floored me. It didn’t seem to phase Bud.

The days past and we all discussed what plans we were making with the Viking funeral, but talking in the long term. Not in Bud’s mind. The day I showed Bud the last photo of the boat with the sail and head was almost three weeks from when he had asked the question. That night he went into a coma which lasted until around 5 am July 14, 1993, Bastille Day. Bud quietly stopped breathing while the three of us stood by. The world traveler had made his final voyage. He orchestrated his final journey as he had lived his life, looking for any new adventure to cross his path.

The boat wasn’t complete, but he could wait a while more before his big performance. I had so much more to do. I had fashioned a Viking helmet out of paper mache and attached it to a wooden box to hold his ashes. I lined the inside of the hull with excelsior wooden shavings and rigged a timer to a rocket starter so when the time came to set the ship afloat we could douse it with gasoline and push it away before the timer caused the fire to start. No one in our group was an accomplished archer, so that form of starting the fire was out. I also had a concrete post base to attach to the keel to use as ballast and keep the ship upright.

It wasn’t until mid September we were able to hire a fishing boat at Fisherman’s Wharf to take a group of friends out beyond the Golden Gate to carry out Bud’s Viking Funeral. The day came, we loaded the ship into the back of a pickup and we all met at the dock. What a sight to behold. As we loaded the ship on the fishing vessel, people in the restaurant next door were watching this unfold. Here was a replica of a Viking ship with it’s serpent head, red and white sail, and little round Viking shields on it’s sides and in the center a Viking helmet containing Bud’s ashes. The captain of the vessel asked me what the concrete block was for and I told him ballast. He said I would sink the boat by putting that on it. So, him being the expert sailor, we left the block off.

I had a very good friend that was on board to video tape the entire ceremony. Joe had good experience in that field. We set up the CD player and speakers, they brought the catered food onboard, everyone clamored aboard and we set sail. The further we got towards the Golden Gate Bridge the rougher that water became. The ocean was even worse as we sailed under the bridge. By the time we arrived at a point we were going to use to perform our task, the water was so choppy and Joe had gotten sea sick and locked himself into the only restroom. Several others had become ill as well.

We attached ropes to either end of the Viking ship and began to lower it over the railing. The captain became paranoid that the ropes would catch in his propeller and the ship was lowered to fast and we almost lost the helmet and the ashes. All this time I was pouring gasoline onto the deck of the Viking ship and had set the timer for 10 minutes. Again the captain panicked and began pushing the ship away from his boat. This is all without the ballast.

The Viking ship sailed about 30 feet away from the fishing vessel and capsized...... then floated away to probably land on some unsuspecting persons beach. In the mean time, the fumes from the gasoline had caused me to become ill and I ran to the other side of the vessel to relieve myself of anything that could have been left in my stomach. The captain came over to me (upwind of me) and said, “The next time........” And I yelled, “There will be no next time.....blahhhhh.”

I was so angry and sick, but as I sat inside the vessel not moving a muscle, I thought.....Bud’s up there laughing and saying, “you fools really did it...” He would have enjoyed this predicament probably more than his “Viking Funeral.” It wasn’t until we had landed back at the wharf and off the fishing vessel that we began feeling half normal again. Joe was so embarrassed by what happened, but we all went back to a friends house, brought the catered food and enjoyed laughing about the fiasco that had just happened. Bud was 55 years old.

 

[Craiger]

Chapter 12 ------ Nick

Early 1989 a new gym opened on Market Street and having crossed the half century point a few years before, I decided to become a chartered member. Nicholas (Nick) was a tall good looking employee of the gym that took all my information down and gave me my first introduction to the gym. Nice guy, very tolerant of an old man like me.... and made my first program one that was not too difficult to follow.

Nick had a motorcycle and would come into the gym dressed in full regalia. I would tease him about looking like a cast member of “Tron.” I’m not sure whether he appreciated my humor, but he never gave on if he didn’t. There were times in the next few years that I wouldn’t see him much as he would work the evening shift.

The fall of 1992, while talking to him at the desk I found that he was looking for a new apartment and being that the little in-law apartment at my house was vacant, I told him to come by and check it out. The rent seemed to be within his reach and he stopped by, liked what he saw and moved in December 1st. I knew Nick was HIV positive, but he was strapping and healthy looking. Fit as most gym trainers are. Nick was a good tenant and by this time had given up his motorcycle for a Saab. Much to my liking....I have never been too keen on bikes.

He developed a fascination with computers, bought a very powerful graphics computer and a full desk to go with it. The problem being, the desk needed to be assembled and Nick had no skills at that. Being the good landlord I am, I put this humongous desk together with only a little advise here and there from “Nick.” We got along very well.

Throughout 1993 things went smoothly for him. His sister lived in Palo Alto and would come by with her husband and we would all enjoy the visits. In the Spring of 1994, Nick had to give up his job at the gym. He was losing weight and on his large frame it was beginning to tell. He thought if he got a dog it would help him get up and exercise by walking it, but that lasted for just a short time as he obviously couldn’t handle it and the poor animal was beginning to suffer as well. Nick finally began to have extreme difficulty in walking, but fortunately by living in the in-law apartment on the ground floor, we were able to utilize a wheelchair for him.

Nick, bless his heart, was outwardly in denial of his situation, but intuitively he knew time was slowly running out. Around the 8th of June the consensus was that he could no longer take care of himself at home and consented to going the Coming Home Hospice. His denial fluctuated between agreeing to go and then changing his mind. However, once we had him situated at the hospice and with the loving care of the staff he resigned himself. I think he truly appreciated the constant attention he was receiving.

Nick’s wonderful parents flew out immediately from Massachusetts and remained in San Francisco until his death on June 13, 1993. Nick was about a month shy of his 33 birthday.

------ Epilogue ------

The terrible ‘80's had passed and in the ‘90's one would hear of another friend being diagnosed with this debilitating and seemingly terminal disease. Progress has greatly improved the living conditions, but the fight is long from over. The fear now is that youth of today, not knowing or realizing the disastrous toll this took on our community, will look at this and consider it just as another controllable illness. “Oh, I’ll just take the medications if I get it....” Little do they know the toxic effect these medicines can have and the vulnerability of their immune system, which up until now, is still a cause of alarm in drawing other opportunistic diseases their way. After a time, the role of care giver can cause a burnout, however, I have never regretted the times spent helping and aiding friends and loved ones. If it were to happen again, I would do it in a heartbeat.



I know this has been sad and maybe even depressing for some. For that, I apologize as I did not intend to depress anyone. For me, just being able to recount those times and speak the names of those involved allows me to honor them and prove their existence. They were only a few of the myriads of men and women who contracted this dreadful disease and paid the ultimate price. I would like to think that by calling their names I keep their spirits alive. By reading this thread I hope others may reflect on those that they have lost and mention their names. Remember the fun and exciting times you spent with them and keep them alive within your mind and soul.

I would like to thank those who read, posted, commented on the thread and PM'd me. I realize that some may find it difficult to find words or know how to respond to this subject. By reading I would like to think that some knowledge of the past has brought some food for thought in this present time.

 

[Rickrock]

I had the time to read only through chapter 5 now, but I hope to get back to this tomorrow. Thank you for your caring and sharing.

 

[Craiger]

Thank you, Rickrock. I appreciated your reading and input.

Craiger

 

[Rickrock]

Thank you for sharing these stories. Although I lived during those times I was not closely associated with the gay community. A couple of things struck me in these stories, one was that you believe in life after this life, and the other was when you mentioned in some of the stories about those close to the patients sometimes giving them permission to depart. Thank you for being so caring.

 

[Craiger]

Rickrock,
It comforts me to believe that there is more than this life of existence. Of course that is one of the greatest mysteries each of us face and we truly will never know until we reach our final time. What a sad loss if the lessons learned in this life were for naught and we are learning new things with each moment whether they be great or small.

I also believe that there is a form of consciousness that, as we reach a certain point in a terminal illness, help us orchestrate our own demise. Whether it is permission from a loved one or someone close, we make the decision of when and how we make that transition.

Thanks again for reading. Perhaps you would reflect back within your life on those you've lost, be it a parent, sibling or close friend and honor their memory with a kind thought.

Craiger