The year is 1985, the city is Detroit and I am about to start my “rounds.” I enter the hospital and proceed to the floor that is often referred to as “the morgue”. The walls are a putrid green (think baby food strained peas) with orange doors as the structure is decades old and it reminds you more of a prison than a hospital ward. There is little joy here, few people smile and you hear no laughter. You expect to see Nurse Ratchet round the corner at any moment.
A smell permeates the floor, very complex in composition, however essentially unidentifiable, as individual smells. There is one smell though, that cannot be denied and it is the first smell that hits you every time you enter this floor. The smell is of death because this is the AIDS floor, where most of the patients have come to hopefully find some comfort as they proceed to their demise. For too many people they have nowhere else to go except here.
It is the place where HIV positive people, now ravaged by AIDS come to die.
As I walk the floor the signs of disease and death are virtually everywhere. Because of over-crowding most rooms have two patients, or more and it is rare to see visitors. Every door contains warning signs that range from fluid precautions, food restrictions to medicine interactions or oxygen in use. Perhaps the coldest sign is the one requiring that anyone wishing to enter must wear a gown, shoe covers, cap, mask and gloves.
As if these poor souls did not have enough to deal with they had to endure being treated like lepers. It is almost impossible to console someone when you are unable to touch him or her physically. Fear permeates the floor and one cannot help to notice the dearth of nurses or hospital workers, nor the silence that attends so much hurt and misery.
The fear is reflected by the food trays stacked in front of each door and sometimes even a cup or two of medications. These are the early days of AIDS and we really did not understand this illness that was dropping our friends and family in droves. For some of those friends/family, when they became too ill, they often came here to die. That death was often inevitable and many died in such agony that I no longer could bear to remember.
Death surrounds you and even amongst the great suffering, you can understand the fears of the attending staff. It is very normal to fear what we do not understand, especially when it is an actual illness, which at the time would certainly kill you. You can sympathize with self-preservation on their part, because in the end it came down to their risking their lives for a stranger.
That fear is what drove many of us to come and attend to our fallen comrades. For most of them their family and friends had long deserted them and so many of us from that time, felt a moral duty to try and let no one die alone. It was the time of AIDS buddies, food boxes, clothes closets, meals on wheels, support groups, group dinners and anything else that we could think of to support each other and to ease the doomed ones with their passing. It was a time when possibly the most depraved humor reigned, epitomized in the T-Cell Naming Parties.
Faithfully I would pause in front of each door and don the required garb. How sad to enter a room and see the patients in their horrific state and in need of simple compassion. Upon seeing some of them you could understand why the food remained outside. Many had such severe OIs, that swallowing was all but impossible or they had a raging fever or slowly drowning in fluid that had built up in their lungs due to PCP. Almost all of them had some type of IV, shunt, pick-line, ventilator, catheter or whatever else that may ease their suffering, as prolonging such a life was never really an option.
I would move from room to room and do whatever the patient may want, which often involved just touching them (no gloves) and listening. They were the forgotten souls, cast aside by society and sent here to die. Surely they deserved better than this, but this was often all that we could provide. These were the days before the ASOs existed, when society turned its back on the HIV community. Churches would forbid our having memorial services while funeral homes refused to either embalm pos people or even allow for closed casket viewings.
It was a time that birthed the AIDS Vigil as a way for us to honor the multiple deaths when we found a church that would permit our services. Many times these services were held wherever we could find a space, because all that really mattered was that we honored our dead and just maybe it could provide an opportunity for us to find some type of closure. Believe me when I tell you how hard it is to find closure for hundreds of your friends’ deaths.
For those living with HIV, the prospects were rather dim as the only support systems that existed were essentially volunteer groups with very limited resources. There were no medications to treat HIV disease. There was little government money for HIV services and what little existed, was quickly consumed by the core services that most poz people needed at that time.
Those churches that refused to accept dead poz people were certainly not going to help living ones. So for us, our resources were our members and for those of us who were surviving, we accepted the horrible truth that if we did not watch over each other, there would be no one else to do it for us.
So I would move from room to room, feed some patients, help them with personal hygiene, maybe help them take a walk, fluff a pillow or whatever, just to stay busy. Too many times I remember entering a room and upon seeing the patient, especially when they were sleeping, I would sit and silently cry. Not only did I cry for what I was witnessing, I cried as I faced a reality that could very well become mine someday. I cried because I felt helpless in the onslaught.
I would cry for those who could not or because of a hardened heart, would not. I cried knowing that my actions were no more than the proverbial finger in the dike, as all I could do was try to ease the suffering and watch them fade away, one at a time. It was a time that we must always remember with honor and respect, for those who have gone before us, as they instilled a sense of real honor and support into legions of poz people.
It was a very difficult time to be alive and on some days even harder because I was not dying, at least not literally. I was perplexed on how I survived yet somehow I found the strength to persevere and in doing so I have thousands of wonderful memories of friends who showed real valor up to the bitter end. So many of them had nurtured and supported the early AIDS movement and we all did what we had to do. At that time it would be unthinkable to do any less that you could, so we volunteered for everything from AIDS Buddies and rounds to clinical trials.
To some of you this may all seem to be surreal, nevertheless these were some of the early days of HIV. It was a time when we each found our calling and if your health allowed it, you just had to give back to your friends and community. It was a time of immeasurable horror punctuated by remarkable hope.
A time that removed almost an entire generation of gay men, who would have served as true role models for both the Gay and HIV communities and as friends, family and lovers. Thousands upon thousands of souls taken from us, leaving immense voids and we had no idea of what we had done to invite such a plague. I do not imagine we will ever understand.
A time that challenged so many of us, a time when rounds were really just a part of a day in the life of far too many people who sought to do anything rather than dwell on the death and dying that surrounded us. A time that remains forever seared into the conscience of anyone who lived through it. A time that I still hold dear, because even through the pain, it involved the people that I loved the most and these memories are all that I have left. Sometimes even painful memories are better than none.
I share this so that both readers and forum posters can begin to understand why some of us seniors insist on sharing this history, because we have witnessed where many of you may be going. Over the last few decades we have continued to bury people who were compliant with EVERY FACET of their HIV management, except they died anyway. We have seen people who stop all treatment and somehow dodge the Grim Reaper for years. We have watched as people who seemed perfectly healthy, would experience rapidly declining health and die unexpectedly. We have supported friends, who have decided to stop all meds to attain a reasonable quality of life, even when they knew that such a decision would result in their death.
We have allowed, supported and celebrated the passing of scores to HIV. It never becomes any easier as the hundredth death hurts just as badly as the first one. It is impossible to have witnessed so much of the horrors of HIV and not have been moved to do all that is within your power to help those who came after you.
So when I share something or give some advice, my only goal is to somehow ease the suffering of others. I was informed of my HIV infection by a nurse with the Red Cross who then handed me a card for the infectious disease clinic at a local hospital and that is what constituted HIV test counseling at the time. The Internet and sites like this have changed all of this, mostly for the good, except there remains a true lack of historical perspective concerning HIV and our present reality.
Without history as a guide, people think that the current public HIV programs will always be there. I would not count on it. We fought long and hard for everything that we have concerning HIV services however it can all be removed by a simple vote of Congress. When I complain about administrative and political situations it is because I know what our government and many of our citizens are capable of allowing, as I have witnessed it. It took Ronald Reagan almost eight years into his presidency before he even uttered the word “AIDS” and his lack of concern has been devastating to the HIV community ever since. Try and imagine where we might be today, if we had the seven years of true research that was lost by an uncaring president and disinterested public.
It is short-sighted to assume anything and like it or not, we pozzies are a different breed and 25 years has confirmed that if we do not take care of our own, few others will care. Our ASOs have been horribly compromised, either through corruption or being forced to chase federal dollars, which often skew services to what DC expects you to provide, rather than the real need of your particular area. It is like whoring yourself just to remain fed and there was a local ASO that simply closed the doors, dumping 3,000 pozzies onto the streets to fend for them selves.
I could go on, but you surely get my drift. I am involved with AIDSMEDS and POZ because I believe in their mission and I know how important it is, for the newly infected, to meet seniors like me. How different might many of our lives have been, if we had some seniors of our own back in the 80s? If we had someone who could have warned so many of us about the dangerous drugs or whatever, however those people do exist today.
Please realize that when I share my experience, health and even when I might be slappin’ you upside the head, it comes from my heart. If I come across as a little brusque at times, remember that the written word does not contain all the nuances of speech. I respond to you because I think I can help and I gain immense pleasure from this site.
I share my history because it does repeat concerning HIV; we still have the same arguments even though our understanding and treatment options have exploded. Sadly some things never change and there are times when I will react as my history indicates I should; or even lash out in defense of the forums, yet none of it comes with any malice. If I can share something that helps another that to me is reward in itself, even if you do not like the way I say it.
It reminds me of classic scene in M.A.S.H. when Hawkeye caught an underage soldier (Ron Howard) and sent him home for being too young. Upon shipping out, the soldier kept telling Hawkeye how much he hated him, to which Hawkeye replied, “Let’s hope it is a long and healthy hate.” I do not need for you to like me so much as I hope you value my contributions. After all what matters more, the message or the delivery?
I truly believe in all of us sharing what we remember, because we do not want the pozzies of today to ignore the lessons from our history. You are not the first, nor sadly the last, to become HIV positive, try a new drug, have no side effects, or horribly failed by your meds as it has been happening for decades. History is important because knowledge is power and advocating for oneself is the pinnacle of the HIV community.
I will never try to tell you how to live I simply wish to share my history, as do many other seniors because for some of us, we contain an awful amount of history.
As to rounds, I would do them again in a heartbeat.