Today, December 1, is World AIDS Day.
The Band would like to honor those lost to HIV/AIDS and still fighting.
Please join us.
His strained voice called to us from the only bedroom in the basement apartment, “Kids, come in here. I have something to tell you.”
The air thickened around me. I shuffled my 7-year old sister and 5-year old brother from the living room to where our dad stood bent, hands braced against a dresser for support. The three of us lined up inside the doorway, blue eyes wide and staring at the broken man before us.
“Sit down,” he whispered.
My sister and brother complied, but I stood there frozen. When my father began to choke on his tears, I thought of my step-sister’s tentative words to me during a recent visit…
“Crystal, your dad has AIDS. That’s why he keeps going back into the hospital.”
“He does not have AIDS! I would know if he did!”
“Yes, he does. I heard my dad talking to your mom about it.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying!”
Fear flamed in my chest and I ran away from that room. I didn’t want to hear what my dad had to say, didn’t want him to know that I knew he was sick already, and most of all I didn’t want my step-sister’s words to be true.
I grabbed my dad’s car keys on the way out the door and locked myself into his rusty grey VW Beetle, sobbing. I kept hoping that he would come after me, that he would tell me that I had no reason to run away and no reason to be afraid.
He did not come.
I sat alone and cried until I was dry, until my head felt water-logged and achey. I wiped away the tears and waited what seemed like hours until the swollen skin around my eyes returned to normal. I steeled myself and walked back into the apartment. My dad’s courage had left him when I ran out the door and he said nothing of what he had been about to tell us. We ate lunch instead, and the day continued as normal.
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I was 9 or so when my dad became noticeably ill; he was 28-years old. He was in and out of the hospital, but we (his 4 kids) weren’t told why. He lost his job when they found out about his illness. He took a trip to Arizona to visit his best friend and see the place where we lived when I was born, then he came back to Sacramento and was admitted to the hospital a short time later. He withered away there before being moved to hospice care when it was determined he wouldn't be recovering enough to go home.
My memories of him in that hospital bed are still vivid. I remember the hospitals in more detail than I remember life before he got sick. I remember the smell of the other hospice patients and the uneasy quiet. I'll certainly never forget the moment he begged me to never do drugs - I've been terrified of them ever since.
I remember the morning he died - waking up to the smell of bacon and knowing I was late for school because of the warmth of the sun shining into my bedroom window. My mother barely had the words to tell me the news. All I could think at the time was how mad I was that he hadn't asked to see me one more time.
That was 20 years ago. I'm now older than my father was when he died, which is hard to accept. It makes me feel old.
My dad had such vitality before this disease took him. He was an all-American type - a star athlete, a musician, and an artist. In a matter of months, he went from being a strong, energetic man to a shrunken, skeletal human smaller than his own children. I was afraid of him in that withered state. It haunted me well into my adult years.
I wasn't told the truth about my father's disease until a year after he died. I was sworn to secrecy - I could not even tell my siblings. I can’t tell you how many times I sat silently in school, boiling over nasty comments about people with HIV/AIDS. I think it’s a shame that I had to keep it a secret - it would have been better to share my family's story and spread awareness. And it would have been better to grieve openly instead of suffering silently.
This disease is still wreaking havoc and is so widespread. It's disappointing that after more than two decades of the disease, there is no cure or even a vaccine. I hope to see one of those in my lifetime.
I remember my dad most during this time of the year, and I remember the disease that made him cry.
