Tuesday, January 31, 2012

roar

“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.”
― Mary Anne Radmacher


As part of the blogging class I'm taking with Liv Lane, we are posting and sharing "Brave" blog posts and linking up with each other, supporting and encouraging each other.  If you are so moved, I hope you will join us.

I do not consider myself brave.  After reading a couple of blog posts from my classmates, I knew that I couldn't just let them post without stepping out on the limb with them.

First off, I want to say that this blog is a manifestation of bravery for me. It is the place where I keep putting my voice into the ether.  For a long time, I didn't speak out, whispered, kept that voice under control. WildRumpusing is my commitment to myself.  Some days, I am brave, some days, not so much.  Here is one of my bravest posts up until today. And here is another.

As I looked in my archives tonight, I realized that there was one story that I have alluded to, but I have never shared here. Deep breath. Here we go.



I guess it was June of 1986 when Roby had a low grade cold that wouldn’t go away – some fever, feeling yucky, low energy- so I took him to see his doctor. I wish I could remember the guy's name because he was an evil bastard. I took him to the doctor’s appointment where he had a full physical and some tests were done. When he came out to the waiting area, he told me he had gone ahead and tested for AIDS (at the time, that was what we were testing for – not HIV). I reassured him – no way…he’d only been with Grant and AIDS was not in Portland…really. I drove him to work and dropped him off.

A couple of weeks later – after much agonizing and worrying, I got a call from Roby in the late afternoon. I did not have any classes that day, so I was home. It was around 3:00 or 4:00pm – I was not showered but dressed in comfy clothes for around the house. I would get ready later to pick him up after he got off work at 9pm. I answered the phone and it was him – almost unrecognizeable – he was sobbing.

“Hello?”
“Can you come and get me? I have AIDS…” and he began sobbing again.
Stunned, I told him I would be right there…the litany in my mind was so loud, but my heartbeat was louder, “Oh my God, ohmygodohmygod…” Both roared in my ear as I ran to change my clothes and brush my teeth. I paused to think about the fact that I hadn’t washed my hair before my rational mind took over. Who cares? Go to him.

I drove my yellow VW Dasher to Beaverton Town Square praying all the way, “Please let it not be true. Please God, let it not be true.” I went into the store and his co-workers all had looks of concern and compassion on their faces. I walked to the back room and Carol was there. She let me in the back room (employees only) and I found him there, still crying, but less hysterical.

“He called me on the phone and told me I have AIDS. He doesn’t treat AIDS patients, so he told me to find a different doctor. Then he hung up. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die.”

I led him out of the store and took him to the car. I didn’t know what to say or do. Once I started the car, I took his hand in mine and we held hands all the way to his apartment. He didn’t really talk much. He was almost numb – just quiet.

 At the time, getting an AIDS diagnosis was a death sentence. It was early on when we still didn’t know much and there were no medicines to manage HIV and AIDS. This was in the days when we used language like, “He’s been exposed to AIDS.” Later, this became an HIV positive diagnosis. In 1986, being exposed to AIDS meant you had about 2 years to live. People were thrown out of their apartments, lost health insurance, they were beaten up, families abandoned them. Ryan White was diagnosed that year or the year after and a couple of other little boys and their communities burned their homes to the ground. We were very afraid of what would happen.

That night, Roby told JM, Susan, JC and Bill from downstairs. It was a difficult evening – I felt that I needed to be strong, so I didn’t cry in front of him. I just kept reassuring him – “Maybe it’s a mistake. We will find a different doctor.” At one point, I went across the hall and I cried a bit with Susan. I was feeling so lost and devastated – what would we do? How could this have happened?

Later in the evening, we walked downtown for some retail therapy for him. I don’t remember buying anything. He just couldn’t stand being in the apartment that night. I was in a daze. I just followed him and tried to keep my brain under control. We called it an early night but before I left, he asked me the biggest favor I have ever been asked. “Don’t tell anybody.” Of course I agreed. This would start me on a path that shaped my entire adult life. We didn't tell anyone for 9 years.

When I went home, my parents were out and I just went upstairs and in a black, brand new spiral notebook (unlike anything I would normally write in for a journal), I wrote the following:
"Thursday, June 26, 1986 (technically June 27 at 12:09am)

The doctor told Roby he has AIDS. He called him at work and told him over the phone. Roby called me. He was crying so hard he could hardly talk. I picked him up from work. I felt so helpless. I didn't know what to say or how to act. All I wanted was to take him in my arms and hug all his pain away. But I couldn't. I felt a huge wall between us. I tried to put my arm around him, but he seemed to move away. I feel numb. I didn't cry until he told Jenny (M.) and Susan. I felt like I had to be strong. Susan fell apart and sobbed. Later in her apartment, she and I talked. I cried and she somehow knew that I needed for her to tell me it was okay. We talked for awhile. Roby loves her so much. So do I. Even Jenny and I talked. She held me when I cried and held my hand for a while. I felt as if we were friends just then.

I don't know how to feel. This has got to be a mistake. It has to be. I know this is selfish, but I don't want to lose him, I can't. Not now. Not ever."


I remember that I went to bed right after I wrote that. I put the notebook in my nightstand and turned off the lights. Later, my mother came home and checked on me as I was rarely in bed that early. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and closed my door after I assured her that I was ok.

The night that changed my whole life. 


17 comments:

  1. Wow! That is a really difficult memory! I'm so glad you shared it here. Thank you... you brave soul... 9 years is a long time to stay quiet.

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  2. wow...big exhale....brave, brave soul you are. xo susan

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  3. Thank you, Kirsten and Susan, for your kind words. Definitely a big exhale. :) I so appreciate your support and good thoughts.

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  4. I feel speechless after reading this. Beautiful bravery. I hope writing about it will be therapeutic for you.

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  5. Jean: Wow! Your post gave me chills. So wonderfully brave of you to share this with us! Thank you so much!

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  6. I don't know what to say, but thank you for sharing. Your post is so heart wrenching, so beautifully written and I wish I could change the outcome for you. This is one of the most brave posts I have ever read.

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  7. Writing this was very therapeutic! Your kindness even more so.

    Thank you for reading my story and for taking the time to comment. I am honored and moved by the generous responses.

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  8. As tears flow, I can only imagine your pain. To be helpless yet hopeful. You are an amazing friend. Your strength and courage to be and stay close in those days. Are to be applauded. Because I know of the torment caused to a family in my area. The child was shunned. The family devastated. Treated as lepers.Yet this innocent child had little hope. The elementary school made this a public affair. I wish this was allowed to be kept quite. and the child to live as normal as possible.
    Sending you a big hug.

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    1. You have such a kind heart, Grammy! Thank you for your kind words. I'm so sorry for that family - hard enough to have a sick child without having people behaving so cruelly. My heart goes out to them.

      Hugs to you!

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  9. Jean, this is a beautiful post. Thank you for sharing so honestly about your friend Roby. I feel really shocked at the terrible way Roby was treated when he was given his diagnosis. Over the phone without any support or compassion. I cannot imagine how frightened and devastated he must have felt. Thank you for sharing this part of your story with Roby. Em x (BBTL)

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    1. Thank you for your kind comment. After all these years, it is still so meaningful to see someone else write his name. Funny how those things strike you!

      I have wished that doctor some very bad experiences over the years. Luckily, we found someone who took great care of him.

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  10. What a beautiful brave post! Such a terrible way for him to find out/be treated. And not telling anyone for nine years is a long time to hold something in. Thanks for sharing.

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    1. Thank you, Laney! I really appreciate you stopping by and your compassion. Thank goodness tings are really different now, so hopefully, people aren't being treated like that anymore.

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  11. Reading this gave me cold chills - went through something similar with a dear friend (but years later when it was sad and life-changing but not a total death sentence).It sounds like you were a great friend to be there for and through that. You are so brave for sharing - thanks you.

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    1. I'm sorry your friend went through hard times, too. Thank goodness times have changed a bit - not perfect, but much better. Thank you for your kind words!

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  12. Hi Jean! Sorry it has taken me so long to get over here..I'm catching up on all these brave posts! And I'm so glad that I did. Thank you for sharing your story - such a beautiful post. And thanks for stopping by my blog the other week - much appreciated - now I must go FINISH things. :)

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    1. Hi there! Thanks for popping by! I'm still trying to read all the brave posts and all the others, as well. What a fantastic journey we are all on. :)

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