Angels I Don't See PART XX

If you want to read the entire story leading up to part XX, click here for Parts I-XIX


The following takes place at the end of January, 2009

Since, at this point in the story of Angels, my father emerges, I should take some time and explain my family. My brother and I have often discussed turning our family life into a play. My brother is a theatre major at NYU and given the material with which we have to work is plentiful and replete with dysfunctional tales of family drama, I am certain we would have a hit on our hands. And the play would not be exclusively focused on my mother and father. It would include a cast of characters that include my extended family, most of whom make Mama’s Family look like the Brady Bunch (and I mean that in a good way…I think?).

My relationship with my father has been, to say the least, a strained relationship for many years. People often assume that since my father is also gay we have this fabulous, Rainbow-Brite, boa tight bond. Actually quite the opposite is true. In fact when I told my father I was gay, three months after he told me he was gay, his first response was “But I wanted grandchildren. Now I’ll have to wait years for Grant to grow up and have kids”

It was, to say the least, not exactly the confetti and ticker-tape, welcome-to-homo-land reaction I was expecting. Similarly, my mother, years after finding out I was gay, during a conversation (actually it was a yelling match, of which we’ve had many. My family loves to yell, myself included) said, after I asked her about my right to marry the man I loved, “What about my right to grandchildren!?!??!”, a non sequitur to be sure, but when my family argues, logic rarely makes an appearance. We tend to go for the jugular (or in this case, the non-existent grandkids). We are ruthless and logic is the farthest thing from our mind.

My parents really want grandkids. And God help my little brother if he doesn’t produce. My mom and dad just might literally melt or go steal babies from maternity wards. God help my brother and all the maternity wards in my parents’ respective cities if he tells my parents that he does not want children, I hope he does it over the phone, thousands of miles away from where either of them could get to him.

A few years ago, while my brother was still in high-school, my father, his partner and my brother paid Ric and me a visit. It was not the first time they had visited us so I was perplexed as to why my father suggested after lunch on the Upper East Side that we go to F-A-O Shwarz. What in God’s good name would he possibly want to do there, I thought?

After strolling around the store with my father et al. in tow Ric and I decided to look around the store ourselves, alone. Though I have never been a big fan of F-A-O or anything in New York that attracts hordes of tourists like mosquitoes to a blood-bank, I have always been fascinated with their Barbie section (whatever! Stereotype my ass if you’d like!), and F-A-O has this fantastic collection of Barbie dolls.

After getting my fill of all things Barbie we went looking for my father, his partner and my brother. As we were descending the escalator I noticed that they were all staring at a huge display full of plush stuffed animals.

“What are you all doing?” I asked

“Oh, nothing”, my father replied, “just looking at all the stuffed animals I want to buy for my grandchild”

“You do realize that you don’t have a grandchild, right dad?” I responded, a bit flummoxed at his answer.

“I know I don’t have a grandchild!” he yelled in disdain, “But Grant will have children one day and I was just thinking about when I will have the chance to buy the baby all the stuffed animals and toys and things”

Daydreaming about what amounted to a fictional character in his life? If my coming-out response was not enough, this episode of delusion cleared up any notion in my mind that my father had moved past the grandchild kick. He was, without question, obsessed. And my brother was the vessel by which my father’s dreams would come true.
I tell that story to give you an idea of my father. As I have written in previous parts of this story, I have done quite a bit to earn my father’s rebuke. But one thing to keep in mind, due to all that have done, is that he has pinned all his hopes and dreams of grandchildren, among other things, on my brother. I don’t envy my brother’s position at all (well, except for the new car, the paying of his college tuition, the first class trips to European countries, and *fill in a plethora of resentments here*)

Anyway, as so many can relate, my father always expected more out of me. I never went to the right college, “worshipped” the ground my late maternal grandfather walked on (whom my father hates to this day and cannot have a conversation, any conversation, without bringing my grandfather up), never followed through on anything for more than a few weeks. And finally, my father does not believe in alcoholism and feels as though, when I bring it up, I am using it as an excuse for my behavior. Needless to say, our relationship has been tumultuous. Much of my father’s criticisms of me are valid and, of course, much of them are not. Two queers, father and son = High Drama.

This is not to say that my dad is a bad man. Far from it. I have never doubted his love for me and he always provided the necessities of life growing up, and then some. I was not abused, or neglected or even shamed as a child. But as I became an adult, just as my parent’s divorce was underway, my dad expected far more from me than I was able at the time to give. Their divorce became a battle royal for custody rights for my brother and, being away at college, I never really knew what was going on. What I did know was that it was a brutal, devastating divorce that was as nasty and heartbreaking as anything I have known.

But my mom and dad do share something in common. Heaven help anyone they perceive to have slighted either of their two children. My mother will rise up like an erupting volcano if she perceives her children being treated negatively. She is not a protective mother – she is THE protective mother who will fight like mad to protect us, even to this day. Similarly, my father will do anything to make sure that anyone who hurts my brother or me is met with an iron fist. His protectionism is more like a tornado set to destroy anything in its path. It is comforting to know this. In fact, my parents have been excellent parents and my love for them knows no bounds.

So anyway, as I was preparing for my father’s arrival, I was preparing for the worst (as is my standard operating procedure when waiting for an event to occur, any event). There were at least four things that I knew my father was not happy about:

1) That I called him only when I was in dire need of help after not speaking to him for nearly three years
2) That Ric kept his status from me for many months
3) That I was going to court to cover Ric’s ass after all that Ric had done to me and my father was livid about that as well considering that my father and his partner are the ones that bought the car involved in the alleged accident.
4) That Ric’s family had done nothing to help.

All four were fair game and he had every right to be upset. The problem is, especially when it comes to my father, whether or not I am right, I can never stand up to him and tell him what I think. I tend to keep my mouth shut until I am at the tipping point and relapse and then I call him and lose. It’s not just drunk dialing, it’s drunk dialing derangement syndrome. My mom and my dad are usually the targets but occasionally I will unleash my venom on others as well.

I was also preparing so many other things. The paperwork to get Ric on all the different programs he needed to be on in order to survive was endless. As I have written previously, many agencies ask for financial records that are impossible to produce and many others ask such intimate questions that you nearly want to just throw the applications away. I mean it was almost to the point of “Please, in inches, tell us your penis size, flaccid and erect. Girth and length must be included. If you choose not to answer, or answer incorrectly, it could delay the application process for up to ten years”. Some of it was just that bat-shit crazy!

Needless to say, the day my father arrived, I was a big hot mess of over-the-borderline get-me-in-a-cell-with-a-padded-room, stat!

Part XXI here

Angels Abound

In a few days I will have some exciting news to announce. Stay tuned for an incredible announcement about an incredible angel.

But in the mean time, see that "badge" just to the right of this post? If you click on it, it takes you to a donation page for the 16th Annual Race to Deliver, of which I am participating in honor of Ric. It helps an organization called "God's Love We Deliver" (GLWD), which delivers healthy, nutritious meals to those who have life threatening illnesses who cannot prepare meals or afford meals on their own. Ric is one such individual who receives food from this wonderful place of love. No one, I repeat, NO ONE, has ever been turned away.

I know times are tight for many people right now but I would be grateful and honored if you could donate whatever you can to such a wonderful cause and help me reach my goal of raising $2500.00 for GLWD. The reason I chose $2500.00 is because $2500.00 feeds one home-bound, seriously ill person for six months. Remember, just click on the badge to the right that says "Race to Deliver".

Watch the video below to learn more about God's Love and then donate if you can:



And stay tuned for the big announcement coming within days (or maybe like a week or so)

A miracle that speaks for itself...literally

Yesterday my husband pulled out a watercolor set that my mother had sent to him. Showing his independence on the 4th of July, he began to paint. This man, a man that I carried to the bathroom and fed like an infant two months ago, a man who could not speak or walk, is now painting with watercolors. To some, this might just be by chance. To me it is a miracle.

But following the miracle he had a terrible night, unable to sleep (among other things) which meant I did not sleep.

However, the miracle is in no way diminished by the night. Miracles never are.

This is why...

Often people ask me why I stayed with my partner after he did not disclose his status to me for several months. This is the answer, originally written June 18th, 2008, before I knew what was wrong with him:

Spotting Love

The other day he fell. It wasn’t a terrible fall and in and of itself it would not have been a big deal. The problem is that the fall was not an isolated incident. Along with falling, his speech has been slow and mangled, his memory has been weak and his strength has been deteriorating rapidly. What does this all mean? We simply do not know.

Yesterday we went to see a neurological specialist on the Upper East Side. After a series of tests she said that he did, in fact, have a neurological disorder. To pinpoint exactly what it is will take a series of even more tests -- a MRI, a spinal something or other, extensive blood work, etc – and it could be a few weeks before they can diagnose him specifically.

Getting anywhere on the far east side of Manhattan is a bit of a hassle. We took the 4 to 59^th where we transferred to the 6 up to 68^th. At 68^th we walked east – all the way east – to York and 70^th. It would normally have been inconvenient but now that one of us has trouble walking, it was grueling.

Usually we walk at an extremely quick pace. We always have. New York is unforgiving to the slow. If you move to New York you accept certain unwritten rules, one of which is the requirement of a speedy gait. If you move slowly you pay the price.

Through the years when we have navigated the city together I usually walked a few steps ahead. And when I arrive at the destination I look back and he is just a few steps away. I never worried that he would fall…or stop…or forget where he was. That has now all changed.

Yesterday I made sure he walked ahead of me. My eyes never left his body. When he ascended stairs or an escalator I positioned myself just a few feet behind in case he lost his balance. If he were to fall, I was there to catch him. And if someone were to get aggravated by his slow pace I could step in so that they would be aggravated with me instead. I would be his strong arm when his became too weak, his legs when his quit working, his mind when his went blank.

On our way home, after we stepped off our last escalator, he leaned in and whispered “Thanks for spotting me, babe”. Up to that point I was unaware he noticed. In fact I did not want him to notice. I wanted him to feel as normal as possible and did not want him to perceive me as acting any way but normal.

And as we walked out of the station I began to cry. Thankfully my sunglasses were able to shield my tears from anyone noticing, especially him. But I began to cry because I am scared. I am scared out of my fucking mind. I have never been so scared about anything in my entire life. He has been through health scares before but nothing like this. And this is not the way it was supposed to play out.

The love that I have for him is something I cannot put into words. I never knew such a love ever existed. And if it did exist it certainly would never find me. But it did find me.

It found me on a Sunday afternoon in August of 2001. On that day I wandered into Hannah’s Lava Lounge in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. They were playing BINGO and I thought it might be fun. However, when I sat down I noticed someone sitting a few feet away. He was cute, had an infectious laugh and he intrigued me. We began talking and we have been together ever since. Nearly seven years later, one day at a time, together.

I have had so many problems over the years, many of which I have put on blogs such as this. My issues, every single one, were issues he took as his own. If I was sick, he fed me. Dirty, he bathed me. Sad, he comforted me. Angry, he calmed me. He was always the rock, the foundation. The most charming of all the princes, the shiniest of all the knights.

He was the one that kept the red bucket by my side and washed it when it became full. He was the one that held me the night I sobbed over my grandfather’s death. He was the one that came to find me the night I was so drunk I did not know where I was and the one that made sure I had ginger-ale to drink when I was parched. He is the one that made me a bouquet of flowers out of paper napkins because we did not have the money for real flowers. He is the one that made me a cake to celebrate my anniversary of moving to New York. He is the one that left me a handwritten note on the kitchen counter every morning before he went to work. It always said I love you. I always knew.

But now I am the one. The one that makes sure I am never more than a few feet away when he is taking a shower in case he falls. The one that calms him when he can’t remember where he is. I am the one that makes sure he eats healthy food. I am the one that watches him while he sleeps to make sure he is still breathing and worries every time he coughs. The roles have changed, forcibly and by no decision of ours. The warrior is now the child. And the child, the reluctant warrior.

Today, like clockwork, the Mr. Softee ice-cream truck went by our building. Like a young boy, he perked up and said “I want an ice cream cone. Do you think I will be able to make it out there before he leaves?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…” Before I could finish my sentence he was out the door. Dressed in his slippers, pajama bottoms and a hoodie he went downstairs to find the ice-cream truck. I grabbed my camera and opened the window.

I wanted the picture. Not because I think he might be gone soon, though he might. Not because I don’t have enough pictures of him, though I don’t. Not because he looked so innocent and sweet, though he did. I took the picture because a day will come, no matter what comes of this, and I might forget.

I might forget just how adorable he looks in his pajama bottoms. I might forget that he loves ice cream. A lot. I might forget how cute he is when he eats from a cone and how cute our dog is watching him eat from the cone. No matter what, I don’t want to forget.

So tomorrow we go for the MRI. And as we go I will be just a few feet behind. I will make sure he doesn’t fall and that he gets to where he needs to be. I can’t promise I won’t cry. In fact I know I will. But through it all I’ll be spotting him. Because through it all he has always spotted me.

UPDATE: A continuing story on Ric's condition here

Mika, once again, captures the emotions...

that I am feeling today

God's Love We Deliver

Today, in the midst of the chaos and sadness, Jon-Marc and his partner Ric want to extend congratulations and thanks to God's Love We Deliver which today celebrated delivering their ten-millionth meal to those in need, one of which was included in a bag of meals that was delivered to us today. Please, to the many readers of this blog and know of our story through the series Angels I Don't See , consider making a donation to God's Love. You can do so here at their donation page. But first watch the video below.




Thank you God's Love. You are truly doing the work of God!

79 days ago

I look at this picture to remind me of my drinking and how it physically transforms me. I look at it often so I can remember the hell of the relapse when "I cannot recall with sufficient force". The many days in the past 77 I have looked at this picture and see the pain and cry. Today, I looked at it and saw the pain and thought "it can't be worse than it is right now". The pain of today is so strong that the pain of that picture pales in comparison.

This is the hardest story that I've ever told. No hope or love or glory. Happy endings gone forever more

This song, by Mika, is a song that captures the emotions that I have been feeling lately

A break from Angels

So today I noticed this and thought I would show you all. It made my day. You can read the entire article by clicking on the picture above but my favorite quote is this:

"So, demoralized by failure, frustrated by my unnecessary expenditures, and hungry for answers, I turned to Google Search, typed in the cookies-that-shall-not-be-named, and came up with an amusing and, thankfully, reassuring post by the New York-based food blogger Jon-Marc McDonald of bake it til you make it.

McDonald is equal parts humorist and baker—he’s smart, snarky, sassy and downright hilarious. But what I appreciate most about him is that he’s a seriously good baker who takes himself and his trade lightly—i.e. someone I might do well to learn from."

Ps. I have a facebook profile. If any are interested, friend me. The link is here. Hope it works: Jon-Marc McDonald's facebook profile. If not just friend me the regular way on the facebook site

Angel I Don't See Part XIX

Parts I-XVIII here

As goes the insurance so goes the patient. I was not surprised nor was I upset. Ric's doctor did all he could do for him in the hospital and seemed hopeful about Ric returning home. I was also comfortable with Ric returning home due to him being approved for an AIDS drug program that would provide his medication at no cost to us.

Everything changed the moment we arrived at the loft. Prior to Ric's hospital stay his problems were primarily related to delusions of the mind and a childlike mental capacity. Upon his return, his entire body seemed to give up.

He lost all control of his faculties, could not speak coherently, was unable to feed himself, could not walk and slept at all hours. I could not leave him alone for even a minute. I was tethered to him, meaning I could not leave the loft unless someone was watching him for me. I fed him, cleaned him and carried him to the bathroom. In sickness and in health was no longer a sweet sentiment expressed when we exchanged our vows. It was pure sickness all the time without the promise that health would ever return.

Sure enough, the dreaded court date arrived and I was forced to leave Ric is someone's care beside my own. My brother, a sophomore at NYU, came over and watched Ric for a few hours. Though, as I wrote previously, I resent my father's favoritism of my brother, I have never resented my brother. After all, it was (or is) not his fault. I have never felt anything but love for my brother and am the proudest big brother in the world for all he is accomplishing.

"He has Depends on, he has eaten and the only thing you need to worry about is if he tries to get up, which he will. If you don't stop him he will fall. So make sure when he starts to move you stop him. If he were to cut himself or something use these gloves and clean the wound, put some ointment on it and a band-aid. Make sure you wear the gloves" I said as I handed my brother rubbing alcohol and a box of gloves and Band-Aids. I felt as a parent does the first time they leave their child in someone else's care.

I was nervous about my court appearance. There were two things I was determined not to do.; I would not enter a guilty plea and I would not mention Ric. The former was non-negotiable; the latter was contingent on the judge not asking if anyone else had access to the car. Of course, given my unfounded fear of law enforcement, it was likely I would blab like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed being water boarded if the judge so much as sneezed at me.

I sat in the packed court room, hoping beyond hope that I was outwardly masking my fear. I was dressed in a suit. Everyone else, except the prosecutor, was in jeans.

Great Jon-Marc. You look like an ass in your suit. Why didn't you just bake the judge some cookies and offer to wash their car? After all, it's obvious why you're wearing a suit. You want the judge to think that someone dressed as nice as you could not possibly be guilty of leaving the scene of an accident the voice in my head said.

GUILTY! the other voice replied.

"John McDougal. Is Jon McDougal here?" the prosecutor asked. I looked around the room to see if John McDougal came forward.

When no one responded I screeched "I'm Jon McDonald. Actually I'm Jon-Marc McDonald. Did you mean Jon-Marc McDonald because I am Jon-Marc McDonald? I'm here for a hit and run charge for which I am pleading not guilty because, uh, that's what I am, not guilty. Is that who you meant? Jon-Marc McDonald?" There was no other way to describe my outburst except that it was pure diarrhea of the mouth. So much for calm, cool and collected.

"No, I meant John McDougal" the prosecutor replied.

"Oh, well doesn't McDonald come before McDougal alphabetically?"

Shut. The. Hell. UP! Jon-Marc!

"It does if I was calling names alphabetically" the prosecutor said, his eyes fixed on me like a scope fixed on its target.

What was I doing? I listened as the prosecutor called people up to his table and knew that he was not calling people alphabetically. If my nerves got any worse, Ric was not going to be the only one with incontinence.

After a few more names the prosecutor came to my name.

"Jon. Mc. Don. Ald" He made a point to pause between every syllable which in turn caused the entire courtroom erupt in laughter. He continued. "No need to come up. We all know your plea.

"Ok, thanks" I said, wanting more than anything to run out of the courthouse into oncoming traffic. At once the anger and hurt and despair begin to bubble up. It felt as though everything I was going through could all be blamed on Ric. The court, dealing with his disease, finances – everything. I did not know how much more I could take.

"All rise. The honorable blah blah blah, blah blah" the bailiff or whatever you call the person who introduces the judge said.

"You may be seated" the stunningly beautiful and quite young judge, said.

"I want you all to know that if you are not guilty, do not plead guilty just to get your case over with. Pleading guilty when you are in fact innocent is not the solution" she continued.

Wow, I thought. This judge is cool. I am not guilty and I am pleading not guilty. She's gonna see all my evidence and she's gonna dismiss on the spot

After a few cases went before her and I realized that she was pretty damn awesome, she called my name.

"Mr. McDonald. It is my understanding that you wish to enter a not-guilty plea. Is this correct?"

"Yes, your honor. I wish to plead not guilty. I move to have this case dismissed" What the hell???? I was acting though I was Perry effen Mason!

"Unfortunately Mr. McDonald, you cannot move to dismiss the case at this time. I assume you are going to represent yourself. Is that correct?"

"Yes ma'am, um, I mean yes your honor"

"Ok, your trial date is set for two weeks from today"

"My trial? But I just pleaded not guilty. Isn't this the trial? I can prove I'm innocent. I have all the evidence right here" I said as I held up a folder full of documents.

"No, Mr. McDonald, we need to contact the other party involved in the alleged accident as well as the officer who took the report and notify them so they can come and testify if they so choose" the judge replied.

"You mean they weren't contacted already? That's silly. What a waste of taxpayer money. This could all be streamlined in my opinion, for the sake of the taxpayers." Perry Masson morphed into Ralph Nader with a touch of Grover Norquist thrown in for good measure.

"Is that all Mr. McDonald" the judge calmly asked.

"Yes, see you on the 27^th." The 27^th was the day my Dad was to drive up from Washington, DC and help take Ric to his appointment at the Health Clinic, ensuring that the 27^th would be the day I faced two judges. Ironically, both would end up judging me on things I had not done.

Part XX here

Angels I Don't See PART XVIII

You can read Parts I-XVII by clicking here

"Oh, I see! You're now calling me after three years of not talking to me because you need help. You know, all my friends have told me to cut you off completely, to never talk to you again. They're probably right. Why should I listen to what you have to say after everything you have done?"

My Dad was right. A few months after my father and his partner loaned us money for a car so Ric could get to work in Bridgewater, New Jersey, I quit talking to him. I was ashamed that I could not pay Dad back like Ric and I agreed we would and decided that, rather than tell my father about our struggles, it would be far easier to cut off communication. Quite frankly, shutting people out of my life for no apparent reason was a pattern. And my Dad's reaction to hearing from me after a three year absence had a familiar ring to it.

Though Ric could not possibly understand what I was saying at the time, I had been telling him the exact thing my Dad told me. I explained to Ric how most of my friends were encouraging me to leave him, to never talk to him again, to let his blood relatives and the state sort out the mess he had made of his life. I made clear that his actions were cruel and to some degree evil and that the idea of walking away and never looking back had crossed my mind more than once. I knew that Ric was unable to process what I was telling him but I needed to say it. I needed him to hear it even if he could not comprehend what it was he was hearing.

"Dad, I am really sorry. The situation is so desperate and so bad right now and I am turning to every possible resource I can. I know how it looks calling you after so many years. And you are probably right. I am watching the love of my life waste away from the plague in the supposed non-plague years. I probably would not have attempted to get in touch if the situation was not so dire. I just need some help". As I was talking to my Dad I was looking out the window of Ric's hospital room at the view of the Empire State Building, an ironic view, to be sure, since the last time Ric was in the hospital he had a view off the Statue of Liberty. Once again, the iconic view did not provide the inspiration it once had.

"What about his sister? Have you called her? Is she helping any? I can tell you right now that Jack (my Dad's partner, not his real name) will not be willing to send any money. He is livid at you about the car" my father replied angrily.

"Don't get me started on her. His sister Eunice (not her real name) has been no help whatsoever. Before we knew what was wrong with Ric I was on the phone with her all the time, trying to see if she could convince him to go to the hospital. Her solution was to get one of my friends to come over and forcefully carry him to the car and forcefully force him to the hospital! As if my friends and I could essentially carry a 51 year old man kicking and screaming to the car and then subdue him until we got to the hospital! But that was her solution! And when I did get him to agree to go to the hospital, he jumped out of the car while it was moving as we were heading there." My Dad hit on an exposed nerve when he brought up Ric's sister. Little did I know that in the coming months, Eunice's kidnapping suggestion would be the extent of all the help she would offer.

"What does she have to say now? Does she know he has HIV? When is she going to be up there to see him and help with him?" This was classic Dad. When there was a problem, he wanted to know who was going to step up to the plate and help and who was going to pass the problem off to other people.

"I don't think she is coming up to help. She had knee surgery a few months ago and…actually, can we quit talking about her? She is going to be of no help so I really want to be solution focused. She is not part of that solution. In fact, in many ways she is part of the problem. I don't want to get into it now"

"Knee surgery? Knee surgery a few months ago is preventing her from getting there to visit her only brother who is dying? Give me a break!" my father said as his anger shifted from me to her.

"Yeah, but anyway, our insurance runs out on Sunday and I know they are going to release him before it runs out. I met with a guy who is now Ric's case manager and he made an appointment for Ric to see the doctor at the Health Clinic on the 28^th. His case manager is also helping me apply for all the assistance we can get. I also met with the guy that is the head of one of the HIV resource centers here last week with Ric before he went to the hospital. He was so comforting and encouraging. He told us not to despair, that there is a lot of help out there and it's just a matter of finding it. The one thing he did say, though, was that due to the increased survival rate…no, sorry…the longer people are living with HIV has caused the funding for programs such as his to be slashed. But still, he was very helpful" In the short time since I found out Ric's status I was on the phone nonstop with charities and HIV organizations, scheduling meetings and trying to navigate the elaborate labyrinth of securing assistance.

"Ok, the 28^th. I will drive up on the 27^th and help you take him to the doctor. I will also bring things that you two need, like food, Depends, cleaning supplies, and whatever else you can think of. What else is happening? Is there anything else that we need to address quickly?"

"Well, yeah there is. Ric drove the car a few weeks ago without my knowledge. He does not have a license and apparently he hit a car and left the scene. Anyway, I got a court summons and now I am the one, since the car is in my name, that is going to face the charges" I said as I held my breath and waited for what I knew was not going to be a pleasant response.

"WHAT!?!?!?!" my father replied, his anger rising to white hot flame territory. "You mean to tell me that he drove the car we got him so he could get to work and he has never had a license?"

"No Dad, when we got the car he had a license. But since that time his license expired and since he no longer needed the car to get to work because his job was transferred back into New York, he did not get it renewed. I am the only one that has been driving the car…in theory"

"So he drove the car and now you are going to court? Good luck in jail!" My father has always had a flair for the dramatic, turning a bunny slope into Mount Kilimanjaro ready to erupt.

"Yes he drove the car and yes I am going to court. But I got the police report and there was no damage to the other car. I am not going to jail. I just have to go to court. Please don't make this bigger than it is. In fact, let's not make any of this bigger than it is" I said futilely trying to calm my father's rhetoric.

"Get your head out of the sand, Jon-Marc! I am not making this bigger than it is! Ric has HIV, possibly AIDS that he hid from you and everyone else for many months, possibly longer. He drives your car, gets in a wreck and, once again, does not tell you. Now you're going to court. You are carrying the weight of all his lies and cleaning up all his messes. Haven't you thought about leaving him? I don't need to make this bigger than it is. THIS IS FUCKING BIG!"

"First of all, it's AIDS. Secondly I can't leave him. I've made that decision. You might not agree with it and, to tell you the truth, most people in my life don't. But if I don't stay he's a dead man. And I couldn't live with myself if I left him to die. He does not have the mental capacity to take care of himself. I am really sick of people who essentially don't have a dog in this fight telling me what I need to do. His niece told me I needed to secure our belongings in the apartment because we were going to be evicted. Then she told me to find a job because if not, we were going to be homeless. When does she think I have any time to find a job and pack our stuff and take care of Ric all at the same time? Everyone has a fucking solution to this problem. And you know what? Every solution every person offers does not include that person!"

It took every ounce of humility I had left to call my father and ask for his help. Though I was clearly wrong for not paying back the money we owed him and his partner for the car, I still carried a huge resentment against my father – a resentment that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not shake. And the years that we did not talk only caused the resentment to metastasize and fester and, in many ways, become infected.

My father and his partner have been very generous to me through the years. But, despite that generosity, my father's generosity towards my younger brother has been unparalleled. He pays for most of his education at NYU, has taken him on lavish trips around the world, given my brother thousands of dollars in gifts, bought my brother a brand new car when he turned 16 (without condition that my brother pay him back) and, apparently, paints me in the worst possible light in discussions with brother. My father, of course, would justify all of this by saying that I continually screw up and he has given me plenty of chances.

The problem is that, while I worked from the time I was 14 and throughout college, my brother has never been required to work. And while my parents were separated and during their ugly divorce as they fought for custody rights and visitation rights concerning my brother, I was in college not knowing what the hell was going on, not knowing who was telling me the truth and also dealing with the painful, lonely, reality that I was gay. It was for these reasons and many more that made my groveling at my father's feet a bitter pill to swallow. I was a bitter man swallowing a bitter pill. However, having been broken to the point of complete defeat I was not in the position to decide which pills I was willing to swallow and which pills I would spit out. Every pill would be taken with a big glass of unsweetened iced-humility.

I had no other choice. My medicine chest was bare.

Part XIX here

Angels I Don’t See PART XVII

You can read Parts I-XVI by clicking here

Part XVII

When I arrived at UMC Ric was being monitored by a nurse that would sit in his room day and night. If Ric so much as attempted to get up the nurse would calmly but firmly dissuade him. If Ric persisted, the nurse would stand up and escort Ric back to bed.

It was comforting to know that he was in UMC. At the time, the beginning of January, I did not know anything about the disease that was consuming his life and, by extension, mine as well. Though I had friends with HIV in the past, I never knew anyone that not only ignored their diagnosis but chose to believe that the doctor bearing the diagnosis was an outright, maniacal liar.

"His viral load is 775,000. That is extremely high. But there is no need to be frightened. I have seen the number drop significantly within a few months. However, he must stay on the medication and try not to let him forget to take them as prescribed" Dr. M told me just outside his room.

"What do we do?" I responded not quite clear what viral loads were or what a high viral load meant.

"We make sure he is eating and taking his medicine. Those two things are key. First, get his weight up and get his viral load down and then we get his CD4 count up"

"CD4 count? What does that mean?"

"Basically, anything below 200 and the patient is classified as having AIDS"

"Oh. So does he have AIDS?" I responded without even asking what the actual CD4 count was.

"Yes, by definition, he would be classified as having developed AIDS. But there is a lot that can be done. There is no need to lose hope"

Dr. M continued to talk but I was not listening. Instead my mind was reeling as to how this disease progressed so quickly. If he did in fact find out his status in August, how had it seized his body so quickly? He had HIV tests just months before and they were all negative. Or were they?

Everything that I thought I knew, everything that I believed to be true was thrown into question. Did he cheat? Had he known about his disease for sometime before the August test? Months? Years? There was no way of knowing. As every day brought about more information and more disclosures, Ric's "truth" was as malleable as silly-putty. Up was down, left was right, day was night, my lover was a stranger.

"Now, when does his insurance run out?" Dr M asked.

Prior to arriving at UMC I called Dr. M's office and happened to tell his receptionist that Ric's benefits were set to terminate within days.

"Sunday or Monday I believe. I am trying to figure out how to get him on SSDI and Medicaid. Do you accept Medicaid?" I responded, not sure how I was going to fast-track the SSI, SSDI and, most importantly, Medicaid so there would not be a gap in his coverage.

"No, but don't worry. There are plenty of capable doctors that will. Have you looked into the Health Clinic?" Dr. M asked genuinely.

I knew Dr. M would not accept Medicaid. Though I was upset by that fact, I took comfort that Dr. M would find us a capable physician that could effectively treat Ric's disease.

"I have an appointment with them today. In fact I have so many appointments I am not sure how I am going to keep them all"

Little did I know in early January that my life would be nothing but appointments from that point on. Appointments and paperwork. Every charity and every government agency required separate and equally exhausting reams of paperwork that meant face to face meetings, notarized documents, bank statements and a bevy of intimate and personal questions – questions that one would not even ask their closest friend.

After speaking with Dr. M I went to Ric's bed and stroked his hair. He was sleeping and, as Annie sings, his "face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale", and I began to pray.

"I can't do this alone, God. I don't think I can do this, period. If he goes, just take me with him. I have never known a love like this. Please give him a few more months, even a few more years. Bring back my love…my life…and I will do anything"

I have never been the type of person that negotiates with God. In fact I don't believe that God is in the business of negotiations. But I was willing to try anything. If someone told me to go to the Amazon Rain Forrest and pick fresh CamuCamu to be rubbed on Ric's belly while standing on my head at a 45 degree angle, I wouldn't have blinked and immediately booked my trip to the jungle.

Just as my prayer was closing, Ric opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, his speech slurred.

"You're at UMC. We had you transferred here so Dr. M could be your attending physician. How are you feeling?"

"I told you we have a home on the island. We don't need to stay at this hotel. I don't like this hotel. It smells like a hospital. Is this my iPod?". Ric was pulling at the tube connected to the IV that pierced his left hand.

"No, babe. That's your IV. Be careful. Don't pull it out. If you pull it out they will put it back in and that's no fun"

"Don't lie to me, Jon-Marc. They don't put IVs in at a hotel. This is an iPod and it doesn't work. You need to quit lying. God hates liars. Do you want God to hate you?"

With that, Ric yanked his iPod out of his arm and blood began to soak his sheets.

Two weeks, two IVs pulled prematurely, countless accusations that I was a liar and still believing fantasy.

Little did I know that I would long for the days when Ric pulled iPods out of his arm and screamed "Liar, liar, pants on fire". Things were about to get really messy, really quick.

Part XIX here

We. Are. Here!

I don’t remember walking into the liquor store but I do remember coming to and checking my voicemails, realizing that Ric had been taken to a hospital, where he would remain for some twenty plus days, suffering from pneumonia and a TB scare.

During that time I drank lethal amounts of alcohol, trying in vain to blot out the hell that had become my life. The pressure simply became too much and I turned to the most dangerous solution I could find. I snapped and spiraled into depths previously unknown. But, unbeknownst to me, angels were assembling around me, diligently waiting, interceding in prayer, ready at a moment’s notice to rush in and save my broken life.

Some friends fell away, making the relapse more about them than about the issue at hand. They claimed my best interest but the reality was my relapse and subsequent early departure from three detox units bruised egos and wounded hearts. I do not blame them. But all things that occurred were just as they were meant to be; all a part of God’s divine plan.

But there were yet still others who said “This battle is not yours alone to fight, this burden is not yours alone to carry. This loss is not yours alone to grieve, this path is not yours alone to walk. We are here. Family, friends, strangers. And we will lift you up and carry you on when your own resources fail you. You will not slip the bonds of this life and we will not let you fall. We are here. We are here.

We. Are. Here!”

They were the essence of faith, the essence of Christ. They extended their hearts and their hands. They forgave my foolishness and my actions, not once or twice. But seventy times seven. Their spirit of hope triumphed over my abyss of darkness.

While some who claimed to be my closest friends recoiled and severed ties with me in every way imaginable, treating me as a leper relegated to the colony, others stepped forward without precondition or demand, and said “Do not look back. What’s done is done. Look forward. We know what you are going through because we are you”

My mother, a woman who can barely walk on her own, flew up from Texas and stayed with me. She sat in my hospital room, day and night, rubbing ice on my arm for hours when the IV drip burned, cleaning my apartment from top to bottom, paying bills that I could not pay with money that she could not spare. She showed me that her faith was not simply reconstituted catch phrases, or feel-good superlatives, but was instead something she lived. We grew closer in ways I never imagined. From the ashes sprang new life, from the tragedy came renewed bonds. She shielded me from the elements when I could not shield myself and reminded me that love is sometimes a verb.

Acquaintances came to my loft and offered their experience, strength and hope. They wiped my brow and held my hand and prayed with me. They gave without asking, listened without demanding, spoke without yelling.

Many friends moved closer, lifting me up in thought and deed. They personified a sober life worth living. They did not scold or rebuke. They did not retreat in anger. In brilliant brushstrokes they painted a picture of a program that works if you work it. Suggestions became life-preservers. Words leapt from the pages of musty books written decades ago and were made anew by the actions of the many that humbly live with an obsession that has been lifted. They simply said, yet again, “We are here. We are here
We. Are. Here”

God, in his infinite grace and abiding love, opened doors where there were simply walls, moved mountains when they were too large to scale, changed the course of the ship in the face of the storm, and whispered from the heavens “I am here. I am here.

I am the Great I Am, and I. Am. Here!”

When Angels are silent

My series, Angels I Don't See, will be back soon.

Soon...

Unspeakable loss

My little girl
Gone too soon
Thank you for being you
I love you more than you could ever know
Trotter
2001-2009

Angels I Don't See PART XVI

Parts I-XV here

I managed to restrain Ric at the corner of Holy Shit and He’s Running Into Traffic until the ambulance arrived.

“Why did you jump out of the car, sir?” the EMT asked.

“Because Jon-Marc would not stop and get me cigarettes! That’s why!”

It was true. I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes. The reason I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes was because he agreed to go to the hospital and I was racing there before he changed his mind, something he did twenty-seven-hundred times a minute.

Like everything else in our life, a seemingly simple drive to the hospital was turned into a chaotic mess starring the dynamic duo of dysfunctional and delusional. There was no way to go from point A to point B unless we first made pit stops at points C through Z.

“Can you take him to UMC please? That’s where we were heading when he jumped out of the car. That way his doctor can be his attending physician. Otherwise if you take him to [a hospital I refuse to name because it is so abysmal] we will be forced to have him transferred, which will take hours and delay him getting treatment for his condition, a condition that is getting worse by the minute”

At that point one of the EMT’s was already talking to Ric in the back of the ambulance.

“He has HIV, just started taking meds that he runs out of today and I convinced him to go to UMC because he is delusional and growing increasingly dangerous to himself and perhaps to others”. It was all part of the same song I’d been singing for weeks every time I spoke to a medical professional about Ric.

“Sir, we can’t take him to UMC. We have to take him to [the shittiest hospital this side of the Hudson]. But as you said, just get his doctor to order the transfer to UMC”.

I followed the ambulance to [if I am ever put in this particular hospital, someone please just come and pull the plug and shoot me full of a thousand bullets to make sure I’m dead]. When I arrived the ER doctor was already talking to Ric.

“Mr. White, can you tell me who the president is?”

“Bush but soon to be Obama” Ric replied.

“Can you tell me what month it is?”


“Oh for fuck’s sake! Yes, he can tell you what month it is! Yes he can tell you who the president is! He can tell even recite his home address! For the love of God, would someone please ask him about his dog Mojo, his home in the Virgin Islands, his new car and his yacht off the coast of Fiji?” I screamed.

“And you are?” the doctor asked, turning his attention to me.

“I am his Civil Unioned Partner” As I said it, I noted the acronym CUP in my head. I’m his CUP. Cute though CUP does not roll of the tongue the way husband does.

“He needs to be transferred to UMC right away” I continued.

“Well we are going to run some test here. Who is his doctor? His doctor would be the one that would order the transfer”

“I know that his doctor would be the one ordering his transfer. So please, whatever you do, get Dr. M on the phone and tell him to transfer him to UMC. That’s where we were headed when he jumped out of the car and we were forced to come to [if you are ever in this hospital you should do yourself a favor and go ahead and off yourself]. I don’t want him admitted here”

“He tried to jump out of the car?” the doctor responded, genuinely unaware of why Ric was brought in.

Are you f’in kidding me??? You don’t know why the guy you are treating is here? Do they even screen the doctors at [sometimes I have nightmares about being tied down with barbed-wire to a gurney in this place as they are wheeling me into surgery] or do they just have them watch a couple of episodes of Grey’s and give ‘em a stethoscope and some scrubs and then throw them on the floor of the ER for some hands-on training? I thought, for fear that if I said it out loud they might declare me dead right on the spot and start lifting my organs from my still-warm-to-the-touch body.

“Mr White, why did you try to jump out of the car?”

“He didn’t try to jump out of the car. He did jump out of the car!” I replied.

“Sir, I am talking to Mr. White. Now, Mr. White, why did you try to jump out of the car? Were you trying to get away from someone?” said the doctor, staring right at me.

“What? What does that even mean? He jumped out of the car because he wanted cigarettes. The reason he jumped out the car is irrelevant. The man JUMPED. OUT. OF. THE. CAR! He is suffering from HIV dementia or AIDS dementia complex. Either way, he needs help and quick and I want him transferred to UMC where his doctor can see him”

“Mr. White, is that true? Did you try to jump out of the car because you wanted cigarettes” the doctor said as his attention turned to what looked like a Blackberry.

“Why do you keep saying try? He didn’t try! He jumped out of the car. There was no trying involved. He opened the door and jumped out and then ran into traffic”

“I jumped out because he wouldn’t get me cigarettes. I wanted cigarettes and Jon-Marc wouldn’t stop and get me some”

“Well, you know Mr. White, cigarettes are bad for you”

“Well, you know doc, I hardly think lung cancer or heart disease or anything smoking related is at the top of our worries right now. With all due respect, could you please call Dr. M? I can give you his number” I said.

“I’d like to run some tests to see if Mr. White has toxo. Are you aware of what toxo is, sir?”

No, I am not. But I do know what push-me-too-far-you-mother-fucking-piece-of-doctor-caca-and-I-will-go-psycho-on-your-ass-and-if-you-don’t-start-listening-to-me-I-am-going to-take-that-Blackberry-and-make-it-a-permanent-part-of-your-face is.

“No, what’s toxo?” I replied, keeping my thoughts to myself.

As Doogie Whoseit schooled me in all things toxo I quickly caught on to what was happening. Though toxo is serious there was no reason that the test could not be performed once Ric was transferred to UMC. No, the reason we were being held up at [I’m serious as a heart attack. If you have a heart attack do not go to this place!], at least in my mind, was because the ER was slow and they wanted to get as much money as they could before they transferred Ric. Call me paranoid but I think ERs are like traffic cops -- They have a quota to meet.

Six hours later and he still had not been transferred.

“Why are you putting an IV in?” I asked as the nurse tried to find a vein on Ric’s arm.

“The doctor ordered it before Mr. White is taken upstairs” the nurse replied, still jabbing away at Ric’s arm.

“Taken upstairs as in being admitted over night?” I said as I faced the other direction so as not to watch her using Ric’s arm like a dart board..

“I don’t know. I’m just doing as I was told”

“First of all, he is being transferred to UMC and secondly, if you are going to put an IV in, you better restrain him. He will pull it out if you don’t”

“Mr. White, you’re not gonna pull this IV out of your arm, are you?” the nurse said as she rolled her eyes in my direction.

“He jumped out of a moving car! He wouldn’t think twice about pulling it out. And, did you just roll your eyes at me?

“Noooo. I wouldn’t pull it out. I never pull IVs out. He’s lying. Jon-Marc is lying” Ric responded like a five year old child getting ready to pull one over on his parents.

“Ok, that’s it. I’m done! I’m freakin’ done! Get your own damn help with all the lovely people at this sorry excuse for a hospital. I am going home. Good luck. Besides I’ve got to walk the dog”

As I was walking Trotter the phone rang.

“Yes, Mr. McDonald. I wanted to let you know that Mr. White is in the process of being transferred to UMC” the nurse on the other end explained. “To make things easier on him next time, you should take him straight to UMC. There was really no need to bring him here first”

“You don’t say? Straight to UMC next time? Now there’s an idea. I’ll keep that in mind, you know, next time. Thanks for the ad…Oh shit!”

“Excuse me?”

“No, nothing. I just stepped in my dog’s poop. I guess I was so distracted by the fabulous suggestion you made that I wasn’t paying attention and stepped in my dog’s business. Is there anything else?”

“Not really. Just remember to take him directly to UMC next time. That is, after all, where his doctor is ”


I was, officially, in Dante’s 9th circle of hell.

Part XVII soon

Angels I Don't See PART XV

Part's I-XIV here

In the fall of 2007 I put pen to paper and listed all my greatest fears. Known as a fear inventory, this exercise in sobriety was meant to reveal, in plain sight, what in my overactive imagination I feared most and how exactly those fears were impeding my recovery.

The first four fears on the list were 1) Losing Ric 2) Becoming homeless and destitute 3) Being accused of a crime I didn’t commit and 4) Ric or me contracting an incurable disease.

As I discussed my fears with my mentor at the time, I could hardly imagine what utter hell it would be like to live through any of them. As I conjured up scenarios in my mind, each fantasy ended with either suicide or drinking myself to death. I did not have the emotional fortitude to withstand any situation that included any of those four things.

But staying alone at my friends house allowed me time to reflect. On the night of January 3rd, after yet another plea on the phone with Ric to do as Dr. M instructed and go back to the hospital, it hit me that each of those four fears were no longer imaginary. Instead, they were as real as the air I breathed.

I was in the throes of such unspeakable agony and yet I had not acted as I presumed I would. There was nary a thought of suicide and the thought of a drink repulsed me in ways it never had before. Instead something remarkable was happening.

Life on life’s terms was no longer a slogan cooked up in a smoke filled basement of some church by a bunch of drunks in need of a drink. Rather, it was a possible new way forward. Whereas in my past I managed to shirk life’s reality in a gadarene rush to the margins, I no longer had such a luxury. In fact, there were only two options left.


I could face my fears, bundled as they were, and risk defeat.

Or I could declare defeat without a fight, ensuring a future that was wholly controlled by my circumstances, thereby ceding my fate to everyone and everything except me. This option would also hasten Ric’s death.

If I chose the former, I would be navigating uncharted waters. Up to that point my decisions were always made by determining what would bring optimum comfort and minimum pain (an MO, by the way, that ironically almost always brought about the opposite). Steering my life instead of my life steering me was a foreign concept and the possibility that I might fail to meet those challenges was more incentive to just do nothing.

If I chose the latter, I could simply allow the situation to dictate the outcome like a rudderless boat adrift at sea, praying that one day by some miracle I would make it back to land. Though this option would be painful, it would also be easiest. And when it was all said and done, I could wallow in my defeat and bemoan the uncontrollable winds of life. Besides, there was already a drumbeat of doomsayers in my life that were whispering from the safety of the shore to put Ric in a state run home and secure my belongings at the apartment, chirping from their broken lighthouses words like eviction and death.

“He’s just jumped out of the car! It was moving and he just jumped out! He...”

“Where are you, sir?”

“At the corner of, HOLY SHIT! HE’S RUNNING INTO TRAFFIC! I’VE GOT TO GO GET HIM! SEND SOMEONE QUICK!”

“What is your location, sir?”

Behold, the power of the wind.

Part XVI here

We interrupt our regularly scheduled series to say...

Vic, did you find what you were looking for? Two hours is an ungodly amount of time to spend on my blog. Shouldn't you be working? Does the boss allow his employees to tool around on the internet all day?

Angels I Don't See Part XIV

Click here for Parts I-XIII

What a difference a year makes. A year prior we could have afforded four times the 567.00 each month with money to spare. But standing at the pharmacy that day, with absolutely no money to pay for Ric’s life-saving medication, I was just a bum in a nice coat.

We had no money for rent, no money for bills, no money for food and, of course, no money for medicine. Our life was no life at all. And the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train.

“Can you tell me how much it would be without the HIV medications? Maybe I can just get the antibiotics and come back after I figure out how to pay for the Kaletra and Truvada” I humbly pleaded with the cashier.

“Thirty-seven dollars” she replied.

Thirty seven dollars. Ten dollars less than all the money we had.

“Ok, let’s do that. I’ll take the five antibiotics now and come back for the other two later”

Despair knows no depths. The second you think you have hit rock bottom, the rock bottom falls out. And with it, the world as you know it gets swallowed up in the black hole of hopelessness.

When I walked out of the pharmacy I snapped. Pity the person in my path that must deal with me when I lose my shit

“Mom, I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I can’t! I am about to break in two!”

I called my mother because I did not know what else to do. There was no way I could pay for the HIV medications and there was no way she could pay for the HIV medications but I did not know what else to do. So I did what I always do when I am in an impossible situation. I called my mom.

“Why don’t you call your friend with HIV? Maybe he knows something you can do” my mother suggested.

“What?!??!?! THAT’S YOUR SOLUTION? CALL MY FRIEND WITH HIV! ARE YOU CRAZY? WHAT GOOD ARE YOU IF YOU CAN’T HELP ME DEAL WITH THIS? RIC NEEDS HIS MEDICINES RIGHT NOW AND YOU WANT ME TO CALL SOMEONE WITH THE VIRUS FOR IDEAS? YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND” I said as I furiously pressed the button on my Bluetooth headset and disconnected.

Angry beyond belief at my mother’s ridiculous idea, I picked up the phone and called my friend with HIV.

“Jon-Marc, go back to the pharmacy and ask for four days worth of the meds. They’ll do that and it buys you four days to figure out where and how you are going to get him the meds for the long term” my friend said. “There are plenty of organizations in this area that will provide you with assistance. After you leave the pharmacy stop by my place and I can give you some names and numbers and we will go from there”

“But I literally have only ten bucks”

“Ok, stop by my place beforehand and I will spot you a few”

Literally four days. If the pharmacy would sell me four days worth of the meds, it meant I had four days to figure something out and not a day more. Once someone starts an HIV regimen it is imperative that they continue, uninterrupted.

When someone stops taking their meds, or skips a day, the HIV starts again making literally millions of copies of itself. Every copy literally has a chance to mutate into a new form that may not be stopped by the drugs if started again.

Little did I know that four days later the drugs would literally be the least of my worries.

In four days Ric was going to stop traffic.

And I don’t mean that figuratively.

Part XV here

Angels I Don't See PART XIII

Parts I-XII here

My mind didn’t know how to process any more shocking information. Though I entertained the possibility that I might be negative, actually hearing it created an entirely new dilemma I had not yet considered.

If I was negative, and I had strayed in the relationship many years ago, and Ric and I had not been sexually active in over eight months, and Ric was positive, and I was tested three times within the previous 18 months, and it takes a maximum of six months for the virus to show up on blood tests then it meant either…

he cheated and when he found out he was positive he withheld the information from me for several months or…

he had been positive for far longer, telling me he was negative and withheld the information from me for possibly many years.

In fact, using my handy dandy deductive reasoning skills I learned in college years ago, with all the scenarios as they were, there was no way I could have given Ric the virus at all, even if Dr. M said I was positive at that moment.

Dr. M then handed us seven prescriptions for Ric. Two for what Dr. M knew was HIV without having the results to prove it and five antibiotics to fight the thrush Dr. M found in Ric’s throat and mouth.

In the car on the way to the pharmacy I let loose.

“Did you hear Dr. M? He said I was negative. I just wanted to make sure you heard him tell me I was negative”

“Yeah, so?”

“Just making sure you heard. I never want to hear again that I gave it to you. There is no way I gave it to you. In fact, there would have been no way I could have given it to you even if Dr. M said I was positive today”

“I guess Charlie gave it to me”

“Charlie, your ex from eight years ago?”

“Yeah, Charlie. I guess he gave it to me”

“You think Charlie gave it to you and since then, and all subsequent HIV tests, you have shown up negative until last August when, voila, you turn up positive?”

“Guess so”

As we pulled up to the pharmacy, his detachment from everything going on around him became even more apparent.

“After we drop of the ‘scrips to be filled, let’s get lunch at Subway or something, ok? If I don't eat something I think I am going to go insane. I mean it. I think I am going to explode”

“No, drop them off and then take me home, then come back and get my prescriptions”

“Um, are you trying to tell me that you want me to drop you off at home then come back to the pharmacy to get YOUR medications for HIV that YOU hid from me for months, possibly YEARS? That’s rich! THAT'S FUCKIN’ RICH!”

“Yeah, just take me home. Thanks” he said, so void of any ownership or responsibility and so callously indifferent to what I might be going through that I began to honestly wonder if he was a textbook sociopath.

“Could you explain to me where the hell my husband went? ‘Cause I am about to lose my fuckin’ mind and it would be really nice to find him!”

After I dropped off the prescriptions to be filled I took Ric home. No matter what happened, no matter how much I wanted to hate him, I simply could not look at him and see anything except a very sick man that I loved more than anything.

Back at the pharmacy...

“Your total is five-hundred-and-sixty-seven dollars”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you had our insurance information on file. Here, let me give it to you again” I said to the cashier.

“Yes sir. The total is with your insurance. Without insurance it would be twenty-one-hundred dollars”

We didn’t have five hundred dollars. We didn’t have fifty dollars.

“What is so expensive?” I asked, as if knowing would somehow help.

“Um, let’s see. The Truvada and the Kaletra”

In other words, the HIV meds. In other words, the meds that he needed if he were to survive.

In other words, he was a dead man

Part XIV here