Outliving my father - Brief Article

The descriptions of his decline, in whispered calls from back home, had a dreadfully familiar feel: weight loss at a frightful pace, losing interest in the world, suddenly looking very old. Most gay men of a certain age have heard those words, have seen the patient, have buried the friend. This case was different, though. It wasn't AIDS; it was cancer. And the patient was Dad.

My father was 76. The disease had swept rapidly through him since his initial diagnosis. The inevitable was approaching, but the territory was completely unfamiliar to my family, who hadn't seen a death in more than 30 years. They were about to get a tour through hell--a trip I have made many times.

"Well, he's lost a lot of weight," Mom said on the phone, her voice thick with emotion, "and sometimes he'll say the same thing more than once. That does scare me a bit." You think you're scared now, I thought.

"Have you checked into hospice care?" I asked. I knew how exhausting it was even for a man in his 30s to care for a dying lover. Mom was 75.

"Well, no, honey, I thought we could wait ..." Her voice drifted.

Something inside me went on AIDS autopilot. "Get the doctor on the phone and ask about hospice care," I practically ordered. "They can help avoid another hospital stay, Mom." The family would do anything to prevent that scene again.

I flew home within days. Still no hospice care. My mother and siblings were stunned into inaction, it seemed. Had anyone spoken to Dad about getting nursing help, about his illness, about how everyone was dazed into speechlessness? Heads shook slowly, eyes looked downward.

I've made such arrangements before, for friends my own age. And after 15 years living with my own HIV infection, my medical choices--powers of attorney, hospice care, "no resuscitation" instructions--had long been settled. But Mom was uncomfortable with the language, much less the reality.

On my second day home, I found myself alone with Dad. He was bundled on the sofa, and whatever his thoughts, they seldom found words. His condition looked hauntingly familiar, and my mind nonsensically insisted, Dad has AIDS.

"Can I talk to you about what's going on?" I asked him. Dad seemed confused, then his eyes focused on me, a look of surprised interest. "This is really horrible, Dad, and everyone ... is freaked out and doesn't know how to act." His eyes never left me. "Mom is afraid to ask for help. You need a nurse. Is that OK?"

He spoke weakly. "Well ... yes. It is ... Your mother ... works very hard." I took his hand. "This is hard for your mother, I think ..." he continued. "Your mother and I ... we are one mind, together. One mind."

I had never heard anything so romantic from my father. He saw it in my face, and he saw the sadness too.

"Don't worry," he said, and I felt his hand tighten around mine. "It's OK. I'm all right. This is all right ..."

I wanted to say everything at once. Every declaration of love I had for my father, the retired Air Force colonel who loved his family fiercely, who built us box kites, and who laughed heartily and believed success was defined by happiness.

"I will tell people about you my whole life," I said. "All the stories, all the things you've done for us ... but how do I explain you to anyone?" My voice choked, and my attempt to properly organize my father's last days was awash in unexpected tears.

I looked up and was stunned to see damp eyes staring back at my own. A tear escaped and rolled tentatively down and across his cheek, as if unsure of the path, so alien was the terrain.

We began words and abandoned them, floating silently in a moment that I hoped could delay the inevitable. I thanked God for a gift that, in the distorted world of AIDS, I had wanted so badly over the years. I would outlive my father.

Only after holding the hands of others who lay dying, having collected the courage to say good-bye--to realize the fear and talk about it anyway--did I have the strength to address it with my own father.

This is not a story about AIDS. But it is a story because of it.

King has written for The Washington Blade and www.thebody.com.

COPYRIGHT 2001 Liberation Publications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2001 Gale Group