World AIDS Day

It's been 13 years and a day shy of eight months since he died. He would be 69 years old now... But he is still so much a part of my life. The night we met he told me he was HIV+. I didn't care. He was without a doubt the most fascinating person I had ever met. And continues to be. I remember those early months together. The old cold house in Mississippi with the crumbling plaster, the collection of family antiques, the memories. The Eames chair in the living room where we first kissed I still have. The Victorian half-tester bed where we first spent a night together. I still have it too. I remember opening the refrigerator that first night and seeing only Haagen-Dazs, Beefeater (he taught me to love gin) and Vodka. There were stacks of books everywhere. And newspapers. And china. And silver. And art. To say he was a hoarder is an understatement. Ours was a story that could be written only in the South. Country boy comes out. Meets suave New York architect who has returned to his native Mississippi to retire. He 53, I 29. It was the only time I have ever been head-over-heels in love.
He was a curmudgeon. In fact, we named our first Basset Hound "Lord Alfred Bruce Barksdale" in honour of Oscar Wilde...Barksdale? Old family name.
I was a teacher in a middle school smack dab in the middle of a crack neighborhood. He seemed to delight in pushing my racial buttons. At Christmas Eve mass one year, we sat in the family pew and, upon seeing a Black family four rows up, he remarked, loudly, "This place is just crawlin' with Nigras!" I grabbed him by the collar and told him, not too delicately, "If you say one more word, I will pick you up and carry you out of here. Before baby Jesus has even made an appearance!" He piped down.
We had met in December 1993. In May, at a dental appointment, his dentist noticed something unusual in the back of his throat. It turned out to be non-Hodgkins' lymphoma...the first AIDS-related diagnosis. We spent the summer in chemotherapy and radiation. And he packed in ice when sepsis set in. In August, the day after he was released from the hospital pronounced cured, we flew to Boston. He recuperated in the Ritz-Carlton and I drove along the Maine coast alone. Lunch in Newport with friends, a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, shopping on Newbury. We had survived round one.
The next year remains a blur. I taught school. He waited for me to come home from school. We dined. We drank. We took trips to New Orleans. We went to art openings. We read. We talked. We dreamed. We loved.
In October 1995 we went to visit his friends in Savannah. On the trip home, I decided that the time had come for me to quit my job to stay with him and care for him. He was waning.
The fungal infections, the sleeplessness, the night sweats, the dementia, the neuropathy, the depression, the fear were all compounding daily. His legs were covered with thick scaly masses of fungus. Itching was unbearable. He would soak in a warm Aveeno bath and I would take a comb and slowly, deliberately peel away the skin and then apply ointments to ease the discomfort. Strangely, one of my fondest memories of him is when he was soaking in the bath. I was in the kitchen making boiled custard (had to keep that weight up) when he started singing at the top of his lungs: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! And a good friend of mine!" I thought he had finally gone over the edge, but he was just making the most of the moment. Three Dog Night still reminds me of him. Gradually, he faded. After Christmas 1995 he wanted to go to a hospice facility. I fought him on this, but he wanted things to be easy for me. My only requirement was that when he was ready to come home to die, he had to tell me. He told me on my 32nd birthday.
I scrambled to have home health bring a hospital bed to the house and to line up nursing staff. I was ready for him. I carried him from the car to the bedroom, undressed him and put him in bed. I was on the front terrace visiting with several neighbors and their children, when, all of a sudden, Charles appeared, fully clothed. He was completely lucid and regaled the kids with stories of what the neighborhood was like when he was a little boy. An hour later, he turned to me and said, "I'm tired."
Every morning, I would walk in his room and he would open his eyes and say, "Mawnin', JonBeahhhr." And that would be all I would get. One time, though, he was talking about having talked to his (deceased) mother that morning. I knew that was a sign of the end, so I said, "What about your Daddy? Have you seen Big Charlie today?" With bright blue eyes and a rather astonished look on his face, he replied, "He's dead, ya know." We had some time left.
I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Charles would die on April Fools' Day. That was just the way he was. He died on April 2nd. Point made.
I guess I will go to my grave missing him, but today, on World AIDS Day, I honour him. For his love, for his bravery, for his memory. I love you, CharlieDog.