aids – Page 6 – beckycochrane.com

April Photo A Day: My Sunday

My Sunday has definitely not been a day of rest.

First up, Pier the Miracle Dog. Some of you may have followed Pier’s story on his Facebook page. (Warning if you go to his FB page: Some of the early photos of his injuries are graphic and will break your heart.)

Pier is a black lab who was picked up by BARC in Houston after being badly–and deliberately–burned by person(s) unknown. Scout’s Honor Rescue put him in their program, and thanks to the great Scout’s Honor board members, volunteers, and the medical staffs at VERGI and Texas A&M Small Animal Hospital, Pier is healing and thriving. Pier has thousands of people all over the world who have sent love, prayers, good wishes, toys, treats, and monetary donations to help him. Sunday he was taken to a local restaurant where his Houston-area fans were invited to come and meet him.

Pier is nothing but joy. No shyness, no fear, he’s happy, obedient, eager to please, friendly, and he loves his tennis balls. I cried for this dog so many days after his rescue, and getting to see him today, I cried again, but they were tears of joy. His strength and resiliency are an inspiration to me.

Saturday night Tim and I were up into the wee hours of the morning inputting his edits and mine into the manuscript that’s due in a few days. Today we finally compiled the twelve stories we’re submitting into one document and printed it out. We’ll each do one more read-through, add our parts (Tim in the introduction, me in the afterword), and then send it on its way. I’ve said it before: I love being able to help writers find a home for their fiction.

Finally, today is the birthday of our late friend Steve R. As we do every year, we celebrated with chocolate–this year, a yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Lindsey and Rhonda joined us for dinner and cake.

That’s a lot of celebrating for one day, but note the picture of a baby in a silver frame behind the cake. That’s our godson Matthew when he was an infant. He’s eight now, and today was a special day for him, too. Matthew, Tom and I love you and we’re very proud of you!

And for those of you who follow Runway Monday, I won’t be getting my final collection up because sewing has had to take a back seat to editing. But if it’s not finished this week, it definitely will be by next Monday. Thanks for hanging in here with my Model Muses and their fashions.

Prompt from FMS Photo A Day.

Legacy Writing 365:359

“Mahkota” the Native Americans called the river. “Blue earth.” The name came from the fertile blue/black soil of the land along and beyond the river banks. It’s the land where he grew up, the land he farmed, the land that has fed so many of us since we first ventured into the territory that would become Minnesota.

It’s the land where he, just out of the Marines after serving in World War 2, brought his young bride from California to settle and raise seven children in a marriage that would celebrate sixty-six anniversaries.

It’s the land that gave him the fortitude and faith he needed to cope with the tragic illness and death of his firstborn son. This is how Tom and I came to know him. He never wavered in his love and acceptance of Steve, even though, like many parents of the 1980s, he learned that his son was gay and had AIDS in the same conversation. His pride in the man Steve was never faltered, and he would tell anyone the facts with his usual unflinching honesty.

I didn’t know the news when I wrote Sunday’s post. As Nan said in the card we received on Monday, you are with Steve and the angels now, Ron, no longer in the physical pain that was part of the last of your ninety-one years growing up on, living on, and working that rich blue earth. Thank you for being part of our lives. We will never forget you.

Legacy Writing 365:358

My late friend Steve R was interested in angels and anything to do with angels. He was, after all, the person who introduced me to the angel books that my friends are still embellishing and coloring for me all these years later.

In the months after Steve died, Lynne and I were visiting a ceramics shop close to the neighborhood where we lived in the Houston suburbs. We could buy greenware there, sand and clean it, then return it to be fired. This was my first experience with ceramics, and I decided to do this angel for Steve’s parents.

When Tom and I were able to go to Minnesota to visit them, I fell in love with their old farmhouse. Among some of its features were stained glass windows, and this window was in a wall between two rooms inside the house. The angel had a place of honor there, where Steve’s mother could look at her while she played her pipe organ.

They have since sold their farm and the old house and moved into a place that’s more manageable for them. I don’t know if they still have the angel, but I do know that everything about Steve remains close to their hearts, just as to my own heart. One reason I enjoy the Christmas holidays now is because I know how festive he’d make them if he were here. Sometimes the best way we can honor the memories and relationships of those we’ve lost is to celebrate life. It’s what those who loved us would want most for us–our happiness.

Legacy Writing 365:339

Our friend John died in the hospital of complications from AIDS on December 4, 1996. Neither Tom nor I can fathom that it’s been that long. I was there that night, and if I ever shared John’s equivalent of an E! True Hollywood Story, I’d probably be in serious hot water. I will leave it at this: There are compassionate ways to let someone go and lean on one another in a time of crisis, and then there is what happened that night. For a number of years, those events left me raw. Time helps, as does having other people who were there and have the same perspective that I did.

John’s love James was with him when he slipped away. Afterward, we went to John’s apartment, where his roommate gave us all the time we needed to do–oh, those kinds of things we might tell our best friends, “If I die, go to my place and get rid of X, Y, and Z before my family shows up.”

While we were doing that, James suddenly cracked up laughing and handed me this card.

“I was with him the day he bought this,” he said. “He intended to give it to you. I guess he forgot.”

I opened the card and read this:

When I looked at James with confusion, he reminded me of the first day John brought James to The Compound to meet Tom and me. I’d known John for several years and foolishly had been caught in the middle of a bad breakup between him and my beloved friend Jeff (who’d died in 1995). During the bad breakup, Jeff kept telling me things he thought John was doing to mess with his head, and I kept vowing that John would never do those things.

So on this visit with James and John, John began to tell me all the things Jeff had been right about. I sat there open-mouthed, occasionally sputtering, “I defended you, you brat!” As more stories were told, I had a few confessions of my own to make of things I’d done to help Jeff try to get accurate information about John. James and Tom laughed at our “True Confessions,” and later that afternoon, when James and John were in Montrose’s legendary (and now-closed) bookstore Crossroads, John picked up this card for me.

From time to time, I still use this phrase with my friends: “I think it’s time you turned yourself in,” to let them know that those things we do (and maybe hope no one finds out about) are probably more funny than awful. Within friendships, there should always be room for laughter and forgiveness.

I still remember, from tenth grade, the quote from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” With John, there was no evil. There was just life, and life can be crazy and messy and flawed and absolutely wonderful all at the same time. I’m so grateful I was part of his life; he will always be a part of me.

Legacy Writing 365:336–World AIDS Day

Tom and I drove to Salt Lake City for Thanksgiving of 2000. My brother, along with my nephew and his family, were there, as was our mother, and Debby flew in to spend the holiday with us as well. Margot went with us and experienced her first real snow. She wasn’t a fan, but since she saw David’s dog Bailey treating it like nothing special, she adjusted. Along with putting together a feast and watching lots of ball games on TV, we did some sewing.

I was hoping to finish my late friend Tim R’s AIDS Quilt panel before December 1.

So Mother worked on the panel.

And Debby worked on the panel.

Thanks to them, a lot of progress was made. It was a time of great bonding for us, and since Daniel’s son, Dave, who was seven at the time, was there, it was a chance to talk openly about some of the issues surrounding HIV and AIDS with a bright child to absorb information. Having endured with my late friends a time of silence about their illness and the challenges they faced, I know that honest discussion and education do more to help create a tolerant world, curtail the spread of the disease, and drive funding for better and more accessible health care for everyone.

When we returned to Houston after that trip, there was still work to be done.

But I wasn’t alone. Lynne worked on the panel, too.

And in a ceremony on World AIDS Day Eve in 2000, Tim’s parents, part of the support system that sustained him through his illness and made sure the last sounds he heard on earth included the laughter of his family at home around him, were able to give his panel to the NAMES Project.

Each year since 1992, I’ve done a World AIDS Day newsletter. At this point with all the resources available on the Internet, I’m not sure the information I provide is necessary. But what will never STOP being vital is that we remember the ones we lost. That we remind the world there were people here who were taken from us too soon. That we do everything we can to encourage people to be as safe as they can be to stop the transmission of the virus, to be tested so that they can get good healthcare quickly and not transmit the virus to anyone else, and to know that there is a world community who wants you to be here and healthy for a long, long time. You are needed. You matter.

For twenty-four years, World AIDS Day has been observed on December 1. The theme from 2011 to 2015 is Getting to Zero. I dream of that world with no new infections and no new AIDS deaths by 2015. I’ve seen amazing progress made since I first became involved with AIDS awareness and caregiving in 1990. I remember when so much of the struggle was just coping with bigotry, indifference, poverty, and fear. Those things have no place in the face of any disease, including AIDS.

With all the progress that’s been made, the largest group getting new infections is young adults and teens ages 13 to 29; sixty percent of them don’t know they’re infected. If you’re concerned about AIDS, be an advocate for testing. Be an advocate for accessible medical care. Be an advocate for compassion and outreach. There are so many organizations who can use your time, your voice, and your donations. Although I’m not doing my usual resource list, if there’s ever a time I can help any reader here find resources local to you, I will be happy to research information with you.

That Christmas after we all sewed on Tim’s panel, my mother sent me this ornament with a note about how we all worked together to honor Tim’s memory with our needles and thread. As you can see, a dog “altered” the ornament at some point in the intervening years. That’s okay. Just as with people, flaws become part of the story.

Thank you for reading here. I write in memory of Steve R, Don P, Jeff C, John M, Pete M, Tim R and all those loved and lost.

Legacy Writing 365:331

It’s time once again to break out the story of the Angel Books.

I first became acquainted with these through my friend Steve R in the early 1990s. Though I’d been a fan of Christmas in my younger years, the luster of the holiday faded for me after my father died. My two biggest Christmas advocates, Lynne and Liz, lived far away from me, as did most of my family. It really took Steve, whose excitement about Christmas never wavered even when he was sickest, and our friend Tim R, who went all out for the holiday with his decorating-passionate mother, to melt the holiday icicles encasing my heart.

Steve had found, at Bookstop, one of these books of angels, based on women in Renaissance paintings, to color. That was a period when I’d developed a passion for Renaissance art, thanks to Houston’s museums and a past-life regression I experienced. The angels intrigued me, so Lynne and I bought a few books and began coloring, painting, and otherwise decorating angels. After Steve died, the tradition continued. Though the books are out of print, one year Marika found several and dispersed angels among some of our friends to color and surprise me. I was thrilled to receive new angels from around the globe, and they’ve joined the many angels that Tim arranges throughout the house each Christmas season.

Thank you to everyone who’s ever colored one of these angels for me. There are still angels left to turn into art if you’re interested in contributing one to this festive band.

Dining room windows.

Living room window.

Double windows in living room.

Angels now spill over to nestle among stones and crystals.

Legacy Writing 365:279

Sometimes I find things I’ve forgotten I own. I was moving stuff around the other day, including an interesting wooden box on little wheels, and I wondered what might be inside it. Among other things, I found a bag of rune stones and the book that goes with them. Once I saw them, I remembered that I used to enjoy the stones, but they’ve long been out of sight, out of mind.

The stone I pulled out for this photo has the symbol for strength on it. The stone is called Uruz and suggests endings and beginnings. Sometimes there’s a period of darkness and loss before a new opportunity presents itself.

The reason I pulled it was because my late friend John wore that symbol on a necklace until he died. I think James kept the pendant afterward and wore it for a time, too, not only in memory of John, but to remind him that out of deep loss can come new perspective and strength. That can be a hard lesson, but it’s something positive we can take forward.

October 5 is John’s birthday. I still smile when I think of him–he was full of mischief and sometimes got me into trouble, almost like a bratty little brother. I miss him and feel so fortunate to have known him for the time I did.

John on his birthday in 1993. Maybe out of sight now–but never out of mind.

Legacy Writing 365:266

When Amy, Tom, and I went to Washington, D.C., in 1996 as volunteers and panelmakers for the AIDS Quilt exhibit, we also took the opportunity to see a lot of the capital’s sites and visit art museums. I think the first museum we went to on that trip was the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden which we all enjoyed very much. I have a lot of photos from there; here’s one of Amy standing next to Clyfford Still’s 1950-M No.1.

We also went together to the Corcoran Gallery of Art. I saw so many great paintings and sculptures that my head was reeling from it all, but I still couldn’t wait to go to the National Gallery of Art because I knew they had a lot of Mark Rothko’s works. If you are a frequenter of museums, however, you’ve probably had the sad experience I did. Permanent works are often in storage because of temporary installations, or maybe the collections are on loan. My Rothkos were nowhere to be seen.

Amy bought me a few postcards of the works that I should have been seeing, and those are still framed and hanging in my office today. She also secretly bought something in the gift shop to be shipped to her. When it came, she had it framed. And then on Christmas–voila! A gift for me that managed to pull together the love Steve R and I shared for Rothko, my friendship with Amy, and all the experiences of that trip to Washington and our AIDS/HIV awareness and activism. I look at it every single day in my living room.

As for all those other paintings I didn’t get to see on that trip, a few years ago Tom gave me this Rothko retrospective published in 1998 by Jeffrey S. Weiss, John Gage, the National Gallery of Art, and the Whitney Museum of American Art. It’s HUGE and has over a hundred illustrations of Rothko’s paintings. Nothing can replace seeing art in person, but this volume’s large reproductions remind me why Mark Rothko’s paintings always offer me new perspectives and nourish my soul.

Legacy Writing 365:166

It’s amazing what the mind recalls. June 14 marks the twentieth year since our friend Steve R died. And though I’d have to put effort into remembering what I did yesterday, I vividly remember the details of that summer day.

I recently told a friend that when someone I love dies, for a while afterward, it’s as if time slows down. And though unexpected death is shattering, most of my experience with loss hasn’t been that way. In fact, it has been my honor to be present when several people left this world, and I do mean honor. Whatever one’s beliefs, there’s something quietly sacred in those moments of a last, peaceful goodbye.

They are also private moments, and though I’ve written about Steve’s death in poetry, mentioned it online, and shared some of the details with friends and those who love him, I hope I’ve never infringed on that privacy. Today I received a card written by his mother, from both his parents, and it reminded me again of their integrity, their sweetness, and their love for their son. They still miss him. They always will. I will, too.

After leaving the hospital that day, our friend Geraldine and I went to tell Geof that it was over. We picked him up from work, tried to eat something, and ended up at Geof’s apartment. I remember Geraldine whispering to me, “Whatever he wants to do, just do it.” I nodded, and that’s how I somehow ended up doing a Tarot reading for Geof at his request from the cards pictured. (Geof loved anything Egyptian, and the Egipcios Kier deck is based on Egyptian symbols, letters, and hieroglyphs.) Tarot cards are not something at which I have any actual skill, but I’ve always considered them a way for a person to self-evaluate, much like meditation, dreams, journals, even therapy. To me, it’s another tool of discovery.

Although getting out the Tarot cards was a good distraction for us all–a chance to stand back from the emotional intensity of that day–I remember Geof’s reading as being extremely difficult and complex. When I took these cards out today to get a photo, I couldn’t understand why. They seemed pretty straightforward as I flipped through them. Then I looked at the book, and I noticed how small the print is, how dense the information, and I realized that it’s those words again–they’re always adding layers and possibilities, conflicts and challenges, more questions than answers.

Honestly, I don’t know why I love words so much.

I just do.

Thinking of you, Steve, and sending boundless love your way, and all good thoughts to Geraldine, Geof, and all those who miss you still.

My World AIDS Day 2011

Beginning in 1992, when Steve R died, I wrote a newsletter on World AIDS Day every year. While I was still in the corporate world, my employer was gracious enough to provide the resources for me to print and distribute it to our entire company. My newsletter always centered around the annual theme as established by the Joint United Nations Programme on HIV and AIDS. By December of 1995, my friend Jeff C was dead. By December of 1996, my friend John M was in the hospital. I was back in school and no longer working in the corporate world, so I mailed copies of my newsletter to all the people who still wanted to read it. Three days later, John died. By December of 1997, my friend Tim R was dead, and I was hooked up to the Internet from home. Along with newsletter copies I mailed, I was able to begin e-mailing it to a whole new group of contacts. After joining LiveJournal in 2004, I began blogging on World AIDS Day, sometimes printing out copies of what I’d written to include in holiday cards I sent to my late friends’ families, because I wanted them to know I never forget their sons, brothers, uncles… and that any small thing I can ever do to raise awareness is done in those men’s memory to honor them and the friendship each of them shared with me.

My friends could never have envisioned the massive amount of information available to us since the Internet shrank the globe. Resources and facts that it used to take me days to accumulate after calling countless offices and individuals– from the Center for Disease Control to various HIV/AIDS assistance organizations in Houston–can now be pulled up at the touch of a button. Google can give anyone phone numbers and statistics and awareness-raising activities in seconds.

But Google can’t tell you that Steve R loved classical music and chocolate cheesecake and cried in his hospital bed when he saw on the news that Arthur Ashe had AIDS. Google can’t tell you that Jeff C had a fat laugh and loved to throw parties and celebrated Election Night 1992 with glasses of Moët & Chandon champagne shared with Lynne, John M, and me. Google can’t tell you that John M had twinkling eyes, once waved goodbye to me wearing a gold tiara and a white bathrobe, and introduced me to a man who still remains one of my favorite people in the world, my friend James. Google can’t tell you that Tim R loved Christmas and antiques and created a home that I loved so much that many of my favorite things in my own home now show his influence.

Google can’t tell you the worlds of art and music and politics these men opened for me. It can’t tell you of nights when they held one another’s hands, or I held their hands, knowing it might be the last time–and ultimately, there was a last time.

This year’s World AIDS Day theme is “Getting to Zero.” The goal of a world with no new cases of HIV. No more AIDS. And the only way that can be reached is education. Testing. Talking. Awareness. Research. Following through on commitments of money and time. From the largest governments to the smallest committees in cities, towns, and villages throughout the world. To individuals and their stories. Because Google can’t tell your story, or the stories of your friends, or the stories of your AIDS Quilt panels, or the stories of your neighbors, fellow students, fellow worshippers, colleagues. Only you can do that.

Thanks to The University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work and Diane Beck at the Ryan White Planning Council, I was able to know about and participate in activities today. Thanks to the World AIDS Campaign, aids.gov, UNAIDS, and (RED)™ I have current information on the pandemic and was encouraged to speak on Twitter, Facebook, and my own blog about AIDS.

Today I wore my red ribbon and Tom wore his red bracelet. And here are some of the other things I did to recognize the day and honor my friends–all with Timothy J Lambert, who embodies all the wonderful friendships and experiences that came after the dark time when I wondered if I’d ever feel joy again. Of course I have, and do, and Steve R, Jeff C, John M, and Tim R wanted that for me–and said so. I thank them for that and a million things that made my life deeper and better.

Roses left on Tim Rose’s grave for each of my four friends.

Pulling back, you can see the red, white, and yellow roses planted by the Rose family on Tim’s grave. And in the background, you can see Timothy J Lambert shooting photos and giving me a few minutes to chat with Tim R. My advice is never stop talking to those you’ve lost. Death can’t mute conversations of the heart.

Later, Tim and I wandered the UH campus until we found this building, which hosted a display of some NAMES Quilt Panels.

Later, we stopped by Starbucks, who’d committed five cents of every handcrafted beverage sold in participating stores in the U.S. and Canada to the Global Fund to help those living with HIV/AIDS in Africa.

And finally, we went to a candlelight observance in Tranquility Park in downtown Houston, where my photos are blurry. But I like them just the same, because:

A stranger patiently waited for me to get this shot.

She’s not alone, as you can see from the shadows on the wall behind her.

That, to me, shows one of the miracles my friends and I learned. When we are brave enough to tell our stories, we find a community willing to listen, to hold our hands, to lift us up.

No one has to be alone in this.