Memorial: 65

I posted the following comment on the New York Times web site today in response to an article reporting the stories of six people with HIV and AIDS. If he were still alive, today my father would have turned 65.

It’s sad that the stigma and fear surrounding HIV and AIDS has not dissipated at the same pace as our medical advances and knowledge about the contraction and transmission of the disease.

My father was infected with HIV almost twenty years ago and died in 1998. Today would have been his 65th birthday.

While my father struggled in secrecy and denial for four years, revealing the truth only to my mother and a close friend, once he told his children, he became obsessed with telling everyone. Surely some people were lost along the way: colleagues, friends and relatives who were victimized by their own fear and ignorance, but my father was fortunate to retain love and support around him until the steep decline which led to his death.

There were moments, however, which told other stories. In the hospital, a friend of mine came to visit and leaned over my father’s bed to kiss his forehead. I didn’t understand why I felt surprised until I realized that of the constant stream of visitors we had received, she was the only one to have touched him.

At his funeral, so many people came to mourn my father’s passing that the director brought speakers outside for the people who couldn’t fit into the hall. It was a clear day in December, and the tributes delivered to his memory were heard all the way to the parking lot.