Test of Nerve

I attended the wake of a gay man. It was unusual, in that none of us wanted to believe the putative cause of death.  He had been admitted to the hospital for meningitis of the brain, and had had to undergo brain surgery.  After more than a month in the hospital, right before friends would be able to throw a benefit bash for him, he died.

I accompanied an ex-boyfriend of the deceased.  The ex genuinely grieved for the loss of the young 30-something interior and set designer, even though their relationship had ended years ago.  Two other ex-boyfriends were also in attendance, although their claim on the affections of the deceased was more recent.

Many other gay men were in the audience, although their presence was low-key.  After all, the family did not know their son was gay.

It was probably a good thing their son was peripherally in show business, as loads of pastries and drinks were dispatched from the tv station, and reality tv stars and production crew galore in all manner of garb and professional affiliations descended upon the chapel to convey their condolences and commiserate with the bereaved.  At least, there was that cover.

Underneath the discreet atmosphere, the outwardly formal audience was furiously speculating.   Who gets meningitis of the brain?  Was he positive?  Did he die of AIDS?  Had he been tested? Did the family know? Did the hospital know?  Did some doctors know but then, they helped in the cover up?

Who did he sleep with? His ex-boyfriends were around: were they afraid? Had they been tested?  Who gave it to him?  Who did he give it to?  Who had slept with the exes?  Fear.

Apparently, everyone was in the dark.  The family would not know.  The son was deeply in the closet, and even if they were wondering as to why he was still unmarried, leaping from their son being gay to their son having died of AIDS was a very far vault into unpleasant, even revolting, territory.

The hospital might not officially know.  After all, if the hospital knew, the cause of death would have been different, and no public viewing of the body at the wake would be allowed.  Apparently, cremation would have been the only option if he had officially died of an infectious disease, per Department of Health protocol.

The worst part was, everyone suspected that the deceased did not know. He might have suspected, but he didn't want to know.  He did not consent to an HIV test.  He had always been afraid of getting tested.  He had avoided it like the plague, even when the plague was already inside him.  And so he had never sought confirmation of why he was getting mysterious headaches that were so crippling he would stumble and slur. Fear.

We mourned the loss of a talented individual, much loved by a variety of humanity that packed the chapel on a late weeknight.  At his burial, his friends brought balloons in his favorite color, and let them float gently away as they said goodbye.  We wondered, would we be visited by this much people when it was our turn?

And we were frustrated, as all this could have been prevented.  It is so easy to get tested.  HIV can now be fought and prevented from turning into AIDS, as the medication has been proven to prolong life indefinitely.  But that needs testing.  It had been so easy for him to remain with his loved ones and prevent the grief and shock and loss, if only he had screwed up the nerve to take the test.  But he didn't.  Despite the advances in science, and the strides made in changing societal attitude towards HIV/AIDS, he didn't.

It wasn't AIDS that killed this young man.  It was fear.