COLUMN: When Death Is Beyond Politics

From David Lynn's "Straight Outta Kansas," Fall '93 From David Lynn's "Straight Outta Kansas," Fall '93Randy, a friend of mine, passed away last week. He died of complications resulting from AIDS. He was in his late thirties. I arrived in the waiting room 15 minutes before his respirator was removed. There was quite a crowd at hand. I knew a few of the people crying, talking, and sometimes laughing together in the hallway. I chatted with some mutual friends, and introduced myself to some of Randy's friends I had heard of but never met. It seemed okay to talk about anything. It's hard to keep walls up when everybody's crying. We free associated, telling stories about Randy, sharing what we had heard about each other, and holding hands. A young woman in the hallway commented about one of Randy's friends in the waiting room. "He's cute," she said. "You're cute too!" she blurted out, looking at me. Any other time I would have blushed, but I laughed, as did the people around me. Had Randy been in the hallway with us, he would have laughed hysterically. It was a rotten time to meet someone's friends and family. We talked about Randy's battle with AIDS. Someone reminded us how he joked about his hair loss during treatment, his "chemocut" he called it. We talked about his service to others stricken by AIDS and his outspokenness in the gay and lesbian community. "There wasn't a closet big enough to hold Randy" someone said quietly. They were right. Randy wasn't afraid of much. Randy and I had met through some mutual friends. He was always breaking me up with crazy comments about the disease and how it affected him. And he cared about people. Oh God, did he care about people. One of my earliest memories of him was in talking to him about HIV. I had just gotten tested, and was about to get the results. He came with me. Afterwards, we waited outside the clinic and watched several people come out laughing and skipping, some hand in hand with their partners. "It isn't hard to tell who received good news," he observed. Randy lived for today because for him, there really was no tomorrow. I once made flan, his favorite dessert, for his birthday, and gave him enough custard to last an entire week. He called me the next day and said "It was good. All of it was good." Around 7:30 P.M., the hospital staff removed Randy's respirator. Fifteen minutes later, Randy suffocated under the weight of his own body too weak to breathe. Randy's father took me down to his son's hospital room to view the body. Randy didn't look like he was dead or even asleep. He looked like he was faking, waiting to jump out of bed to scare us. I wanted to poke him in the ribs, just to check. "Say anything you need to say," his father said. I talked to Randy, and said good-bye. I promised not to forget him. I told him I would always remember the time we were in Boston, where he drove worse than the locals and almost got everybody killed. I talked to him about the time he bought a motorcycle. He fell asleep on it, wiped out and ended up in the hospital (ironically, for something besides AIDS.) "We all knew it wasn't a good idea," I chided him, "but we couldn't say anything or tell you what to do because you were dying of AIDS. And you knew that." After all he had been through, he didn't look so bad. The tubes were taken out, and there was a blanket over his legs. He looked peaceful. He earned it the hard way. Dennis, Randy's former lover who also has AIDS, was there that night. For some time, the two of them were playing tag in the hospital – one would go in when the other came out. I think the stress became too much for them, so they separated. Still, Dennis handled the funeral arrangements. Several weeks ago, I was speaking with Dennis about his condition. After a 20 minute discussion of symptoms, difficulties, and frustration, he summed it up succinctly: "I just don't have any sex drive any more." This is the first time I've ever seen someone close to me die. Quite simply, I'm very sad. I've read about the AIDS quilt and seen the docudramas on television, and I heard about the hate march last week, but I'm having a hard time getting angry. Oh, I know, the government should have moved much faster in dealing with AIDS, and the drug companies are making an exorbitant amount of money on all this. I also know there is a Nobel Prize in Medicine waiting for the scientist who finds a vaccine or a cure. It's only a matter of time, and I think Randy knew that when he was alive. There just wasn't enough time for him. Maybe I'll get angry later. It feels like so little is left. I'm not going to meet Randy for coffee or walk over to his apartment to see him like I used to. The card with his name on it is still in my Rolodex. I can't call him, but I can't bring myself to take the card out either. There's nothing left but memories and this vague feeling of "It's not real, and it didn't happen." But it did, and I feel pretty sad. David Lynn is a 1989 Wharton graduate from Overland Park, Kansas, and the Executive Director of the University City Hospitality Coalition. Straight Outta Kansas appears alternate Tuesdays.