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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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With Pride I Go Forth - 1. Chapter 1 Never Surrender

Happy Pride!

Never Surrender

 

I’m so fucking frail I can’t do the simplest things for myself—I should be used to it, but I’m not. There is a desperation I feel that I can’t put into words. I want to get up from this bed, but my will and strength are as feeble as my mind has become. Death hasn’t come for me yet—soon, but not yet—so I’m doing the only thing I’m capable of as I lay here. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m writing this while my achy, knobby fingers can still support a pen, not in the usual way, but I’ve figured out a grip that allows me to get the ink on paper. It’s awkward-looking—like I’m a three-year-old learning motor skills—but so far so good if you can read chicken scratches. My eyesight is another problem (recurring CMV Retinitis, thanks to this affliction that continues to steal from me). What can I say? My body keeps betraying me in each and every way.

So… my eyesight… it’s hazy—downright cloudy sometimes—but I’m better off that a lot of my friends who have taken this same journey. They’ve lost their vision completely, and many have died blind, deprived of seeing the faces of their loved ones before they passed. I just hope and pray the darkness doesn’t come until after my breath stops.

Anyway, here goes. I’ll start with… hate. Yeah, hate… I guess. I don’t know why. It just came to me now. It’s funny… hate has been something I’ve tried to omit from my rather short (by my grandpa’s standard) life. Grandpa Joe died at seventy-five, which is two and a half times what I will be when they slide what’s left of me into the crimson furnace I see in my dreams.

Dreams? Who am I kidding? Those aren’t dreams… they’re nightmares. My doctor says it’s the drugs. Maybe he’s right. Mortality is something we all must face… I just always thought I would live as long as my grandfather did. ‘Ah, the folly of youth’, he would say if he were here. Anyway, it shouldn’t take long to turn this husk to ash once the flames hit it.

What do I want to say? Oh, right… hate. I decided to start with hate. Well, hate is repulsive, so don’t go there—and if you’re sick like me, don’t take any with you when you go. Sure, it’s a hard emotion to quell, but I’ve fought it most of my life, and I want no part of that ugliness following me out of this world.

Long before I came out, I felt this disgust, this revulsion others had for me just because I was different. I’m sure some of you know what I mean. I must have been about six when my classmates starting making fun of my lisp… and my prettiness. Pretty like a girl, they would chant. It grew quickly from there over the next few years, and recess and after school were times for fear and tears, which of course made things worse. At first it was all so confusing, what they meant, but there is no better way to get educated than in a schoolyard. And you know what? Turns out they were right about me. Flamer, Nancy-boy, pussy, faggot, fruity tutti, queer, cock-gobbler, and my personal favorite, pansy (pansies are so pretty)—names I heard so often it would have been easy to forget the name my mother gave me, because no one ever bothered to use it—Michael.

Michael. I haven’t heard her say it for three years now, not since I told her back in nineteen ninety-three that yes, I’d tested positive for HIV. For some stupid reason, I figured she had a right to know. We won’t get into what she said to me the last time I heard my given name leave her twisted up mouth, though. I’m still dealing with that baggage. My doctor calls me a fast progresser, by the way, which means it didn’t take long for HIV to become AIDS. Just my fucking luck.

Sorry… had to stop for a day. Self-pity and all that. I needed some time to gather myself. ‘Gather myself’. Does that sound like a faggy thing to say? Oh well. I am what I am, and I will soon die for it. Not because I’m a gay man, but because it is a cruel and callous world that first looked at AIDS as a gay plague, brought down upon us by the lord above. As if. It’s hard to believe people are that stupid… but the proof is in the pudding.

It’s just a disease—a deficiency—a horrible one, and god isn’t the one punishing us. No, the establishment is, with non-existent funding to protect us at the beginning. So many years and lives were lost as men in power sat on their hands… watching as we died in droves. They were nothing more than cheering spectators at the parades of death.

I wonder, did they ever look at an AIDS quilt? Do they even know how many of those quilts there are in this world? All those names they should have been held responsible for? I think we all know the answers to these questions. Even now there are those who believe the funding for research we fought so ferociously, so valiantly for, should be taken away. They still want to see us exterminated like vermin—some, even when it is their own children.

I would be remiss, though, not to thank all the truly wonderful people who rallied to our cause from the beginning—you all know who they are—from dedicated researchers like Drs. Volberding, Fauci, Laubenstein, Kovacs, and Birx, just to name a few—to big-hearted celebrities like Elizabeth Taylor and good old Elton John.

Damn, it sucks trying to wield this pen. I think I might know how Jesus’ wrist felt when it was nailed to the cross—how’s that for imagery? Sacrilege? Sue me. Fuck it hurts, but I don’t want to ask for more morphine. Fuck!

Sorry about that. I took another break for some days—two or three—but I’m back. Why? I’m not really sure anymore, but I think it’s because I want to leave something tangible behind in this world, even if it ends up in the trash. Confession… I always wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be so many things once upon a time, but when my people began dropping like flies, those things stopped mattering.

Okay… back to writing. It was another long night, and I really didn’t expect to see morning. My doctor made me swallow some new pills when they called him in, not that they’ll do much good, but my heart is still beating for now. I feel sorry for these caring healthcare workers who have to watch their patients die. I saw their faces when I came to… the relief they showed. I only have to die once. They have to watch it thousands of times.

Who knew simply breathing was such an exquisite pleasure. I took it for granted most of my life, and now all I want is to be able to draw a long breath without feeling the weight of a giant rock on my chest. Oh damn, I’m doing it again, getting sidetracked. I’m running out of time, so I have to make my point if it’s the last thing I do. It’s okay… you can chuckle at this. I may have lost everything else, but I can still see the humor through the darkness.

I’m sounding bitter, aren’t I, but that wasn’t my intent. It really wasn’t, yet my mind is hard to direct. It keeps wandering, and goes places I don’t want it to—like to my mother, father, and sister. Family. There’s a word I don’t use much anymore, unless I’m talking about my gay brothers and sisters. They’ve never let me down. My dad on the other hand… well… he says nothing, but my mother… oh, my mother. She uses words like knives, and I have the gashes to prove it.

Yes, Mummy Dearest, I fell from god’s grace. I was a reprobate… a wicked wretch… and a disgusting whore, as you so eloquently put it with one long breath. I sold my body in order to eat, but the thing you wouldn’t hear while I was alive was how it was never a choice. What can a feminine boy like me do, barely fifteen when his family disowns him and throws him out with only the clothes on his back? What exactly did you expect? You screamed at me for refusing to go to one of those ‘Christian’ fix-me camps, but trust me, Mother, it never would have worked. If I’d agreed to your ultimatum, it would have killed me quicker than AIDS has.

And you know what else? I know you, and I’ve never bought that you believe in god. You only subscribe to religion when it suits you. I know about the steady supply of vodka you keep in your closet, and I’ve had the rather dubious pleasure of seeing you in Mr. Corson’s car. The married Mr. Corson who meets you in the Home Depot parking lot. Enough said? Ask Ellie. She was with me when we saw the bottom of your heels through the front windshield, but she’s too afraid of your rage to say anything. That’s another thing—you swear worse than any trucker, and take the lord’s name in vain when you’re angry… which is pretty much always.

You live your hateful, sham life while I chose to live as my true self, so in my mind, I win. I bet I’ve prayed a lot more than you have. I’ve often wondered why having a gay son terrified you so, but I’ve come to the conclusion it really doesn’t matter. I will, however, let you off the hook. Me being gay had nothing to do with you. You do not get the credit for it… no bloody way.

I did it again. You’d think there was no moisture left in this body, but apparently there’s lots yet to be squeezed out. I see no point to tears, but have not the strength to stop them. Could be the drugs I’m on… I’ve lost track of what does what. It’s another morning, and today I can see the sun shining through the blinds of Casey House.

It’s a wonderful hospice despite the smell of death in the air, and the people who volunteer here are truly saints. They aren’t afraid to touch me, or breathe the same air… or to wash my emaciated and bruised skeletal remains. I even get hugs. I had an especially wonderful one this morning from Delilah—what a pretty name. If I could have done drag, I think I would have called myself Delilah Sunshine. Yes, Delilah Sunshine. I can see it on the Marquee. But of course that will never happen now. This new combination drug therapy is apparently working for some, but not for me. Still, it would have been a great drag name, and I might not be able to lip-sync as good as Michelle Ross, a true queen of queens, but I can sing, bitches!

Back again. I’m feeling so drained, but I’ve written more than I thought I could. It’s been a few days, and all I’ve done is take pills and drift in and out. It’s nighttime and I’m floating. To be honest, I’m scared. I had a few visitors this afternoon—I think it was this afternoon—the remnants of my gay family. I’m pretty sure I heard the nurse whisper I only have a few days left, but it could have been a dream. I don’t think it will be days. I won’t mind if it’s only hours. I’m ready.

One of my visitors, David, such a sweet man, a beautiful man with eyes you could fall into, wanted to stay through the night, but he’s fighting the same fight I am so I sent him home and told him I would see him tomorrow. If things had been different, he might have been the one—and I think he feels the same, but this illness killed our chance. It’s okay. I did know love once, for an entire year. His name was Charlie, and I stitched his name on a quilt. So many are already gone, and I expect if there is a heaven, I will seem them soon. Maybe even this evening, Charlie will take my hand and lead me to a place where everyone is healthy and happy and loved.

Back again. I kept getting sidetracked, but my mind is clear for the moment—apparently my lucidity is becoming less frequent—and I remember what I wanted to say. No, this scribbling is not about hate. No matter what I may have said, I don’t hate anyone… not even my mother. This is about pride. PRIDE. Such a beautiful, vibrant, colorful word. I can’t hear it without seeing the rainbow, and it still gives me goosebumps to speak it aloud, although now it comes out as a whisper. I am dying, but it hasn’t taken away my pride. I am a gay man who feels no shame for his existence on this earth, and I will die as a proud gay man. PROUD, you hear me?

I want to live, but if it meant not being who I am, I wouldn’t change a thing. We’ve fought as a family. We fought hard, and we fought long, and many of my fellow victims are beginning to regain their health. Pride parades around the world will finally outnumber the parades of death, I’m sure of it, and I can leave this world with that knowledge to comfort me. There is real hope for your futures now, so don’t give up.

I haven’t been sure who I would address this letter to, but I am now. I’ve decided I’m addressing this letter to you, Delilah. It’s up to you who you show it to. I doubt my mother will have any interest, and would shriek at my candor, but you can let her know it exists if you‘d like. Maybe my sister would want to read it… although that’s not likely either. And my dad? He wrote me off years ago, long before I came out. He told me he always knew I was a fag, and has never spoken a word to me since.

So, my angel, you can post this anywhere you think it might help other LGBT brothers and sisters, ones who might feel regret for who they are, or thinks this disease defines them. To them I say, choose pride over hate, love who you are, and choose your family. If you’re a campy little fem boy, then be a campy little fem boy. And whether you believe or not, don’t let anyone tell you the creator doesn’t love you. That’s bullshit.

Maybe the ACT building on Church Street or The Hassle-Free Clinic would be good places to post this. Those were such a big help to me and thousands of others who needed support for the road ahead. Thank you, dear Delilah, for being my friend and for taking care of me. Your hugs are like the sun—like sunshine pushing away the clouds—and I love you for the heart you are not afraid to show. Your young and beautiful children are blessed, and I thank you for sharing each new photo of them.

This pen has become heavy, and I guess I have no other point to make, so Michael John Davidson is signing off for the final time. I take pride in knowing my name will be soon be stitched on a quilt alongside those of my brave and courageous people.

Oh… and remember to donate what you can to The Toronto People With AIDS Foundation (PWA), at 200 Gerrard Street. XOXOXOXO

                                                                                              ***

 

Hello again! My hands are shaking, but I couldn’t leave my letter like it was. Delilah is helping me with my writing pad, but I can hold the pen in a normal way again. Brothers and sisters, it appears the news of my demise was premature. I was in a coma for a week, but I’ve been awake for three days now—like, really awake, you know? My mind is clear, I can breathe easier than I have in months, I have real food in my belly, and I actually have a T cell count again!

Dr. Kovacs says I’m a miracle… a miracle! Me! But the truly great thing is I’m only one of many. He’s seeing a turnaround with almost all of his patients on this new drug therapy and he’s confidant I will keep improving. I might even be able to get up and walk a few steps tomorrow. For now, I’m able to lift both my arms completely off the bed. I’ll be dancing in no time! This latest medicine—my doctor calls it a cocktail—took its good old time for me, but it’s working, so all of you in the same boat, hang in there. It might be hard to believe, but trust me… real help is on the way.

David came to see me… apparently he sat by my bed for the entire week I was out of it, and his drug therapy is making a real difference too. He didn’t even have to tell me because I could see it in his beautiful face. His T cell count has risen to over three hundred! He looks good… so good. Who knows… maybe we will get our chance after all? I sure hope so. Life is too short to waste, and love is never wasted on the right person.

See how much is changing? This was my goodbye letter ten days ago, but now it’s my introduction to the world. Say hello to Miss Delilah Sunshine, bringer of joy and laughter! She is going to be one bad bitch, I promise you. I just have to get some weight on these skinny legs—and scavenge a whole new wardrobe. Sequins. I’m going to wear sequins, bitches! And I’m going to need a wig. I see a flaming red one in my future. Yes! Think Reba McEntire, soft and pretty with a flip. And David says I have spectacular bone structure and I’ll be stunning in drag. He’s so sweet!

You can look for my debut in a few months, maybe in September on my twenty-ninth birthday, god willing. Keep waving your flags, brothers and sisters. We have more work to do, and I’ll be right by your side. I am not going anywhere! Oh, I almost forgot… I’m going to take a writing class as soon as I get out of here. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and I feel like fencing with some idiots.

P.S. My handwriting is atrocious—barely legible—so Delilah has offered to type this out and copy it. She insists it’s worth reading and is going to post it around the community. And, she’s going to send a copy to my mother… and if that isn’t enough, I’m going to send Mummy Dearest a picture of Delilah Sunshine after her debut… you can be sure of it! This phoenix has risen from the ashes, so maybe you were right, Mother, that I am getting exactly what I deserve.

Told you, all—Miss Sunshine is going to be one bad bitch. Hell yeah, she is!

Stay strong, and remember… never ever surrender! Happy Pride!

 

 

*  

 

Thanks for reading! Michael is based on a real person who is very dear to me, and much of his story is in this one. Please let me know what you thought, and it would be appreciated if you could leave a recommendation to others in the provided box if you feel it worthy of such. Cheers!
Copyright © 2021 Headstall; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

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Just now, Headstall said:

The following comment was sent to me via email, and I'm pasting it here because I think it is a very important one, pertaining both to the story and to what we need to remember. As I said in other posting... pride means something different to each of us, and there are things we shouldn't forget or be lax in... 

Hey Headstall!
I just read With Pride I Go Forth. It brought many memories to mind as I read it.
When I was a volunteer for an AIDS Project, we sang carols at the AIDS ward of the county hospital (in 1989?). I remember being shocked that everyone had to go through a metal detector. Growing up in the suburbs prevented me from realizing just how violent things got in urban hospitals.
My next shock was seeing the skeletal patients who were barely able to raise their heads while we were singing to them. I had seen the images in The Advocate Magazine and on TV, but hadn’t seen anyone who was so seriously ill in person. My volunteer work was in the Education Department and initially all I did was call people to arrange to get them into Stop AIDS meetings, but later I did go out to bars, Folsom Street Fair, a Gay rodeo, and a bathhouse to do outreach and education. I never worked with PWAs, I thought it would be too overwhelming to me emotionally.
Many years later (early 2000s?), the partner of one of my best friends decided that he knew his body better than his doctors and unilaterally stopped taking his HIV medication because of the side-effects. His condition took a sudden turn for the worse and I accompanied them to the hospital when we didn’t expect him to survive. He lost so much weight he looked like the guys from back during the worst period of the pandemic.
Somehow the doctors were able to find a treatment that worked and he’s still alive to annoy me. (He’s very opinionated and believes extremely questionable posts online. About 20 years ago, he had been convinced by a site that was supposedly about a country that incorporated the states of Washington and Oregon as well as British Columbia. He collects stamps and was thinking of buying the stamps that they suggested were available. I was able to convince him that it was fake, but there are other times when he used to forward foreign political campaigns of questionable reliability that I would ignore.)
My being too afraid to Come Out until I was in my mid-twenties kept me healthy. I didn’t start dating until my late twenties when safer sex was being promoted heavily. So I’m a few years younger than you are, but I only had a couple of close friends who died.
So much history and knowledge disappeared with the generations of Gay men who died. But I think the most tragic thing is that so many young men are unaware of our history. They seem to think that HIV is no longer a problem, but don’t understand that the cocktail doesn’t work for everyone. And even when it works, it’s extremely expensive (in the US), has serious side-effects, and isn’t guaranteed to work forever. 😞
 
Thank you for the story!
-mark

Thank you, mark. I'm glad you brought up the violence that was directed our community's way during this time period. Violence was something we were used to, but never to such a concentrated degree. I also had a friend do what yours did, deciding his meds, which kept him alive, weren't worth the side effects. He got it in his head that because his viral load was so low, he was cured. Me and a positive friend went over to his apartment when we heard what he was doing and tried to talk him out if it, but his boyfriend supported his decision(he had terrible nightmares and felt he was bordering on schizophrenia). It didn't take long... he passed away a couple of weeks later.

I agree it is tragic that young people don't know the history and think HIV is now a harmless annoyance. It isn't, as you say. It is still a deadly disease, and if you are one of the lucky ones, it can still be a tough road. That said, we should celebrate the advances that have allowed for more normal lives... but we need to be aware.

Thanks, mark. I appreciate you sending me this comment. Happy Pride to you! Gary.... :hug:  

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24 minutes ago, Wesley8890 said:

Im not crying. Im ugly crying and if i were wearing mascara it'd be running down my face. This was beautifully written with so much emotion.

(Wouldve commented sooner but somehow had unfollowed you!)

Unfollowed me? Oh, Wes! I'm crushed!! :P  Seriously, though, don't do that again. -_- 

Thanks, buddy. Ugly crying is okay. I did a bunch of that as I wrote this. Glad to hear you found beauty in the writing... it is difficult subject matter for sure, but I'm glad I finally got to write Michael's story in this context. Glad too that it has stirred emotion in those who've read it. Happy Pride, Wes! G. :hug: 

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4 minutes ago, Valkyrie said:

Whew... that was an emotional read.  It's so important for history to be remembered.  I'm glad Michael survived.  Thank you for posting this :hug: 

Thanks for reading, Val. When I think of PRIDE, it's these courageous brothers and sisters I think about. Michael is a dear soul, and he had a long battle getting completely better mentally, but now he's the same old Michael. He loves being a drag queen, and is an incredible singer who was actually opera trained. He was one of the lucky ones during that time period. Others never stood a chance. :(  :hug: 

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3 hours ago, Aditus said:

I read this on the phone and couldn't comment. Luckily I had a long sleeved shirt on , sniffling into said sleeves. 

 

 I’ve tried to omit from my rather short life. Yeah, I totally understand this. No time for hate. Hate doesn't make sense anymore, if ever.

Usually I don't read this kind of stories anymore. I don't have the stomach for it.

But, as it was you, who wrote it, I gave it a try. You managed to combine sadness, with, pride , love and love. Perfect! Thank you for this. 

 

 

 

Hate can be very debilitating. It colors everything and stops us from being our best selves. At least, that's what I tell myself. I know Michael is right, and I do try, but man, it's hard sometimes, especially when world leaders lack humanity. 

Thanks for giving this a try, Adi. I didn't want to write about those whose lives ended in such a horrible way... but Michael was part of a beginning, one that stirred the hope of an entire community. Happy Pride, my friend. Cheers! G.

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1 hour ago, Danners said:

This story was a testament to the miracle of life, of the fortitude that’s unfortunately become a necessity in order to stay true to ourselves, of allies and families both born and found. Michael’s strength of spirit shone through and oh, that sense of humor!

There’s kinship here — a real connection. Doesn’t matter what aspect of his story you mesh with, you’re guaranteed to relate to some part of Michael’s life. And his pride.

I felt lighter after reading this, for all that it took me so long to do so.

I’m proud of you, Gary. 

Thanks, buddy! It helped that I knew and know Michael, and could picture him saying some of the stuff in this monologue. He was and still is an activist who gives all he can to the cause. There really was the aspect of a miracle when the tide started to turn so dramatically. Frustration and sadness turned to hope and belief that we wouldn't lose everyone. I think of all the tremendously talented, gifted, and vibrant people we lost and I cry. It was an earth shattering time for the community.

Thanks for mentioning the family part. We have had to form our own families since 'the beginning', so often are we cast off because of cruel and stupid doctrines. I would never let a book... or a person... tell me one of my kids didn't deserve love. How dare the church... how dare religion that turns intelligent folk to obedient sheep. 

I'll stop ranting and tell you it makes me happy to hear you felt lighter after reading this. It is what I hoped for in telling this story. There was a time when many of us wished we weren't gay, but I think now most of us see there isn't a damn thing wrong with who we are, and in fact, we like being gay. It's never been easy, and likely never will be in our lifetimes, but we should be proud of out strength to survive all that's been thrown at us. 

I'm proud of all of us. Cheers! :hug:  

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My dear Gary…..it’s been a while hasn’t it? And you just HAD to make me cry. And rage st poor Michael’s mother! Those last two decades of the twentieth century were very tough…..and although I am not gay, so many of my friends were, and are. 
what a very well written story. Please tell me…did Michael continue to improve and be happy with his love?

much love, C.

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1 hour ago, Coastguard said:

My dear Gary…..it’s been a while hasn’t it? And you just HAD to make me cry. And rage st poor Michael’s mother! Those last two decades of the twentieth century were very tough…..and although I am not gay, so many of my friends were, and are. 
what a very well written story. Please tell me…did Michael continue to improve and be happy with his love?

much love, C.

Hi, Coral! Yes, it's been a while. This was my tribute to PRIDE, to bring us back to those devastating times and remember them, and the hope that finally arrived. It's a tribute to those we've lost, and to the people who worked to save us... and those who cared for us. So of course there had to be tears. I know you will forgive me those, my friend. :) 

Michael's mother was heartless. Even though we'd gone through the freedom of the seventies, there were still many who held onto the rigidity of the fifties and sixties... when gay was thought of as madness and worse. There was no good reason I can see not to know better. :no: 

Thanks for reading this, and for leaving such a nice comment. I'm happy to tell you that Michael has been his normal, irrepressible self for many years now, but he has had memory issues... and he does have a boyfriend. He still performs in drag and sings with his own beautiful voice. He is much loved, and he is still an activist for AIDS awareness.

Much love returned, dear friend. Look for a new western story from me soon... a sequel to Sidewinder. Cheers... Gary.... :hug: 

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On 6/8/2021 at 12:18 AM, Albert1434 said:

This is a great story that reminds me of those awful days when I lost many of my best friends. And brings tears to my eyes at there loss. Some how I didn't catch that plague, maybe it was pure luck. I simple don't know and I have always had pride for those I have lost:yes: Some times being a survivor is a terrible thing!

Well written Gary even made me cry:thankyou:

So true - how did I escape when school and college friends went so fast or so slowly?   My students today think Covid doesn’t exist for them, AIDS is ancient history and of no relevance to their life.  Sadly, a fair few will find is us still a reality.  
thanks for your comment- Gary L 

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9 hours ago, Gary L said:

So true - how did I escape when school and college friends went so fast or so slowly?   My students today think Covid doesn’t exist for them, AIDS is ancient history and of no relevance to their life.  Sadly, a fair few will find is us still a reality.  
thanks for your comment- Gary L 

@Albert1434 says it very well. Survivors' guilt is real, and takes a toll. Why are we the fortunate ones? Your students' attitudes are why PRIDE is so important. It is an opportunity to educate. We cannot afford to forget, or wish AIDS away. It is still wreaking havoc... the cocktail doesn't work for everyone, and there are very serious side effects. Thanks, Gary, for reading this little story about one man's journey, and a community's heartbreak at being decimated and scorned for it... Cheers.... Gary.... :hug: 

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A friend of mine (also named Michael) has gone from HIV+ to AIDS quite a few times, so this story was closer to home than most. He's been healthy (as far as I know) for the past decade, thankfully. He's a bit of a character, and lives in LA, all about the aspiring actor life!

I liked the lows followed by the highs. Thanks again!

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48 minutes ago, G90814 said:

A friend of mine (also named Michael) has gone from HIV+ to AIDS quite a few times, so this story was closer to home than most. He's been healthy (as far as I know) for the past decade, thankfully. He's a bit of a character, and lives in LA, all about the aspiring actor life!

I liked the lows followed by the highs. Thanks again!

Sometimes I am unsure of the things I write... of how they will be perceived... but I have learned I have to write with no constraints from others. This time was harsh... it was cruel and confusing and terribly frightening for so many gay men. We should be proud of how we carried those crosses we've borne through the ages, and Michael is just one of many who needed their story told. It was a miracle he came back from what was supposed to be a certain death, and I am pleased your friend has done the same. 

Michael is still so full of life, though he paid a big price, and he is still who he was as a young man... proud and gay and fierce. :) 

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Gary you made me cry and smile again. My husband was HIV+ for 35 years. Michelle Ross was a very good friend of ours. I miss her and Chris Edwards every day. I lost my first patient to aids in 1984 he was 13 years old his Mom was a personal friend. I moved to Toronto in 1985 and started work at Toronto General Hospital by 1988 I started losing friends left right and Center to AIDS and because there were a lot of people that didn't want to look after them I'd finished my shift and I'd go sit with my friends to make sure that they weren't alone some needed to be fed, some needed a bath which I gave them change the sheets on their bed. That was a hard time for me because I couldn't believe my nursing colleagues to be so cruel to these men. I remember Chris Edwards and Rusty Ryan coming to seven Bell at Toronto General the entertain these guys and make them laugh if they could it was just amazing the caring coming from the community. My husband didn't die of AIDS he died of a massive coronary but his name is still going on the memorial in Barbara Hall Park. Thanks again for a heart moving story that truly encompasses Pride.

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15 hours ago, Jim Fraser said:

Gary you made me cry and smile again. My husband was HIV+ for 35 years. Michelle Ross was a very good friend of ours. I miss her and Chris Edwards every day. I lost my first patient to aids in 1984 he was 13 years old his Mom was a personal friend. I moved to Toronto in 1985 and started work at Toronto General Hospital by 1988 I started losing friends left right and Center to AIDS and because there were a lot of people that didn't want to look after them I'd finished my shift and I'd go sit with my friends to make sure that they weren't alone some needed to be fed, some needed a bath which I gave them change the sheets on their bed. That was a hard time for me because I couldn't believe my nursing colleagues to be so cruel to these men. I remember Chris Edwards and Rusty Ryan coming to seven Bell at Toronto General the entertain these guys and make them laugh if they could it was just amazing the caring coming from the community. My husband didn't die of AIDS he died of a massive coronary but his name is still going on the memorial in Barbara Hall Park. Thanks again for a heart moving story that truly encompasses Pride.

Hey, Jim! This story means a lot to me. Michelle Ross was amazing as a performer and a person. Chris Edwards... man, way too soon. I saw them too many times to count, along with Scarlett Fever (such a cute man and awesome bartender), Bitch Diva (OMG, what a character. I was actually in her court during her reign). It's really great that he is still growing strong, as is Scarlett. 

You were an Angel... as so many were during that period... the shell shock of those times doesn't leave, though, does it, and I don't think it ever should be forgotten. Drag queens ( so, so many of them) were and are heroes to me. I escaped HIV, but it surrounded me, with my closest friends dying or surviving. 

I'm appreciative of you telling me this little story moved you. When I think of pride, I remember. It isn't just a parade, as I'm sure you'll agree. Thanks so much for sharing. :hug: 

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I was in tears several times while reading this story.  The tears were for the many friends I lost to AIDS during the 80's and early 90's.  They were wonderful friends and some chosen family to me.  I watched them go from health, vibrant you men to skeletal beings waiting on death to relieve their suffering.  You captured that time so well.  I also remember the wonderful people, like Delilah, how helped ease their loneliness and pain.  Now these friends are memorialized in the quilt, but their pride and courage remain in my memory.  I am thankful for all the medical advances that keep my young friends alive now, so I won't have to deal with that kind of loss again.  

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11 hours ago, raven1 said:

I was in tears several times while reading this story.  The tears were for the many friends I lost to AIDS during the 80's and early 90's.  They were wonderful friends and some chosen family to me.  I watched them go from health, vibrant you men to skeletal beings waiting on death to relieve their suffering.  You captured that time so well.  I also remember the wonderful people, like Delilah, how helped ease their loneliness and pain.  Now these friends are memorialized in the quilt, but their pride and courage remain in my memory.  I am thankful for all the medical advances that keep my young friends alive now, so I won't have to deal with that kind of loss again.  

I think too many of us connect with this in a very personal way, and I am sad for that. It is a time period impossible to forget, which makes the advancements, the cocktail, all the sweeter. Some of the most talented men in all factions of industry were lost, and I wonder what some of them could have been. It could have been a much different world now, and I am still bitter at the lack of compassion our community withstood. 

Thank you for reading and commenting, Terry. And remember that Michael is still a glorious going concern. Miracles did happen. :hug: 

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