"He was the talent of his generation," author David Halberstam said to my older brother Blair on the telephone. Mr. Halberstam was speaking of our younger brother, Brent, about whose death he had called to express sympathy.
Brent died of AIDS two days before Thanksgiving 17 years ago--November 20, 1990--when he was 34 years old. Actually, Burkitts Lymphoma is what killed him, but he'd been infected with HIV for 4 ½ years, at least as far as we knew. Before this lethal cancer, he had been zapped by energy-draining and stress-inducing illnesses of this and that--conditions or problems that meant he never felt completely well. The various maladies sent him to doctors who scheduled tests, gave him sacks of medicines, and wore him out--but provided no answers or solace. There were none to give, though Brent's medical bills were ever soaring. The physicians wanted to help but knew little to nothing about AIDS.
After Brent received what turned out to be his death sentence, there was only one time I'm aware of that he possibly felt completely healed and whole. This stunning moment of relief was in a dream he had about swimming with whales. I don't mean to imply that Brent had a bad attitude, or was resentful or bitter. He was the exact opposite. His openness to life, his charm and intelligence never failed him. His smile dazzled the world, and his courage was humbling to me, stricken as I was with fear the day he called to give me the horrific news of his HIV diagnosis. I was petrified every day after, from then to the end. But Brent was gracious and thankful for each moment of each day he was given--and also for his friends and those of his family who rallied around him with a giant umbrella of support.
What had sent Brent to the doctor when he received this most unwelcome diagnosis was that his blood wouldn't clot. Since then, it had taken four years for this aggressive and life-threatening lymphoma to catch Brent unaware and move into his weakened body. Eight months later--two days before Thanksgiving--he was dead.
We had spent the previous three days planning his annual Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving was Brent's favorite holiday, and he was to host the 1990 dinner as he always had--but this year I would be the cook as well as his hostess. I would roast the enormous turkey and bake the cornbread and chop the onions and celery for the Southern dressing. I would stir the Big Cherry Jello salad and bake the pumpkin cheesecake, which I'd spent all afternoon making before his breath left his lungs and he grew cold.
His guests would be a glittering group of New Yorkers and international jet setters for whom Brent and I had spent hours and hours planning everything to the minutest of details. But this dinner wasn't just a feast for his friends--it was also to be the debut of his newly decorated loft, a showcase of his work. Brent was a decorator, and this was the talent to which Mr. Halberstam was referring. Brent's loft was also to be photographed for an architectural magazine. He never stopped planning. He never stopped imagining or creating. He never stopped living life to the fullest that he was able.
I held his hand all night long his final night, as he lay in a hospital bed in his New York loft. He was still conscious when the doctor told me on the telephone that he was going, and I repeated over and over again how much I and his friends and family loved him. When he drifted into unconsciousness, I selfishly begged him not to die. No matter what I cooed or pleaded it wasn't enough. I wanted to save him, and it was my great failure that I couldn't.
Brent had been living for this holiday, but he just didn't quite make it. His body wore out, and his soul was ready to go while mine tried to prevent his leaving. If he had lived long enough for the cocktail--for the drugs to improve--he might be at table with me tomorrow.
Others have benefited from these drugs, and yet so many are still ill and dying. I am grateful this year to have had my brother for 34 incredible years. But my hope for the future is that other sisters will not have to lose their brothers. Mothers and fathers will not have to lose their sons and daughters. Children will not have to lose their parents.
AIDS is still here--still killing. Please don't forget.
Follow Beth Arnold on Twitter: www.twitter.com/BethArnold
Happy Thanksgiving and God Bless you and yours.
This is so beautiful! Thank you Beth! Thank you for loving your brother so much that you refuse to let his memory die!
I only hope as a gay man, that my own family does/will/would love me half as much!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Peace.
We need to remember those that we have lost, especially those that died at such a young age.
Every day we have here is a blessing and a chance to make a difference in someone else's life.
The biggest loss was Ron. He was my confidant and friend. He knew me better than I knew myself at that time.
I met a few dozen people and to my knowledge only one is alive today. When Ron died I was devastated. It still saddens me immensely.
He too was 34 years old when he died.
that was August, 1995. David probably wasn't as notable as your Brent, but I loved him and so did his family. he was a sweet, charming guy.
interestingly, David told me that I should wait a year after his death before dating anyone, because he felt that was proper. i suppose he had heard someone say that widows wear black for a year. i met Peter, my current partner, one year to the day after David's death at an AIDS support facilitator training session.
As a pharmacist I have had the opportunity to serve several HIV/AIDS patients. To be brief, it is not a death that I would wish on anybody.
I write primarily to point out that there are a lot of diseases out there that still kill and need to not be forgotten. Please don't misunderstand my next comment but HIV/AIDS does not register in the top 10 causes of mortality in this country. That does not mean that it is of little concern or import.
My father died of a heart attack 40 years ago. Yet today, 2 generations later, diseases of the heart remain the number 1 cause of death - male AND female. Like HIV/AIDS, there has been significant gains achieved. But clearly they have not been enough.
So I would encourage everyone to consider sending donations for many of the chronic and longstanding disease research foundations. Certainly HIV/AIDS should be considered. But don't forget about other less "hip", and at least as important diseases, too!
It was not unlike watching a fish laying on the shore. Only the "boat" was the hospital bed in our home in the redwoods. And the "fish" was the man I'd loved and been faithful to for all those years.
But unlike Beth, I'd learned from friends who'd had their partners succumb to AIDS. They had told me to let him know it was okay to go. "How will I know when the time is," I asked. "You'll know." And they were right. As much as I wanted to keep John from dying, to keep this wonderful, witty, and handsome man from going, I knew he was in far greater pain than I was experiencing. I had to tell him, "It's okay. I'll be alright. Tom [his partner before me] will be there on the other side to greet you, and I'll be along soon enough." With that, he took one more gasp, and then no more.
I still get teary thinking about it. It's about the only thing that can do that. When you've truly loved someone, it doesn't get easier. It only gets less often.
I hope Beth and her "family" have a joyful Thanksgiving, and a nice cry thinking about Brent. I know I have about John. And let everyone know that love is still love, whether it's for someone of a different gender or of the same as oneself. Thanks.
I will be forwarding this to two women who also lost their brothers to AIDS: my mother and my sister-in-law (yes, because I lost an uncle and an beloved ex-boyfriend).
We have lost tremendous numbers of incredibly talented young men due to the imbicilic prejudice and fear that marked the Reagan and Bush administrations when the spread could have been vastly curtailed, and pharmaceutical research could've been expedited by years, no doubt prolonging the lives of all these lost loved ones.