Over this last week, I had been reminded of how precious life is and how short our time together can be with those we love. I don't think it was a coincidence that a book was recommended to me by an Instagram acquaintance as something she couldn't put down. Carol Ritka Brunt wrote a beautiful story about a young girl and her struggles after losing her uncle, Finn to AIDS in the 1980's. After reading it I feel compelled to put down in words the "Finn" that touched my life for the better.
I was in my last year of high school when my mother told me that my brother Peter had AIDS. At the time, all I knew about the disease was that a 13 year old boy named Ryan was banished from attending school because he had the disease too. When I would look at news reports, there would always be pictures of gay nightclubs or men dressed in leather or cross dressing as flamboyant women. None of these images were my brother Peter. What was certain from all the reports was that the disease was escalating and almost everyone was dying. And so began my mourning for a brother who was still very much alive.
One of my first recollections of Peter was when we visited him at his home in Atlanta. During that visit I couldn't have been older than 8 or 9 years old. As a gift, he gave me a place mat that had the different food groups on it and examples of all the different vegetables and what vitamins each contained. "Just remember to always make you plate look like an artist's paint palette and you will never go wrong," he said. That is advice that I still use and teach my children. Peter was a father figure. He was the second oldest of a family of ten while I was the youngest. He was tall, handsome, confident, well versed, talented, and cultured. In a word-intimidating. Most of my childhood memories of him were of moments when he would be teaching me something. He wasn't your stereotypical gay man. He looked and spoke like Tom Selleck. His only "gay" qualities, as far as I was concerned, were that he had a small dog and lived in Miami Beach. But even his dog was not typical. Max was a quiet and obedient,unlike most small poodles I have met.
I wasn't allowed to tell anyone of Peter's "condition." For those not around in the 80's, people were being evicted from their apartments, banned from their schools, churches, athletic sports. Despite the CDC's warning against such practices, no one would share a cup or silverware with those infected. As far as the general population was concerned, HIV and AIDS was the Black Plague and those infected needed to be quarantined.
The summer I graduated high school, my mom planned a trip to Europe with Peter, my brother John and myself. We were going to take him to Lourdes, France. The water there was supposed to be miraculously healing. So off to France we went. For anyone who knows me, you have heard about how we traveled as a family. The Griswalds come to mind. But this trip with Peter was different. For the first time in my life I had an itinerary, a tour guide and, wonders of wonders, hotel reservations for our arrival. And of course, he spoke fluent French. Peter had several titles in his life. He had worked for the airlines, had been a manager of a multinational car rental agency, a high end salesperson for AT&T, but the best and longest career he had was as a travel agent in a company he shared with his long term partner, a man who had died of the AIDS virus. A man I referred to as Patient Zero in the HIV story that crept into my personal life. I don't remember the time we spent at Lourdes, what I do remember is how my relationship changed with my brother during our travels. Where he had always viewed me as his baby sister, constantly in the need of advice and life lessons, he began to treat me like an equal. We discussed art and food, discovered that we had similar tastes in music and entertainment. I stopped seeing him as an authoritative figure but more as a friend.
This lesson was solidified one night in Paris when we, the "children" went out one night while my mom slept. We ended up in the Champs d' Elysees in a nightclub made for us Cubans. It was called Monte Cristo, if memory serves. When we went in, the walls were filled with pictures of Havana and the tables had old postcards from Cuba. Cuban salsa music was blaring and the place was packed. We went straight to the dance floor where my brother took me out for my first dance with him and as expected, he was an incredible dancer. People moved aside to watch us. I had been dancing in a Cuban Dance Company for a few years and we were quite good if I can toot my own horn. I think he was as surprised as the rest of the crowd. We must have danced for two hours. People would cut in and dance with each of us throughout the night. We even had the crowd chanting, "Cubans, Cubans" when they heard we were from there but what I found most disarming was for the first time in my life I saw Peter actually put down his usually reserved facade and saw him laughing: head back, mouth open, arms out sweat dripping from every pore laughing. And I was there with front row tickets for the performance I had created.
In 1986, a drug called AZT was discovered as a possible treatment for HIV. Peter had an incredible doctor in Coral Gables who was on the forefront of Infectious Disease and treatment of the disease. While countless numbers of his friends died, Peter's titers had become almost nill. I was away from home for several years, finishing college and medical school but I managed to see Peter on all of my vacations. He was thriving despite his diagnosis. He traveled, swam two miles in the ocean every day,and seemed no different then the man I grew up with except that he now lived his life knowing it was a gift.
When I started medical school, it was during the peak of HIV. The hospital didn't have HIV beds it had HIV floors. I expected that my colleagues would be understanding but I remember vividly an incident with a fellow student. We had finished rounding on the HIV wing and I felt hollow inside. There was so much suffering and death.It made me feel helpless and I couldn't help but think how Peter had escaped such horror. A student, who I shall call F.U. because that is what was written all over his tie when we started our rotation together(classy), blurted out to the group, "If they would learn to stop having sex with dudes they could avoid all this crap." Some of the team snickered under their breath. It took everything I had not to reach over and strangle him with his own tie. We were supposed to be the enlightened ones.
At the end of my last year of medical school I received a call from my mother. Peter was in the hospital. He was getting in his car to take Max to a vet appointment when he violently threw up blood all over himself and in the car. While most men would panic at this moment, Peter went upstairs and changed into a fresh outfit, came downstairs, detailed his car and only then, proceeded to the hospital. He was diagnosed with a rare form of stomach cancer that was associated with AIDS. Not only was HIV out to kill him now but so was the cancer. He underwent chemotherapy that left him emaciated and bald. When I visited him it took all I had to act the part of a doctor: cool and unemotional, like I saw this every day. I thought it was the end for him and tried to transfer back home for my last semester of school with no avail. But Peter still had to complete a few more chapters in his book of life and managed to kick cancer like he did HIV; with his head high and with only positive outlooks on life.
By 1995, I had finished medical school and was back home in Miami starting my residency. It was as if I lived in two worlds. At home, I would go eat out or go to the theatre with Peter who had managed to look even better after cancer. His hair was thicker and his muscles leaner. But at work, the AIDS epidemic was in full force. Even though we found cute names for talking about HIV, like High Five (Hi-V) and the 4H Club (homosexual, homopheliac, hookers, and heroin addicts), it did not take the sting out of the disease. I signed death certificates daily instead of weekly and Death's appetite was voracious and diverse. I was a med/peds resident so I spent half the year with adults and half with children. The HIV wings were replaced with Tuberculosis isolation wings, all of which housed HIV/AIDS patients who were susceptible to such lung diseases. Rounding was mentally and psychologically exhausting. We had to gown up and put masks on for almost every patient. You tried to separate yourself from these people emotionally but it was hard because they were in the hospital for months on end. Most were lonely, scared and hurting and they were everyman not just gay man.
Two stories are cemented into my mind. I went into a room to admit a young newlywed who had been suffering with the flu for a few days. While she sat in her bed telling me her symptoms, I couldn't help but look across at her husband in the chair. He was ringing his hands and crying. The art of medicine teaches you how to read what is not said as well as what is and this man was telling me that he was guilty. I finished my exam and ordered one test. It never got easier to tell people that they were HIV positive. It was even harder to tell this young girl that the man she swore to spend her life with had intentionally not mentioned to her that he knew he was positive before they got married. His excuses to her were endless but they came down to the fact he was embarrassed, afraid and a coward. Machismo won over common decency. What a crazy reason to murder someone I thought, to rip their agency and future from them. During my time in pediatrics I thought I would have a nervous breakdown. HIV was as rampant here as anywhere else in the hospital. There was a young seven year old girl who I will call Hope. She not only had HIV but had developed a rare leukemia from it. Even though the disease had made her hair fall out, her skin become scarred with lesions, her mouth ulcered, and her arm swollen, she was always in a good mood. In fact, that is how you could find her, just listen for her laugh. I would sit down to do charts after rounds and there she would be ready to braid my hair or draw pictures. One night while on call, I was asked to come place a line in her because hers had gone bad and she needed pain medicines and antibiotics. I took Hope to the IV room and she laid down and assumed the position with her little bruised arm out for me to see. It broke my heart that she knew how to prepare for this so well. All her little veins were shot and no sooner did I thread a line did it blow up. She would wince and I could see the tears rolling down her cheek but what really killed me was when she would hold back her cry and tell me, "It's okay. You'll get it." She was worried about how I felt despite her suffering. I had to take a moment and go out of the room to gather myself. And all I could think of that night was F.U. and how if I had the chance for a do over I would have punched him in the face and dragged him to see this little girl and see if he still had a glib comment left about HIV. Hope died as did countless others. Residency made me hard. It taught me to be distrustful of people and put up a wall that my husband took years to tear down. But it helped me survive all this madness. It makes me ashamed to see how HIV killed my hope but Peter remained unphased by it all.
In my residency, Peter saved me twice. When I started, I needed a car badly but my credit was awful due to the fact I owed more in student loans then some people might make in a year and I only earned half as much as a McDonald's employee for a 100 hour work week. Of course, Peter knew car brokers that solved my dilemma with a brand new car. My second crisis was at the end of my residency. I had been dating, what on paper was,the perfect man. He was not only athletic,handsome and charming but he was also the youngest attending in the medical program. We were together for three years and he knew my secret about Peter. One night after we had come home from dinner the conversation had turned to children. He said, without the slightest hesitation, "I'm a little worried our kids would turn out gay like your brother." I was a bit shocked to hear this from him because he was not only a doctor but a really good one. He knew gay was not contagious but here he was showing me his bigot card. I must admit that before this moment there was always something in my subconscious that told me this was not the man for me but that night it was screaming. " You don't have to worry about that because I am more afraid they would turn out like you then my brother," I said. I couldn't sleep that night and the next day I went over to Peter's for dinner. I never told him what he said just that I needed to get out of there and fast. In a week, Peter, with the help of my brother Gus, had fronted the down payment for my first apartment and found me a lender willing to help me, and I never once lost a moment's sleep over leaving that mouth breather.
That move was the beginning of what I think was my golden years. I lived down the street from Peter and after residency got a job in a fancy practice in Miami Beach treating movie stars and the wealthy elite. I ate dinner at Peter's practically every night and he had adopted all of my friends, as well. We all lived a block from one another and a few blocks from the ocean where I would join Peter on his daily two mile swims. When in town, we would go to the theatre and any art exhibit that struck our fancy. I wanted to do something special for him, to thank him for all he had done and to just celebrate surviving. So I booked us tickets to Paris. We had a blast. We spoke French together as we toured the sites. We ate like kings and laughed a lot. The trip was such a success that a few years later I took him to Italy. Now I had the connections. A patient of mine set us up with our private chauffeur and guide while on our leg in Florence. It was fun to see Peter speechless for once when our driver would take us to the door of a beautiful restaurant and we would dine like kings on someone else's dime. He was given rare vintage wines to take home after each meal and we would talk excitedly about what the next day's adventure would be. I even amazed him with my Italian. In Rome, we jogged through the ruins and around the coliseum together. When we were in Venice, we took a trip over to Murano, a place famous for its glass. We went into a gallery and I fell in love with a beautiful glass sailboat with a cobalt blue body and clear sail. I thought if there was ever a time to buy my first piece of art it should be with the man who taught me to appreciate it. So we sat and were treated to drinks and sweets while I purchased the boat. Even now, I think of that as one of my fondest memories.
Shortly after that trip, I became engaged and married the man of my dreams. When I became pregnant,Peter, in true Peter form, arranged for a cruise with my husband's family and us. Like usual, we had dinner at his house the night before we left. I had grown used to Peter's dinners but let me describe them to you. Everything was always fresh and organic. Amongst his several titles (besides a member of the National Spelunkers Society)he had worked in several high end restaurants and had learned to cook like a chef from the Cordon Bleu Schools. When we had leftovers at his house, we would go to the table and find a menu printed on the finest card stock with the assortment of entrees and sides available to pick from. No meatloaf here. No one was allowed in his kitchen. No one but me that is. There were no paper plates at dinner and the salad plates and forks were always chilled. Mike's family still talks about the dinner at Peter's and as you can tell, so do I. The cruise was a success. It was nice to see a whole new group of people fall in love with my brother.Anyone who met him was helpless against his charm. And it was nice because, again, I got to one up him on planning by getting us access into the Captain's lounge each night before dinner for appetizers. (Another perk from my patients)
In 2003, when I was at home building a crib for my daughter who was due in a few weeks, I received a call from my sister. "Sylvia, Peter is dead." The opposite of noise is not silence. It is an actual feeling that your skin is pulling away from your body trying hard to fill the void that was left there. That is what I felt as I dropped to the floor. Like the world may have stopped rotating on its axis and that at any moment the walls would implode on me. Peter was found alone on the floor of his penthouse. He had suffered a heart attack. Here we were celebrating his survival from AIDS when, in fact, the very medicines that were saving him made him susceptible to heart disease. As a doctor, I never saw that one coming. He was athletic and thin, a health nut. As a sister, I was even more dumfounded.
I am grateful for having Peter the time I did. And I think of him more than I think possible. In fact, here are just a few of the times I am reminded of him:
-When I speak French, Italian or learn a new language
-When I cook
-When I host a party
-When I travel
-When I view art
-When I see a Broadway show
-When I play the piano
-When I serve my plate and it looks like an artist's palate
-When I buy artwork
-When I buy a BMW
-When I go to the beach
-When I see a poodle
-When I look into my children's eyes
-When I wake up
-When I go to sleep
I have wondered why the memories of Peter are so strong and vivid these past few weeks. What is he trying to tell me. As I go through my struggles now I think to myself, "What would Peter do right now." He would probably tell me to calm down. He would prepare a glorious meal at his house and be his usual charming self that hypnotized you in believing it was all going to work out. "If HIV and cancer taught me anything it is that you have to learn to look around and appreciate what you do have." That is what he would be telling me as well as how dumb I was for worrying about such silliness. And I would go home and have a good nights sleep with that in mind. When I awoke the following day he would call me and have a solution to my problem because even though he looked unfazed by it all, I know that he spent all night coming up with my salvation. And I think that's what I miss. I miss my big brother's calm, assertive, funny way of making every trial seem so minuscule, so irrelevant to my happiness.
My religion teaches me that homosexuality is wrong and yet, besides my brother, I am blessed with knowing several gay men, some of which I love as if they were my own blood. These men are possibly the brightest, most selfless, talented, charismatic and downright amazing people I know. I don't bother with trying to understand the "why" of why Heavenly Father forbids it no more than I try to make sense of why AIDS took so many innocent souls or why my son had to die. I cling to the fact that I know the gospel is true and that it will allow me to be with my family forever. Only Heavenly Father knows the "why" and I have faith in Him. I am just reminded that my job is not to judge people but to stand as a witness in the final days. And I assure you that I will say no less than what is on these pages for my brother Peter and for every other gay person who has been a true and utter treasure in my life. I only hope others see it in their hearts not to judge me as well. I know that I will see Peter again but what leaves me with peace most nights is that I know, without a doubt, that my son Zachary is in good care until I arrive to join them. And for that, I am eternally grateful for having had the opportunity and the honor of being linked to Peter as my brother forever.
All I could ask for in life is to be a "Peter" to just one other person before my time on this earth is completed. And I suppose that in the back of my mind that is how I divide the people on this earth: Peters and mouth breathers. There is no in between in my book because I just don't have time like that to spare. As I said before, I have been hardened by my experiences and it has left me with little wiggle room for subtlety. And I could imagine Peter rolling his eyes at me right now and saying something very deep like maybe, "You're an idiot."
I love you big brother. Te amo mucho!
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| The last photo of Peter with my son Golden |
