Eden Cafe

Part 2: JP – A Smile and a Spark

I knew JP through work. He was cool, older than me, quite Out, sported amazing ink before it was mainstream and wore leather. I liked him instantly. He was kind to me, and a sweet and gentle soul who was unafraid of living his dreams. He had humble beginnings but worked hard to rise in his profession and achieve success. He decided to trade in his vanilla work and move overseas to the same city I was in to pursue a new adventure. He was alone in the world: parents dead, no siblings, no extended family to speak of, no steady partner. I was the only person he knew in town, aside from a few casual friendships he’d made. So, when he fell ill and landed in the hospital, I was the one he called.

I didn’t know he was HIV positive until I went to see him. Then, I discovered that he was very ill indeed. He was in the AIDS ward – yes, they had an entire ward for AIDS patients then. There was so little information about the disease back in 1988 that we didn’t even know for sure how one contracted it. The drug prescribed then was AZT. It was harsh and only worked for a limited time until the virus resisted it, and then you were on a clock. There were few alternatives.

And so, two or three times a week, I would visit JP in the AIDS ward. I’d leave work and travel 45 minutes to the other side of town to bring him some music and sit beside his bed. We didn’t talk much about his health. We made idle chitchat and talked about bands, but never about the future. He was just happy for the friendly face and the company. I remember not knowing if it was safe to hold his hand. No one really knew at that time if there was a risk of transmission through sweat. In the end, I held his hand and gently hugged his frail body. To not do so, felt cruel.

I later learned that one of the most painful things for AIDS patients, then and now, is the lack of simple, compassionate physical touch.

The AIDS ward was grim. Maybe it was just a result of being in a very old building, but the effect was there, nonetheless. I have strong memories of patients in blue pajama pants; their gowns open in the back, pulling their IV stands up and down the hallways, shuffling their feet, always alone. I rarely saw visitors there. The patients in this part of the hospital were all male, and many of them had gaunt cheeks that made their eyes appear slightly bulging; the textbook look of someone in the advanced stages of the disease.

I didn’t tell my workmates about my JP’s true condition. It carried too much fear and stigma. Instead, I simply said I was visiting a friend with pneumonia in the hospital.

After four weeks, he was released from the hospital; his current health crisis averted, and was able to return to his apartment. JP was weakened and had a home care nurse to check on him daily. He decided to return home to be with friends. I only saw him once more before he moved, and he was very sad. The joy and spark for life that he’d had before his pneumonia was now gone, replaced by depression and worry.

I used to call overseas to speak with him on the phone. He was living with his old boyfriend but the sadness had not left him and he was hesitant to speak of the future, despite my eternal optimism. The last time I spoke with him was nine months after he returned home, on New Year’s Eve, and he was crying. He was not strong enough to go out and was very upset that everyone had gone out to celebrate, leaving him alone at home. It was clear in his voice that he was desperate and felt abandoned.

Three weeks later, I received a letter from his friend telling me that JP had died. There was not much detail in the letter about the specifics of his death, but tucked inside was a memorial card with a black and white photo of JP, smiling that cheeky grin, eyes twinkling with mischief, full of life. That is how I’ll always remember him; happy, and grabbing life by the balls.