Posting this here for my writing circle and my friends to read . . .
My entry for Real Simple magazine's 6th Annual Life Lessons Writing Contest. The theme was "The bravest thing I ever did". My piece was titled "Choosing Love" . . .
Choosing Love
“Who could refrain that had a heart to love
and in that heart courage to make love known?”
~ Shakespeare
In April of 1992, I went to Balticon. A friend was running a tabletop roleplaying game and needed a volunteer to run a character. I sat down at the table and the man to my left grinned at my costume. “Nice look. Morgan Le Fay?”
I grinned and nodded, pleased that he’d guessed. I held out a hand. “Kat,” I chimed in, introducing myself.
"Steve,” he said, shaking my hand. I liked his handshake: firm yet gentle, a gentleman’s handshake.
We got into the game and played along through the adventure with the other gamers. The jokes flew fast and thick and the laughter did too. When the game was over, Steve and I wandered the convention, talking about ourselves and promising to keep in touch.
Two days later, Steve and I caught up by phone. We joked about the convention, made plans to catch a movie and chatted about our nerdy likes and dislikes. Suddenly Steven went quiet. I cleared my throat. “What’s up, Steve?”
“Kat, you sitting down?” I reassured him that I was. I heard Steve take a deep breath. “I need to level with you.”
“OK.” I sat there wondering. Was my new friend gay? If so, I didn’t care; I had gay friends at college. Was he married? Well, I was okay with that too. What was wrong? “Steve, what is it?”
“Kat, I’m HIV positive.” The words came out in a rush. I could hear the anguish, the hesitancy, the fear of rejection in his voice. “I came up positive about six months ago. I’m not sure where I picked it up.”
I felt a sudden upwelling of grief for Steve and a lump filled my throat. I choked it down as myriad thoughts flew through my mind. This vibrant, hilariously geeky, and intelligent man had been handed a hellish burden. From the way he was talking about it, I could sense he was shouldering it all alone. I could change that. “Steve, it doesn’t matter. You’re a really neat guy. I want to get to know you.”
I heard Steve’s breath catch on the other end of the line. I knew it had been the right thing to say, the only thing I could say. “God, Kat. Thank you so much.” We talked some more: about his diagnosis, about his circle of friends with HIV, about how he was trying to cope. By the time we hung up that night, both of us were laughing again.
The weeks went by and we talked every night on subjects from philosophy to modern music to our favorite books to spirituality. As the weeks became months, I realized I was falling in love with Steven. We’d been discussing all the “what ifs”, since Steve also realized he was falling for me. Steve was adamant about not exposing me to HIV, to the point where I carried gloves in my purse so I could help him if he got hurt without him freaking out.
I got permission from Steve to tell my mother and my sister what was going on with his health. At first they were horrified, but then as they learned more and watched Steve and me together, they became two of our staunchest allies. Our first Christmas together was wonderful. Both of us went to each other’s company parties, to visit each other’s families, and had a blast on New Year’s as 1993 rolled in.
I finished college that year and Steve came up to my town for Graduation Week. We painted my sleepy college town red! We ate tempura and teriyaki at the Japanese restaurant downtown, window shopped the mall, walked in the parks, went to the movies and partied with my graduating friends. A few nights we slept cuddled up together in our PJs at the B&B he stayed at for the week. Graduation Ball was amazing, the sight of Steve in a tuxedo stealing both my breath and my heart.
Thanksgiving and Christmas 1993 came around and Steve was more serious and somber. His blood counts were worsening and his doctor was worried. Given my science background and my healthcare interests, so was I. I knew that Steve’s illness was a killer. We were racing against time and unfortunately, we were starting to fall behind. Steve had a mild opportunistic infection as the New Year turned over. Instead of partying on New Year’s, we spent it on the phone talking as he fought off an illness.
Watching the inevitable happen was excruciating. This was the early 1990’s, when HIV treatment was still in its painfully early adolescence. The drugs were harsh, the side effects sometimes harsher. Steven would get sick, get put on medications for it and then would get even sicker from the medication than from what was attacking his body. I started reading everything in sight on HIV, trying to find something to give him hope.
Meanwhile, we’d only grown closer. Our families had been at first shocked, then delighted by our growing love for each other. We’d become involved in the local AIDS and LGBT activist scenes and pulled our families into each other’s lives. Steven was optimistic about a new medication his doctors wanted him to try. So hopeful in fact, that he started talking about getting engaged. I was thrilled and so was he. Finally, we had some hope!
We went out shopping for his birthday in the beginning of March 1994. Steve loved the local area art and craft stores; always managing to find the most beautiful things to give to the people he loved. He was known for his thoughtful gifts for friends and family and for romantic gifts for me as well. We’d found him several lovely things for his birthday when he stumbled over a hand-crafted tea mug.
“Kat, this is perfect for you! Your favorite blue and it has a sun and a moon on it! I’m buying this for your birthday.” I laughed and protested. After all, my birthday was in May; why buy my present now? Laughing, Steve insisted and I took the mug home, cradled in tissue and a white box with blue ribbon.
Two weeks later, Steve was hospitalized. He’d been feeling bad on Saturday and was admitted that Sunday. Pneumonia. It chilled my blood to hear the diagnosis. Steve had full-blown AIDS now, and I knew how dangerous this was for him. I told him I’d call into work and come see him on Monday, just to be there and hold his hand. “No, love,” he croaked, trying to reassure me despite a voice dried out by the oxygen. “Go to work and come after. It’ll be all right.” I told him I loved him, now and always, and hung up.
It was the last time we spoke to each other. Steve died at four thirty p.m. on that Monday. He died without me by his side but ever in his heart, and he in mine. I spent my spring break from EMT school burying the man I loved and trying to mend my shattered heart. His parents insisted I be listed in his obituary as his fiancée. I found out afterwards that Steve had his mother’s engagement ring she’d promised him for me, planning to ask me to marry him on Mother’s Day later that year.
In the months after, people with more curiosity than sense asked me, “was it worth it?” They could see the pain I was in and see the shock and the sadness that lingered in my soul. Even those who knew Steve well were at a loss as how to help me heal my heart.
But to every one of them, the only answer I could give was a resounding, “yes.”
Love takes courage, leaping out into the world together, not knowing what’s coming. An open heart takes the risk of being wounded, of gaining scar tissue you carry for all eternity. But without the people we love in our lives, we do not change, do not grow, and do not learn all the glorious faces of love.
Now, Steve lives on in his namesake, my oldest son. Without Steve, I would not have my children, my husband, and my life as it is. I would not be a writer of stories and poetry. I would not have my strong spirituality. He gave me friends, he gave me strength, and he gave me his heart.
I was brave enough to open my heart to a dying man almost twenty years ago and he gifted me a courageous life and an open heart. His honesty and care deserved that, as did his beautiful spirit. And I will never forget his gifts, even as I try to love others with the same intensity and determination with which Steven loved me.
Choosing Love
“Who could refrain that had a heart to love
and in that heart courage to make love known?”
~ Shakespeare
In April of 1992, I went to Balticon. A friend was running a tabletop roleplaying game and needed a volunteer to run a character. I sat down at the table and the man to my left grinned at my costume. “Nice look. Morgan Le Fay?”
I grinned and nodded, pleased that he’d guessed. I held out a hand. “Kat,” I chimed in, introducing myself.
"Steve,” he said, shaking my hand. I liked his handshake: firm yet gentle, a gentleman’s handshake.
We got into the game and played along through the adventure with the other gamers. The jokes flew fast and thick and the laughter did too. When the game was over, Steve and I wandered the convention, talking about ourselves and promising to keep in touch.
Two days later, Steve and I caught up by phone. We joked about the convention, made plans to catch a movie and chatted about our nerdy likes and dislikes. Suddenly Steven went quiet. I cleared my throat. “What’s up, Steve?”
“Kat, you sitting down?” I reassured him that I was. I heard Steve take a deep breath. “I need to level with you.”
“OK.” I sat there wondering. Was my new friend gay? If so, I didn’t care; I had gay friends at college. Was he married? Well, I was okay with that too. What was wrong? “Steve, what is it?”
“Kat, I’m HIV positive.” The words came out in a rush. I could hear the anguish, the hesitancy, the fear of rejection in his voice. “I came up positive about six months ago. I’m not sure where I picked it up.”
I felt a sudden upwelling of grief for Steve and a lump filled my throat. I choked it down as myriad thoughts flew through my mind. This vibrant, hilariously geeky, and intelligent man had been handed a hellish burden. From the way he was talking about it, I could sense he was shouldering it all alone. I could change that. “Steve, it doesn’t matter. You’re a really neat guy. I want to get to know you.”
I heard Steve’s breath catch on the other end of the line. I knew it had been the right thing to say, the only thing I could say. “God, Kat. Thank you so much.” We talked some more: about his diagnosis, about his circle of friends with HIV, about how he was trying to cope. By the time we hung up that night, both of us were laughing again.
The weeks went by and we talked every night on subjects from philosophy to modern music to our favorite books to spirituality. As the weeks became months, I realized I was falling in love with Steven. We’d been discussing all the “what ifs”, since Steve also realized he was falling for me. Steve was adamant about not exposing me to HIV, to the point where I carried gloves in my purse so I could help him if he got hurt without him freaking out.
I got permission from Steve to tell my mother and my sister what was going on with his health. At first they were horrified, but then as they learned more and watched Steve and me together, they became two of our staunchest allies. Our first Christmas together was wonderful. Both of us went to each other’s company parties, to visit each other’s families, and had a blast on New Year’s as 1993 rolled in.
I finished college that year and Steve came up to my town for Graduation Week. We painted my sleepy college town red! We ate tempura and teriyaki at the Japanese restaurant downtown, window shopped the mall, walked in the parks, went to the movies and partied with my graduating friends. A few nights we slept cuddled up together in our PJs at the B&B he stayed at for the week. Graduation Ball was amazing, the sight of Steve in a tuxedo stealing both my breath and my heart.
Thanksgiving and Christmas 1993 came around and Steve was more serious and somber. His blood counts were worsening and his doctor was worried. Given my science background and my healthcare interests, so was I. I knew that Steve’s illness was a killer. We were racing against time and unfortunately, we were starting to fall behind. Steve had a mild opportunistic infection as the New Year turned over. Instead of partying on New Year’s, we spent it on the phone talking as he fought off an illness.
Watching the inevitable happen was excruciating. This was the early 1990’s, when HIV treatment was still in its painfully early adolescence. The drugs were harsh, the side effects sometimes harsher. Steven would get sick, get put on medications for it and then would get even sicker from the medication than from what was attacking his body. I started reading everything in sight on HIV, trying to find something to give him hope.
Meanwhile, we’d only grown closer. Our families had been at first shocked, then delighted by our growing love for each other. We’d become involved in the local AIDS and LGBT activist scenes and pulled our families into each other’s lives. Steven was optimistic about a new medication his doctors wanted him to try. So hopeful in fact, that he started talking about getting engaged. I was thrilled and so was he. Finally, we had some hope!
We went out shopping for his birthday in the beginning of March 1994. Steve loved the local area art and craft stores; always managing to find the most beautiful things to give to the people he loved. He was known for his thoughtful gifts for friends and family and for romantic gifts for me as well. We’d found him several lovely things for his birthday when he stumbled over a hand-crafted tea mug.
“Kat, this is perfect for you! Your favorite blue and it has a sun and a moon on it! I’m buying this for your birthday.” I laughed and protested. After all, my birthday was in May; why buy my present now? Laughing, Steve insisted and I took the mug home, cradled in tissue and a white box with blue ribbon.
Two weeks later, Steve was hospitalized. He’d been feeling bad on Saturday and was admitted that Sunday. Pneumonia. It chilled my blood to hear the diagnosis. Steve had full-blown AIDS now, and I knew how dangerous this was for him. I told him I’d call into work and come see him on Monday, just to be there and hold his hand. “No, love,” he croaked, trying to reassure me despite a voice dried out by the oxygen. “Go to work and come after. It’ll be all right.” I told him I loved him, now and always, and hung up.
It was the last time we spoke to each other. Steve died at four thirty p.m. on that Monday. He died without me by his side but ever in his heart, and he in mine. I spent my spring break from EMT school burying the man I loved and trying to mend my shattered heart. His parents insisted I be listed in his obituary as his fiancée. I found out afterwards that Steve had his mother’s engagement ring she’d promised him for me, planning to ask me to marry him on Mother’s Day later that year.
In the months after, people with more curiosity than sense asked me, “was it worth it?” They could see the pain I was in and see the shock and the sadness that lingered in my soul. Even those who knew Steve well were at a loss as how to help me heal my heart.
But to every one of them, the only answer I could give was a resounding, “yes.”
Love takes courage, leaping out into the world together, not knowing what’s coming. An open heart takes the risk of being wounded, of gaining scar tissue you carry for all eternity. But without the people we love in our lives, we do not change, do not grow, and do not learn all the glorious faces of love.
Now, Steve lives on in his namesake, my oldest son. Without Steve, I would not have my children, my husband, and my life as it is. I would not be a writer of stories and poetry. I would not have my strong spirituality. He gave me friends, he gave me strength, and he gave me his heart.
I was brave enough to open my heart to a dying man almost twenty years ago and he gifted me a courageous life and an open heart. His honesty and care deserved that, as did his beautiful spirit. And I will never forget his gifts, even as I try to love others with the same intensity and determination with which Steven loved me.