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An AIDS Death in the Family

“There were people who displayed remarkable courage then. People who lived and died by their promises and shared the intimacy of death…”
Once, When We Were Heroes

My brother Richard would later refer to it as a “command performance.” It was 1989, and he had phoned me after weeks of frustrating silence about the declining health of his lover Emil. Richard said that Emil wanted to see me. “Tonight,” he said. Charlie, my partner at the time, and I walked through their front door within an hour.

Richard led us to the sofa in the den where what looked like a mountain of blankets had been piled. I looked toward the blankets, and Emil’s head — small, ancient and childlike at once — peered out. A curved brass reading lamp reached over Emil’s face, casting a dramatic yellow glow across his forehead and onto his face.

It was as harsh as the fluorescent strips I had often seen above the hospital bed of so many dying friends — shining straight down, showcasing the sickness beneath. Who lights these guys? I wondered absently.

“Hey there, Emil,” Charlie said. “How’s it going?” I had learned not to lead off with a remark like that.

“Hello, Charlie,” Emil said weakly. His voice was a strained breath that worked without the cooperation of vocal chords. He looked shrunken.

Emil proceeded to express how much he had valued our friendship. “…and Mark,” he breathed out, “I want to tell you how much I appreciate you giving that blood for me…”

It had been an experimental treatment for people with AIDS, giving them the blood of people who were HIV positive and healthy. It was nothing, really. Sixty minutes of my life. Like so many promising treatments, it didn’t work.

“It was easy, Emil, really –”

“Nevertheless,” he interrupted, willful to the end.

The blankets moved slightly, and Emil produced a tiny, aged hand from them. It trembled slightly as he motioned to Richard, who acknowledged the signal and left the room. Charlie and I sat there wondering what more to say, finally surrendering to the silence.

Richard returned with an envelope and placed it in my hands. A lovely parting gift? I thought, astounded.

I smiled toward Charlie and noticed that Richard and Emil were without expression, lost in their silent, exhausted daze. I opened the envelope and pulled out a $100 gift certificate to Macy’s. Charlie and I looked at the paper admiringly, and I said how thankful I was.

Richard managed an almost perfectly horizontal smile, and I knew at once he was the one who bought it. I thought of him driving across town for the item, on strict orders from Emil to purchase the certificate and from what store, and Richard wondering if his lover would be alive when he got back.

Emil cast sleepy eyes on Richard and I knew it was time to leave. I leaned forward toward Emil and barely brushed my hand across the blanket as a farewell. Richard led us out, and stood on the porch as we drove away. I watched him close the front door. The porch light blinked out.

We drove through the lovely, tree-lined streets of their neighborhood with our mouths half opened, with words begun and then abandoned. Only after driving for miles did I succeed in delivering a full sentence.

“So, Charlie,” I said, realizing I still held the envelope tightly in my hands, “how do you think we should spend the gift certificate?”

Two nights later we would find ourselves on their sofa again, in circumstances far more grave. Charlie and I were bleary-eyed from the chaos that had begun with Richard’s phone announcement an hour before, delivered with stunned clarity, that Emil had died.

We were in the den where we had received the gift certificate only days before, but Emil wasn’t there. He had spent his last days in the master bedroom, by Richard’s side. Charlie turned to the windows behind us and pulled the blinds away. We could hear a vehicle approach.

“Don’t,” I said. “We shouldn’t. We better not look.” He released the blinds and the car — or hearse, or coroner’s truck — drew nearer and was now chugging just outside the window, just beneath us and beside the front steps.

We stared at each other, dissecting every sound, and then knowing when Emil was being taken. We heard wheels, barely squeaking across tile floors, rolling out of the master bedroom toward the front door. A heavy door opened and then closed. I wanted to pull the shades wide open and see for myself, and I didn’t dare.

The vehicle changed gears and began the retreat down the driveway. We held our breath as it drove slowly down the hill and faded away.

Richard walked in to the den and we sat up straight. Just shut the hell up Mark, I said to myself. Don’t start talking now because you’ll just screw it all up.

Richard asked me to stay the night, and Charlie went home to await further instructions. Richard and I didn’t stay up, didn’t talk much at all. He went to bed and I feel asleep on the couch.

I was awakened in the morning by Richard’s voice. He was on the phone across the room, speaking to someone culled from the worn pages of an address book he held cradled in his lap. I quietly rolled over and watched him. He was beyond the grasp of any healing embrace.

Every call began the same, with his weary hello and then saying he had some very bad news. And then he would say it out loud. Emil had died. It was something he had been terrified of ever saying, but that now would be repeated a dozen times on the morning of his lover’s death. He usually made it through the first minute or so, but then would be barraged with condolences and have to say “thank you” and “yes, he certainly was” and “I know he is no longer in pain” a few times during each call. And it was that part that would break him, until he convulsed again into sobs and his goodbye would be hard to understand.

He would sit there and catch his breath, finding the next name in the address book through teary eyes, and then pick up the phone again. And again.

It is one of the most powerful images of my brother that I have.

I sometimes dream of it.


(This is adapted from my book, A Place Like This, about the dawn of the AIDS epidemic in Los Angeles. I am so grateful for our progress since then, but also feel strongly about sharing the truth, and the intimacies that we experienced as a community during the darkest years. Scenes like the one above are still playing out — 7,000 gay men die of AIDS in the United States every year. Pictured above are Richard (left) and Emil. — Mark)




  1. Sue Scruton July 10, 2013 at 9:32 am

    That was heartbreaking and touching and devastating all at once. Thank you for sharing it.

  2. wb gradwell July 10, 2013 at 11:33 am

    I remember days like that too, I am living with AIDS but without fear…….

  3. TedFaigle July 10, 2013 at 12:58 pm

    Heart wrenching and all too familiar a scenario. Five years after his diagnosis in 1987 my first partner (love of my life) fell ill on a trip we took together to Spain. All I wanted to do was get him home before he died which was not to be. He lay mostly comatose in that Spanish hospital for 3 weeks before he quietly passed away with only me at his side. He was 38. 20 years later I would relive much of the story. My latest partner of almost 10 years picked up an infection that he couldn’t fight off due to his AIDS diagnosis in 1996. We both wanted him to die at home but since we would have been unable to manage the intense pain he was in that was not to be either. He went into hospice and with only me at his side he died in November, 2012 at age 48. I am living with HIV as well – alone for the most part but well supported by many loving friends…

  4. Cliff DCA July 10, 2013 at 3:00 pm

    Thank you for being brave enough to share what others dare not.

  5. Ángel Hernández July 10, 2013 at 3:26 pm

    Thank you Mark for sharing this story. My opinion is that many young people and other recent seropositive persons are not aware of the pre-HAART times, when there were little hope for those persons wit AIDS.
    Will share this on my wall, and any comments received, as I have done before, will be tranlated for you.

  6. David Friedland July 10, 2013 at 5:24 pm

    Thank you Mark! I remember those days

  7. Joe July 11, 2013 at 1:39 pm

    Thanks again Mark, this is our legacy and should never be forgotten…especially to those who have no idea what took place….So many gone !
    Big Hugs ,

  8. Adrian A July 11, 2013 at 3:59 pm

    Well aren’t you the pissy queen.

    (Yes, folks. I get comments like this. And I try my best not to censor them. — Mark)

  9. nona July 12, 2013 at 4:02 pm

    Once again, Mark you wrote another piece that has touched my heart!

  10. robert allen July 12, 2013 at 5:10 pm

    it pushed me to tears, i have been there so many times i’ve almost lost count, but you never do (do ya). i have enjoyed your site so much! it relates so well to my life.

    thank you


  11. david May 3, 2014 at 5:26 am

    This caught me off guard. I was in San Francisco, and was primary caregiver to my friends during the height of the epidemic. Those scenes continue to pop up in my mind, rendering me to tears for each friend I lost. Its called PTSD, or more appropriately, survivors guilt by any reasoning, I should not be alive I beat the odds, while very I’ll from other illnesses, I still freak out at the thought of an hivtest. I’ve survived upwards of13 strokes and brain surgery, one heart attack. Several side attempts. Despite all of this, I still fear aids, I’m celibate now, no desire inject any possibility contracting HIV. Rip emil

  12. david May 3, 2014 at 5:56 am

    I received a call from tony in San Francisco, Vic had died, tony needed me for comfort. I drove from my house in Antioch like a bat out of heck. Was at Tony’s in an hour. Victor was still on the bed, colorless’ lifeless. The funeral parlor arrived to remove the body, tony was so beside himself, the people asked me to divert Tony’s attention, so I said tony, let’s go in the kitchen and make some coffee. As the pot was brewing, they were taking vice body down the stairs. Coffee was done, tony realizes that Vic was out of the house. To the day tony died, he never forgave me for “cheating”him out of a l
    Final goodbye’ even though I drove him to the airport where vice body lay in a cardboard box in a free standing fridge, awaiting transport to Colorado for burial, we identified the cold, stiff body as that of Vic. Tony moved to Florida where he stayed with me, forever reminding me of what I had done to him, he then moved to Washington state, where he died. Tony and I had been friends for over 20years, since our days in Brooklyn, NY before we made anexodus to San Francisco with other friends who have since passed. It just never seem to end.

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