Untitled

Today is December 31, 2010 and my Aunt Terry died at the very young age of 49.  Her death is making me feel all kinds of things; sadness, anger, fear...you name it.  It's also making me think about what it means to be an auntie.

I won't lie, I am not extremely close to my father's siblings.  Part of the reason for that is that they are all over the country.  But another reason is that my father and his siblings--4 sisters and 1 brother--had very challenging childhoods and when my father left home, he truly left.  He still had regular contact with his siblings and never stopped loving them but his goal was to make a new family.  So he had us.

I am an auntie.  I have 2 nieces who are stunningly beautiful, incredibly intelligent and have the ability to make me smile even in my worst times.  I hope I have more nieces and nephews because I know the joy of seeing my nieces faces light up when I come through the door; I love the sound of my niece Quinlan's soft little cheer of "Aunt Dee!"; I relish the wide smile and sound resembling "Hi Dee" that I get from my niece Sawyer.  There is nothing more amazing than holding them in my arms and feeling the warmth of their little bodies, thinking of all the amazing things that lie ahead of them and knowing that I would give my life for theirs without hesitation. 

Being an auntie is such a pleasure and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  It means that I will take them to movies and let them eat too much popcorn.  It means I will have slumber parties with them and let them stay up as late as they want.  It means I will buy them toys that make noise just to annoy their parents.  I will always say yes to hot chocolate, to cookies, to gummi bears.  It means I will listen without judgment when they are angry at their parents.  I will try to say wise things occasionally and I will never ask them if they have a boyfriend because I never want them to think that I believe they need anything other than themselves.

When I die, my nieces will still be alive and thriving.  I want them to remember that I made them laugh, that I always listened and that I made a difference somehow, to someone.  Above all, I want them to remember that I loved them with all my heart and it never, ever wavered or faded.  That's all I can ask for.

I got issues but I ain't broken.

In 1983, my parents separated. I remember them sitting us all down to tell us; I even remember what my mother was wearing. I remember being upset because I didn’t understand what it all meant. But after that, my life continued, despite the fact that my parents eventually officially divorced and I lived in a one-parent household.


I’m getting real tired of hearing that children from divorced families end up in a gutter somewhere.

Here is what I remember about my parent’s marriage: they fought. A lot. When they weren’t fighting, it meant my father wasn’t home. When my parents fought, my siblings and I would sit and stare at each other with wide, worried eyes. It was scary; we didn’t understand financial issues or the weird intimacy problems that occur between married adults. We just knew that they were screaming at each other. When you’re six and your parents are screaming about anything, it’s terrifying. A few years ago, my sister-in-law got really upset about something (not related to her marriage) and yelled. My niece was 3 at the time. She came flying down the stairs, her gorgeous blue eyes full of terror, calling for her mother. It broke my heart to see her so worried, so I scooped her up in my arms and explained what was happening and that everything would be ok. When you’re little, your parents are you whole world. If something is wrong with them, what the hell is going to happen to you?

Did I want my parents to get divorced? Of course not. But did I want to spend the rest of my life dealing with their fighting? Hell no. What’s worse—growing up in a one-parent household or living with two people who hate each other?

I saw my Dad on weekends. Truth be told, I didn’t have the greatest relationship with my Dad until I was an adult. But that certainly wouldn’t have been solved by him living in the same household as me. My Dad doesn’t understand children: he can’t relate to them, he can’t help them learn life lessons in a productive way, he can’t accept their shortcomings and by the way, his parents just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. God bless them but they can’t stand each other.  My parents were always supportive and for the most part, worked as a team when it came to their children.  They never said a bad word about each other, either. When I walked across the stage to get my college diploma, I looked out and saw my parents hug each other.  I never saw them do that when they were married.

My therapist might say that I got a warped view of relationships because of my parents divorce. I ask you...what is a non-warped view of relationships? Every relationship is different. There is not one recipe for a healthy relationship. Think about the couples you know, married or not, that you always thought had the greatest relationship. You see what they want you to see. So when they tell you they’re getting divorced one day, you’re shocked.

“What happened?” You ask.

Very rarely will someone answer, “Well this whole time, he was beating the shit out of me” or “She’s actually not Jessica Meyers; her name is Leslie Hopkins and she’s wanted in 3 states for fraud.” Usually, it’s more like, “Well...we just grew apart...we wanted different things...the spark wasn’t there anymore.” And then you wonder, what the hell does that mean?

You will never understand what it means because relationships are car accidents that people who were not involved in them cannot possibly comprehend.

The concept of the perfect marriage is bullshit. Marriage itself is fine; I support ALL PEOPLE getting hitched if that’s what they want to do. I’ll buy you a Target gift card, drink too much at the reception and maybe I’ll even dance a little. But the idea that marriage is the key to happy, healthy families is absolute rubbish.

Every kiss begins with telling me I'm pretty when I look like s***.

Ahhh Christmas.  Tis the season for warm and fuzzy commercials where everybody is in love.  Don't get me wrong; I think love is great...for other people.  For me, it's messy, painful and a total waste of time. 

All year, the diamond industry tries to convince us that diamonds are the way to go.  The Shane Company, Wedding Day Diamonds, Zales, Kay, Jared...it's endless.  Never mind that the diamond industry is one of the most violent organized crime industries in the world.  I'm not saying that Dean and Umi are schlepping blood diamonds but I do know that many of the major jewelry companies continue to buy diamonds from corrupt and murderous gang leaders in politically unstable African countries.  But I digress....

Every time I see those commercials, I think to myself, "Wow.  If my boyfriend bought me that ugly Open Heart pendant designed by Jane Seymour, I would break up with him immediately."  Who buys the person they love jewelry like that?  It's like deciding to get a boob job and finding your surgeon in the phone book.  If my significant other saw a Jared commercial and thought, "Ooooh, Dresden would love that.  That's so her", then we'd have a major issue.  I wouldn't be a bitch about it; I'd say "thank you" but it would be a giant red flag and I'd start to notice all the other ways that you were completely clueless.  And that can't end well.  For you, I mean.

I know several women whose husbands proposed to them with huge, sparkling Tiffany diamonds; like, the kind of diamond that you can see from space and pairs well with a fur coat and white Prada sunglasses.  Diamonds so big that you cannot focus on anything else when you're talking to the wearer.  Several thoughts run through my mind when blinded by someones engagement bling:
1.  What is he doing that you don't know about?  I mean, Kobe Bryant gave his wife the world's largest diamond after he was "falsely accused of rape."  The diamond alone was an admission of guilt.
2.  He's real worried that you're settling for him and hopes this obscene diamond will cheer you up about it.
3.  Dude has a lot of credit card debt.
4.  He is hoping you will take a wrong turn in the middle of the night, end up in a bad neighborhood and are killed for the ring on your hand.

I'm telling you: if someone gave me a diamond that big, I would be terrified to wear it.  First of all, I would take it off at the gym or something and I'd never see it again.  Also, I'm not Italian but I talk with my hands; I'd smack that thing against one too many walls and the diamond would pop out and I wouldn't notice it was gone until an hour later. 

I know a guy who spent $40,000 on his wife's engagement ring.  Now, he has more money than anyone ever should have, so $40,000 was a drop in the bucket.  If I got a ring that was worth 40 grand, I would suggest that we take it back and put a down payment on a house or buy a really sweet car.  For real, take me to Target and we'll find a cute $50 ring that hopefully won't turn my finger green.  Then we'll buy a house. 

I suppose romance is different for everybody but, for me, it's romantic if you surprise me with little things, like a nice dinner or a trip to the salon.  Bring me flowers for no reason at all.  Buy me a pair of warm socks because you know my feet get cold.  Tell me I'm beautiful when I look like shit.  Don't buy me the same necklace every clueless schmoe is buying for their girlfriend for Christmas because they saw a commercial.  In fact, all I want for Christmas is Chinese food delivery and 24 hours of A Christmas Story, like all good Jews.

You Are One of Us Now: More Stupid Jobs I've Had

So I had so much fun writing about all the ridiculous jobs I had, I decided to do it again.  You see, I've had many, many jobs.  We've only just begun, my friends.

When Clinton was in office, we had a lot of things: a collective sense of fabulousness, interns who shopped at Old Navy, NAFTA, GATT and jobs.  Lots and lots of jobs.  I recall walking past a grocery store one day and seeing signs offering grocery baggers $15 per hour to start.  But I wasn't walking; I was skipping.  It was like a scene from a Disney princess movie.  That's what it was like back then.  Apparently we were involved in a war somewhere...Baghdad?  Belgrade?  Bosnia...?  I don't know, who cares?  I was drinking several doses a day of Clinton-Ade, so I was none the wiser.

I decided to temp, having worked two years at a tiny non-profit which I loved but needed to run screaming from.  So I glided on down to a temp agency--we'll call it TEMPtation--and said, "Yes, one job, please.  Or many.  Whatever." 

What followed was a series of weird, infuriating, often hilarious assignments that will provide the fodder for this article.

"Can you shred this?"
I was assigned an Office Manager position in a office full of the laziest women in the world.  It was a government agency, which explains a lot.  The co-worker who sat closest to me was obsessed with One Life to Live and wanted to discuss it endlessly, even though I had never seen it.  When she wasn't blathering about her soap, she was telling me how amazingly stupid her husband was.
"I can't believe that asshole.  He put rice in the garbage disposal.  Rice.  What the hell was he thinking?  You can't put rice in a garbage disposal.  Jesus Christ."  I never told her that I didn't have a garbage disposal but if I magically did one day, I would put everything in the garbage disposal: rice, limbs, maxed out credit cards....
When her husband called, I always knew because she'd pick up the phone and say, "Yeah?"  Then there would be a long pause, followed by, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard" or "No.  No, absolutely not, goddammit." 

Another co-worker used to get up from her desk, walk past the copier to my desk, hand me one piece of paper and say, "Could you make two copies of this please?"  It's like someone told her, "We're getting a temp" and she was like, "Oh, I've always wanted a slave."

Near the end of that assignment, a pretty well-known scandal occurred.  I came into work one day and found a giant shredder sitting at my desk.  My boss looked a bit rabid and she instructed me to shred boxes and boxes of documents.  I did, because I wasn't super aware of what was going on.  Every now and again, I read through a document but I had no idea what I was reading.  I thought maybe I'd come across some piece of paper that would literally say, "This is undeniable proof of the crazy ass shit we did and who all was involved" but that never happened. 

An Efficient Office Runs on Dairy
TEMPtation placed me with a company that...manufactured...something.  I was the receptionist, the single most boring job in the universe.  I answered the phone, which rang about once an hour; I was responsible for making coffee every morning and calling people when there were other people there to meet with them.  By about 10am every day, I was looking for a noose.  I had no access to the Internet so I brought books and magazines with me, which solicited disapproving stink eye from one of executive assistants.  I didn't care, I was a temp.

What I was never told was that I was responsible for ordering things for the break room, like sugar, fake sugar, plastic utensils and creamer.  In the 6 weeks I was there, I never had to order anything except creamer which is something I didn't know until we ran out of creamer.

I was flipping through an issue of People when Liz, the stink eye executive assistant, came flying down the stairs.  Her eyes were huge, like someone upstairs had just had a heart attack in front of her. 
"Dresden!" She blurted.
I was startled.  "Yes?"
"We're out of creamer!"
After she said it, she stood there, her shoulders all hunched up into her ears, her bony hands balled into tight, pink fists.  I just looked at her.
"We're out...of creamer!" She said it slower, as if I didn't catch what she'd said the first time.
I raised an eyebrow at her.  "Okaaaaaaaaaaaay...." I said.
"We cannot be out of creamer!  Didn't you order any?!"
"Uhhhhhhh no."
"Well why not?"
"Because I didn't know I was supposed to."
Then she made that angry sound, like she was trying to clear a frog out of her throat.  She stomped behind my desk and picked up the phone, stabbing someones extension. 
"Hi", she said.  "Well, we're officially out.  Yep.  Dresden forgot to order some." 
I didn't get it.  Was this really the end of the world?
Liz slammed the phone down.  "Ok, call Wilson's and order some creamer.  It won't get delivered until tomorrow but...I guess we'll just have to make do."
"Well...I mean, I can go out over lunch and pick some up."  I couldn't even believe the words were coming out of my mouth.  What I wanted to say was, "If you ever wondered why you're single, I think I have the answer."
Liz waved her hands at me, like she was shooing a gnat.  "No, it's fine.  Just...call Wilson's, ok?"

I called Wilson's.  Then I called TEMPtation and asked for a new assignment.

Internet Porn: Why Not?
I was assigned to an office that had one person in it.  He was a neurologist and he saw patients at a clinic in a different city.  He was in the office where I was 2 days a week.  The other 3 days, I was completely alone.

On the days he was there, I had to print off all his email and put it on his desk.  That's it.  He would go in his office and close the door and he would generally leave by noon.  Occasionally the phone would ring and I'd have to say, "Dr. Bishop's Office.  No, I'm sorry, he's at the clinic today.  Ok, bye."

I would spend hours surfing the Internet, writing, talking on the phone and even sleeping under my desk.  His office was in a large office building, full of random offices.  So no one--not one single person--even knew I was there.

I cannot tell you how stunningly bored I was.  There was nothing to do.  Nothing.  It wasn't like you could watch TV or movies online yet, so I couldn't do that.  I didn't even have an iPod because Apple hadn't invented those yet.  Well, maybe they had, but it was the size of a bible, cost $1500 and held 20 songs.

I decided to look at Internet porn. 

I had never seen it before but it was the subject of several Lifetime movies, so there must be something to it.  I had watched a porn movie once or twice and found them to be pretty icky.  I lived with boys at the time, so the computer in my house was littered with Internet porn but I never actually saw any of it.  I didn't even know how to begin, so after some lengthy thought, I typed "porn" into the search engine.

There it was.  Website titles like, "Gross and Icky People Doing Terrible Things" and "Lots of Naked Hairy Men Have Sex with One Girl with Many Daddy Issues."  I'm paraphrasing, of course.  Nervously, I clicked on, "Pizza Delivery Yields Sexy Results."  My screen was flooded with images and pop-ups for other websites.  As soon as I clicked to close one, another emerged.  The pictures seemed to get worse and worse and I started to panic.
"Ohshitohshitohshitohshit!"

My computer was spitting out images of over-done, overly-tanned big haired women with pained expressions, mouths open, things being inserted and fluids being expelled. 

"Stooooooooop!" I hissed, desperately clicking the tiny arrows to close the pop ups. 

Control-Alt-Delete.  Nothing.  I pressed and held the power button.  More pop-ups.  I stood up, planning to get my coat and purse and just leave.  Instead, I ran to the back of the computer and yanked the plug out of the wall.  I half expected it to laugh at me and say, "You stupid girl!  You have unleashed the forbidden underground of the Internet!  You are one of us now!"

But thankfully, the screen just went blank.  I never did that again.

Its Much Cheaper to be Cremated.
Luckily, TEMPtation was a national company, so when I moved to Seattle in 2001, they assigned me to work for an audit company.  I had an address and Yahoo directions...that lead me to a funeral home in West Seattle.

I sat in the parking lot, wondering what the hell was going on.  Finally, I thought that maybe the audit company officed in a funeral home...?  That made sense...maybe.  I went inside.  There were a lot of people shuffling through papers.  A woman snapped to attention when I walked in. 
"Are you the temp?" She asked.  I could tell just by looking at her that this woman was no fun at all.
"Yes", I said, beaming, trying to make a good impression.
"Good.  Follow me."

Long story short, the audit company was auditing the funeral home.  I guess I should have asked someone what "audit" meant.  No Fun lead me to a room.  A young woman sat in the room, surrounded by 3x5 index cards.  She looked overjoyed when she saw me.
"This is Heather.  She'll tell you what to do."
Heather jumped to her feet and eagerly shook my hand.
"Hi!  I'm Heather!  What's your name?"
"Dresden.  Nice to meet you."
"You too!  Are you looking at my hand?"
The question caught me off guard.  "Um...no...."
"Oh, ok.  I mean, if you are, that's fine.  I was in a terrible accident a few years ago."
She held up her hand; it was badly scarred but still recognizable as a hand.
"I got it caught in a meat grinder."
"Oh!  Oh, wow, that's...."
"Crazy, I know!  I was working on a boat in Alaska.  There's, like, no cartilage left in my hand at all.  It's nuts!"
"That's...wow."
We sat down and Heather explained that the funeral home was graduating into the 1900s and wanted to transfer all their data on to a computer.  Before they could do that, we needed to go through each index card and make sure someone had scrawled "paid in full" on it.  There were thousands of cards, each detailing the death and funeral arrangements for each person they had ever buried.  Each card was written by hand and they were barely legible.  Some were written in pencil, which had faded over the years.  Some were apparently written by a 5 year old because they were so messy, I couldn't read a single word.  Some had the word "paid" written on them; some "paid in full."  Also, Heather cautioned, if there was an urn involved, we had to determine what kind of urn it was because those had to be logged in a different way.

After exactly 30 seconds of silence, Heather said, "Oh, by the way, if I start to freak out, don't worry about it."
"What?"
She grinned at me.  "I have super bad panic attacks, like, all the time."
"Oh...."
"Usually, I get real sweaty and then I start to shake.  Eventually, I throw up and then I'll have to go home."
"Ok..."
"It's just cuz, like, my Dad has them and I think they're hereditary.  That's why I was on the boat.  In Alaska."
"Oh."
"Cuz I needed to leave my house because, like, my Dad was, like, crazy and stuff.  So I married this guy and we decided to work on a boat in Alaska.  But I got my hand hurt and then my husband was, like, drinking a lot and stuff.  That's when I lost the baby."
Oh dear God....
"But it's ok because, like, I think I'd be a good mom but according to the state of Washington, I wouldn't be.  So it's probably ok that, like, I didn't have one.  So anyway, my husband and I split up and, like, my boyfriend is, like, still all weird about my ex-husband and I'm like, 'he's my ex, ok', and he's like all super jealous and stuff.  It's crazy."

Heather decided we should go to Taco Time for lunch every day.  If I said I brought my lunch or wanted to go somewhere else, she looked like she was going to cry.  So I'd drive us to Taco Time.  Heather told me about how she was planning to buy a Daewoo and how she'd run her ex-husband over with her boyfriend's car because he just couldn't understand that she loved someone else now.  One morning, she had a giant, oozing, painful looking cold sore and she kept rubbing Ban Roll-On all over it.  Other days, she didn't speak a word to me or anyone else; just kept her head down, sullen and focused.

I concentrated on the cards and determined that it was much cheaper to be cremated than buried in a casket.  Urns were like $100 or less, at least in the 80s.  I was at the funeral home for about two weeks when my patience started to wear thin.  My eyes were crossing from all the terrible handwriting and death.  Plus, that place was dusty and Heather's roller coaster moods made me uneasy.

One afternoon, I was "working" (I put that in quotes because after a while, I started putting every card in the "paid in full" pile) when a voice suddenly boomed across the room.

"MY NAME IS BOB JOHNSON AND MY MOTHER DIED LAST NIGHT."

I turned to see an older man, standing in the doorway of the funeral home.  He wore a Seahawkes cap, and a windbreaker and his sweatpants were down around his ankles.  He stood in the doorway, pant less, waiting for something to happen.  I, of course, was the only person around at the moment.
"Wha...what...can I--"

"MY NAME IS BOB JOHNSON AND MY MOTHER DIED LAST NIGHT."

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, what do I do?  Why are his pants off?  Why is he yelling?  Was I the first person he was telling about his mother?  Is he unwell or is this the typical scenario for when someone dies?  You don't just go to a funeral home and announce it, do you?  Don't you have to call someone else first?  Like the police?  Or...God?  Why are his pants off??? 

He started to yell again and I thundered, "DO YOU NEED SOME HELP?"  Fuck, where is everybody?  How can I be the only person here right now?  The most worthless one of all.  I approached him, slowly.  He seemed to understand suddenly that his pants were indeed off.  He quickly pulled them up and I lead him to a couch in an adjacent room.  I explained that I worked for a company that was doing a job for the funeral home, so I couldn't help him but someone would be along shortly who could. 

No Fun walked in then.  She saw the man and asked if she could help him. 

"MY NAME IS BOB JOHNSON AND MY MOTHER DIED LAST NIGHT."

No Fun didn't miss a beat.  She expressed her sympathy and told him she'd be right with him.  Then she stormed over to me.

"What is this?" She demanded, icily.
"What?"
"Why is that gentleman sitting there all alone?"
I was about to explain the situation but stopped.  Why the hell was I explaining anything to this woman?  I was a temp, for crying out loud. 
"Because I don't work here", I said, looking her directly in the eye.

TEMPtation called me that evening and asked me what "the situation" was at the funeral home.  I told them there was no situation and I wouldn't be reporting for duty anymore. 

Poor Bob Johnson.  Poor Heather.  I even felt bad for No Fun, who probably still works at the funeral home.  Every day was gray and dusty, filled with chicken scratch and the details of people's funeral for the last 50 years.  Not really an uplifting job. 

Temping was good for me; I met a lot of people I've never talked to again and had a lot of ridiculous experiences I could have lived without.

Winter is for psychopaths.

When I was 2 years old, my mother bundled me up and took me outside through our garage to play with my 4 year old brother in the snow.  She said I walked to the open garage door and was hit by a blast of frigid air.  I turned around immediately and walked back to the other side of the garage.  I stood there while my insane brother traipsed and played and built a snow fort.  I was having none of that shit.

I fucking hate winter.

My mother is from Detroit by way of Boston.  My father is from Ohio.  These two idiots should have known better than to go to college in Minnesota.  And meet each other.  And fall in love.  And stay here.

I would take anything over this.  I'd prefer 20 feet of snow in Buffalo, NY every 3 days over negative temperatures.  I'd rather suffer through random, endless wind storms in Wyoming than sit in my car every morning for 6 months, praying for the good lord to take me.  I'd rather slog through Florida, God's Waiting Room and the armpit of America, than not be able to feel my goddamn feet.

I left twice--once for college, to New York, which is lovely, with a long, pleasant autumn, a pretty mild winter, a fragrantly delicious spring and hot, stinky sweaty summers when the city smells like the inside of someones colon.  But hey--it's New York City, it's supposed to be disgusting.  Then I packed up my little Ford Escort in 2001 and moved to Seattle, which is absolutely gorgeous...for exactly 16 days a year.  No sun.  Always rain.  Not rain like other places have but a steady, piddling mist.  Long-time Seattlites will tell you, "It doesn't always rain here.  That's a myth."  Nope, it's totally true.  And when it's sunny, they get moody because they don't have an excuse to sit in a coffee shop writing all day.  It wasn't a good time for me to be without the sun.  But you know what?  I'd deal with constantly wet socks, ruined shoes and the ever-present faint scent of mold ANY DAY over this ridiculous, brutal, unnecessary schlocka.

If it weren't for my stupid family, I would be on the next plane to San Diego and I would spread hate and gossip about the state of Minnesota like a scorned lover.  For the love of God, it should not be a test of one's respiratory system to walk from the front door to the car. 

If you tell me to "get over it", I will kill you in the face. Don't bring your happy winter ass near me, you grinning, carolling, skiing, sledding psychopath. "But Dresden, this happens every year, it's not like it's a surprise." You know what would be a surprise? My round-house kick to your shiny white teeth.

The house is on fire.

The nursing home I was sent to was just blocks away from the house where I grew up.  I'd walked past it on my way to the library as a child or on my way to the drug store where I would buy Noxzema and Wet 'n Wild cosmetics, hoping they might make me beautiful.  But I'd never had cause to go inside; I didn't know anyone in a nursing home.  My parents had children young and their parents had them young, so a nursing home situation was never on my radar.

But that day, I was in my mid-20s, navigating my Honda Civic through the streets of my home town, reminiscing about all the summers I spent reading in the library (yes, I was a giant nerd until about 10th grade); riding my bike through the neighborhood, with no particular destination; desperately plotting my escape in my bedroom with the wood paneling my mother wouldn't let me paint and the yellow flowered curtains we never got rid of.  Even as an adult, being back there is an over-load of emotion: sadness, loss, hope, laughter, love.  I never knew I could hate something so much and still love it with everything I have.

My memories distracted me from the task at hand, which I remembered when I pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home.  I was an HIV case worker and I had gotten a call from a doctor a few days earlier.  There was a young man who was very sick and needed some assistance.  He was from a different state and his only living relative was his mother.  She was poor and couldn't afford to send him money to get home or come to be with him, although she desperately wanted to.  Essentially, he had no one.  But he did have an AIDS diagnosis and needed help.

If you don't know what that means, let me tell you: HIV is the virus that you can contract from a contaminated needle or coke straw, or from person, via blood, semen, vaginal fluid, breast milk or spinal fluid (although I'm not sure when you'd have the opportunity to come in contact with spinal fluid, it lives there too).  A diagnosis of AIDS only comes when you only have 200 or less white blood cells (the cells that fight infections when you get sick) remaining in your system or you contract one of a list of opportunistic infections, which are infections caused by bacterial or viral pathogens that do not generally cause illness in a person without a suppressed immune system.  For example: if you get a yeast infection, it might be gross but you can treat it with medication and it will clear up.  However, if you are HIV positive, a simple yeast infection could develop into a systemic yeast infection and it could kill you.  This is why people with HIV take medication to strengthen their immune system and fight off infections. 

I had clients who lived healthy lives with minimal medical issues.  They saw their doctors every 3 months, had blood drawn, took their meds religiously and went about their lives.  I also had many clients who had barriers to health, such as mental health issues, ranging from chronic depression to schizophrenia.  That made it difficult to remember to take medications or see your doctor.  I also know that most people, when given an HIV diagnosis, don't take a deep breath and say, "OK, doc, let's you and me tackle this together.  I know Bono's on board; how can I get on the high school circuit so I can inspire some people and shit?"  Many are in shock; they are terrified of what the future holds.  Some need to take some time to grieve, find support and then start treatment.  Others don't seek treatment at all.  You can't judge a reaction unless you've faced the same moment. 

I don't know how this young man's life went.  I don't know how he contracted HIV, when or why he was given an AIDS diagnosis and I didn't care.  My goal was to help determine what we and other supporting organizations could do to make his current situation better.  The woman at the front desk of the nursing home gave me big eyes when I asked to see this young man.  She didn't say, "You mean the one with the AIDS?" but she may as well have.  Ignorance is not unusual; people don't know what they don't know.  I once interviewed a woman who wanted to work for an AIDS organization; she asked me if she would ever have to be in a small, confined space with someone who is HIV positive.  We did not hire her.

I was told what floor he was on.  I asked if I could speak to someone familiar with his case and was told that no one really was; just the doctor who had referred him to the facility.  Fine.  I'm a pretty self reliant woman, I'll find him.  Stepping off the elevator, I was unprepared for what I would see.  A group of staff played cards at the front desk.  They glanced in my direction but didn't ask me if I needed assistance or who I was looking for.  Alarms were beeping everywhere and yet, no one seemed concerned by this.  The strong stench of urine and cleanser singed my nose hairs and I made the transition to breathing through my mouth immediately.   A woman sat in the hallway in a wheelchair; she was yelling about something, I can't remember what.  As I walked past her, she reached for me, her face conveying massive confusion and emotional pain.  I recoiled.  I hate hospitals and places where people are sick.  When I was 6, my grandmother, who was a nurse working with burned children, took me to meet all the kids on the burn unit.  I was absolutely terrified.  I clung to her, looking into the twisted faces of badly burned children, worried that if I ate the peanut butter cookie they'd given me, my skin would crinkle and crack too.  That's kind of how I felt at that moment; this woman was clearly experiencing dementia and while I felt for her, I was also scared of her.  I just needed to find my new client.

When I reached his room, I peeked inside.  All the lights were off.  An older white male lay in the first bed.  I knew that wasn't him; I had been told that he was in his 20s.  I could see that there was another bed behind the curtain, so I approached slowly, unsure.

The person laying in the bed beyond the curtain was dying.  That was clear.  It was a body so fragile; his skin was ashen and paper thin.  He was covered by a blanket but his arms were nothing but bones and his clavicle protruded from below his neck, painfully, like it might pierce the skin at any moment.  His face was all eyes.  When the face loses the natural fat and ruddiness of the cheeks, all that's left is a sharp jawline, jutting cheekbones and the outline of sockets.  Resting in those sockets were the biggest eyes I have ever seen.  He turned his head, an effort that has to be painful for someone so close to death. 

I had to catch my breath; I'm rarely caught off guard and almost never speechless.  But I was at that moment.  Softly, I said his name.
"Yes", he breathed.
I thought of all the standard questions I needed to ask a new client: where did you grow up?  What do you do for work?  Do you have a mental health diagnoses?  Do you use drugs or alcohol?  And on and on and on.

I couldn't begin to ask him those questions; the mere sound of my voice might fray his last nerves.  The effort it would take for him to answer could be his undoing.

"Do you want me to come back?" I whispered. 
"Yes", he whispered back.

I turned and left.  I walked down the putrid smelling hallway, past the woman, who was now sobbing with her head in her hands.  The staff continued to play cards, gossiping, laughing and eyeing me like I might be someone who was judging them, which is exactly what I was doing.  I know that you develop a callous over time; I totally get that.  But what is this?  Is this a job that you do because you want to do it?  Or is it just a job?

The elevator couldn't come fast enough to take me out of that hell hole.  I repeatedly punched the "down" button because somehow, we all think that will make the fucking thing move faster.

When I finally got out of there and into my car, I sat in the parking lot and sobbed.  Over the years, I had met many clients in various stages of illness.  I never felt pity; instead, I felt proud of them for seeking support.  That's not an easy thing to do.  I never judged anyone's situation or story.  Life is hard and I am in no position to play self-help guru.  Sure, some of my clients pissed me off over the years and some made choices that I didn't think were the best choices for their health. But until I met that young man, I had never been so deeply, deeply saddened.

Several days  later, his doctor called and said that his mother had come to collect him and take him home.  If he was able to get the right treatment and a good infectious disease specialist, he absolutely could have rebounded and gotten better.  If he didn't, it made me feel better knowing that he was with his mother instead of in that wretched, disgusting nursing home.  The thought of him laying there dead until someone came in to mop the floor made me sick to my stomach. 

Never before (at least to my knowledge) have we treated ill people differently because of how they may have contracted their illness and our superior, smugly moralistic judgment about it.  The reason I started working in HIV was pure outrage. The best thing I ever heard while I was doing this work was, "The house is on fire.  We don't have time to figure out how the fire started; we simply need to put it out."