I have AIDS. What will the boys in the project think? What will my friends think? I don’t want them to be scared of me or of the fact that I’m dying. Am I dying? I don’t know. I don’t think so.
It was six o’clock. I was aware that the reading was about to commence. I sent the cast some positive vibes.
They all turned up to see me about two hours later. They were abuzz. ‘It was fantastic. They pissed themselves.’
‘Wait till you hear the laughter.’ John Stone held up a cassette.
‘You’ve taped it?’
‘It’s probably a bit rough. But it should all be there.’
‘You guys are wonderful.’
John arrived, sat down shyly next to me and leant over and kissed me.
The cast were on such a high that I found it draining. Ben handed me a card as they lined up to kiss me goodbye. When they’d all gone, I opened the card and read, ‘It was so nice to work with you after only knowing you at a distance. I think your play is fab and I want to thank you for asking me to be involved. I hope you get well soon, Tim. Ben.’
John read the card and smiled. ‘It really was fab. So good. I’m proud of you. I love the end where the two boys are in the prison courtyard and they rub knees. I had real tears. It’s what we used to do.’ John sat quietly patting my hand.
‘Want to get on the bed and have a cuddle?’
John struggled to get on the bed. Arms and legs got tangled but eventually we were lying side by side, kissing gently. We were startled by a nurse, who drew the curtains round us, mouthing an apology.
‘How ridiculous. It’s not like we were bonking.’
‘My arm’s gone to sleep,’ said John, rubbing it. ‘I might go home and have some dinner. Besides, you’ve got your play to listen to.’ He kissed me goodbye.
I picked up the Walkman, nervous about playing the tape in case I didn’t like it. It was hard to hear, but I knew all the lines. What I didn’t expect was the raucous laughter. I knew it was funny but not that funny. Or the rousing applause. The cast had done a really good job. I should have been happy but I felt sad.
In the middle of the night I was woken by someone talking in his sleep. It sounded like a one-sided conversation. I strained to hear. ‘You’re dead. You died weeks ago. So young, so young.’
In the morning I couldn’t determine if I’d heard these things or dreamt them.
The community nurse sat on the end of my bed talking about getting some help around the flat. ‘I could ring the Community Support Network.’
‘I’m all right. I feel fine. I’ll be at work in a couple of days.’
‘You’ll be much weaker than you expect. You’ve lost quite a bit of weight, you need to conserve your energy.’ She could see I wasn’t convinced. ‘You’ve been through a major illness. Think about it and call me if there’s anything you need.’
Veronica dropped in to see how I was. ‘I’m being discharged in a minute.’
‘I’ll drive you home if you like.’
On the way home in her rusty Mazda, Veronica suddenly said, ‘I feel so bad. I’ve been a bad friend. I’ve barely spoken to you since you told me. I should have done more.’ She started to melt into tears. I handed her a scrunched up tissue.
She carried my bags upstairs. My throat burned with the rasping attempt to get my breath. I found the stairs difficult. By the time I’d conquered them the muscles in my legs were burning too. The nurse was right. I’m a lot weaker than I thought.
I knocked on the door and John opened it. ‘Timba!’ He kissed me and hugged me. ‘Welcome home, boy.’
Veronica took her leave. ‘If there’s anything you want, call me.’
There was a pile of messages on the machine for me.
‘Tim, it’s Libby. You beaut. Thieving Boy was great, I nearly wet myself. Hope you get a production and that your gastro gets better.’
‘It’s Craig. Hope your gastro is getting better. I loved your play. It deserves a production. Call me.’
‘Hi Tim, it’s Morna. James Bean told me you were in hospital. I hope everything’s all right.’
‘It’s James. I told Morna you were in hospital. I assumed she already knew. Sorry. Call me.’
‘Christina Totos here. I think your play is fabulous and hope it gets picked up. How’s the gastro?’
I rang Morna. ‘Darling, how are you?’ she asked.
‘Not bad.’
‘You were in hospital? Why didn’t you tell us? Is everything okay?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sorry to ask, but everyone is wondering if you have AIDS.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And John? You poor boys, how long have you known?’
‘Six years.’
‘You never told us.’
‘I didn’t think it was worth worrying people.’
Morna started to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
We sat there for a while as Morna let it flow. ‘Do you want me to tell people?’
‘That’d be great.’
The phone rang. ‘Hi Tim, It’s Annie.’ She went silent for a moment. ‘I’ve just heard that you were in hospital and that you have AIDS. Is that true?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘That’s terrible. I don’t want you to die.’
‘It’s not going to happen for some time.’
‘I’m scared.’
Later: ‘It’s Denise. I’ve just heard you guys are not well, that you have AIDS. I’m really sorry to hear it. You guys were the ones I would have least expected to get it. How sick are you?’
‘I’ve just had pneumonia and I’ve lost quite a bit of weight. John had pneumonia a couple of years ago.’
I heard her blow her nose. I thought she was crying. ‘This is terrible. I love you guys.’ She blew her nose again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. We’re going to be all right.’
I rang Morna. ‘When you tell people, could you ask them to fall apart elsewhere? I’m finding it too draining. I end up counselling them and I don’t have the energy at the moment.’
When a friend from NIDA called he said, ‘Mate, I’ve just heard and I want you to know how sorry I am. And that I love you.’
The new plan was working.
An Ulcer, a Headache
I sat on our balcony enjoying a cigarette. John appeared in the doorway and stopped in his tracks. ‘What are you doing! You’ve just had pneumonia. Don’t you want to get well?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then why are you eating McDonald’s and Tim Tams, and smoking!’ He stormed inside and I followed. ‘It’s really stressing me out. I think I’m getting an ulcer.’
At dinner that night John had difficulty eating. He’d take a mouthful and grimace as the food passed into his stomach. Antacid didn’t seem to give relief. John decided to see his doctor. Have I caused this? She thought it probably was an ulcer and she wanted to scope it to make sure that it was nothing too sinister. Like what? ‘Cytomegalovirus or lymphoma. But it’s probably just a gastric reflex ulcer.’ She gave John a referral. ‘Call his assistant and make a time.’
The waiting room at the surgery was the side alley of a terrace house roofed over with clear corrugated plastic. We sat against the wall. John leant his head back and lamented, ‘I’m starving.’ He’d been fasting since midnight the night before. ‘My stomach is hurting.’
At that moment the doctor came out and called us both into his office. ‘We’re going to have a look, and if there’s anything suspicious we’ll take a biopsy. Then we’ll put you in the recovery room for about half an hour.’
An hour later John emerged with a look of contentment. He was obviously enjoying the anaesthetic. The receptionist came out with a plastic cup of water. ‘I want you to sip this to make sure you are swallowing properly.’
John did it and said, ‘No wuckers.’
The doctor came out. ‘Would you boys like to come in?’
It
’ll be all right. It’ll just be a normal ulcer. I was scared that if I let go of the thought, this thing would be lymphoma.
‘It’s definitely an ulcer and my guess is that it is lymphoma.’ He paused, letting this sink in. ‘Let’s not get too worried yet. I want Sam Milliken, the haematologist at St V’s, to look at the biopsies.’
‘Hope it all goes well,’ he said gently, shaking our hands. I was struck by warmth of his hand.
Days later John and I sat in Sam’s room in the new St Vincent’s Medical Centre. ‘I’m sorry to say there’s no good news. It’s non-Hodgkins lymphoma.’ He waited for our reaction. ‘It’s an aggressive cancer and most likely it is already disseminated. I should also tell you that survival beyond six months is unlikely, maybe a 10 percent chance. And with chemo the odds don’t get much better.’
Sam examined John on the bed, looking in his mouth, checking reflexes and feeling his glands. ‘The gland on this side of your neck is up. It’s possibly a secondary. Have you been having sweats or fevers?’
Most nights lately John had been getting up two or three times to change his T-shirt. It would be clinging to him as though he’d been hit with a bucket of water. ‘We should enter you in a wet T-shirt competition,’ I said to him one night. He’d even started to put a pile of clean T-shirts and a towel on the bedside table.
‘Radiation is only useful for one-off tumours. It won’t catch any migrating cells. But we have the option of chemotherapy once a month for three months. We have a new regimen which seems to be working quite well, and it should provide some relief.’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. John. Cancer. Six months. Why am I not feeling anything?
‘The other option is not to treat it at all but to make sure that you are comfortable. Take some time to think it over and give me a call in a couple of days.’
I drove us home, neither of us saying much, and then John spoke. ‘Six months is nothing. That’s November.’
I felt like I’d been side-swiped. My tears were wrenched out of me and all the pain of the last few months came spewing forth. I could barely see the road. A car tooted as I veered into the next lane. ‘Pull over,’ John demanded. I tried to turn off into a side street but was going too fast. I mounted the curb, almost hitting a gum tree. We stopped on the nature strip.
‘I’m really scared. I don’t want you to die.’
‘I don’t want to either.’
‘It’s a fucken disaster.’ I wiped my nose and eyes on my sleeve and turned to John. ‘I’m so snotty, I must look ridiculous.’
‘You look beautiful. C’mon, let’s get home.’
When we got home we lay down on the bed and cuddled, just holding each other. John is here in my arms. But the sorrow rose up again.
‘Why don’t we treat ourselves and check into a five-star hotel, where we won’t have to worry about a thing?’ John didn’t seem too keen. ‘C’mon, we need some glamour.’
I booked a weekend package at the Ramada Renaissance in Circular Quay. Then I called our friends to let them know what had happened.
John and I were in our Sunday best as we drove into the hotel driveway. A valet in crimson uniform opened our doors. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Could I have your name please?’
‘Conigrave.’ Our bags were loaded onto a trolley and we walked into reception. The foyer was grand, a large sweeping red granite staircase with brass railings surrounded by turn-of-the-century furniture and etched glass screens. I noticed I was speaking with a refined accent and holding myself upright.
The valet showed us into our room. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
‘Look at the bed. Huge!’
John cheered. ‘Sticky Long goes for the mark!’ He dived onto the bed pretending to mark the ball.
‘Nice bed?’
He bounced on it. ‘Pretty firm.’ I jumped on. We were kids let run riot in the Giggle Palace.
‘John, look at this. They’ve marked our baggage Mr and Mrs Conigrave.’
We had an afternoon nap, spruced up for dinner and walked down to the Quay. The lights of the city played on the water. It was a lovely cool night and people were out enjoying their harbour.
Dinner was just a couple of bowls of pasta and apple juice. Then we fell into bed. ‘Have you come to any decision about treatment?’
‘I’m going for the chemo,’ he said indignantly.
‘You say it like I should know.’
‘It seems the obvious choice to me. I’m not going to give up without a fight.’
We talked about the regrets we each had. ‘I’m sad that my acting career didn’t take off.’
‘You did all right. I’m sorry I never got to have sex with a woman. There’s no way I could now.’
‘Do you really desire to?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m curious.’
‘What if you decided you liked it better than with me?’
‘Not a possibility. You’re too cute.’
I was struck by a memory of my most recent affair. While John was in San Francisco for his brother Paul’s wedding, I took the opportunity to play with a man who worked at the AIDS Council. He had almond eyes like a cat’s. We had started flirting with each other some weeks before. We went bike riding together one afternoon and I asked him for dinner at Rose Bay the next night. I had set a table on the balcony with candles and flowers. Not very long into the meal we were caressing. Before dessert we were in the bedroom having touchy-feely, sensual, fantastic sex.
A few nights later I told Veronica. She didn’t seem impressed. ‘How would John feel if he knew you were telling people this?’ I felt a bullet of guilt pass into my chest.
And now I could feel it again. A wave of panic came over me. I’ve got to tell him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him dying and me not being totally honest.
‘John, there’s something I want to tell you.’ I paused. ‘I had a couple of affairs when you were in San Francisco last year.’
He sighed. ‘Why do you do this to me? Was it anyone I know?’
‘No, they were a couple of guys at the sauna,’ I lied.
He sighed again. ‘It hurts.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He turned away. He froze me out that night. I still hadn’t told the whole truth but I didn’t want to hurt him more.
In the morning at breakfast he mucked around with a pastry snail, holding it in front of his nose. ‘Bwight wight, bwight wight.’ He was himself again, as he had been after every other time I’d hurt him.
That afternoon Nicholas, from Soft Targets, opened the door to the apartment he was minding at the Quay. Our friends were there: Veronica and her girlfriend Tracy, Franco and his lover Paul, Ben, James and his flatmate Denise, Morna and her husband Ian. I spied a zebra skin on the floor. ‘Is that real? To think it died to be a rug.’
Nicholas took us on a tour of the apartment, the quilted Japanese silk walls, the antique bedside table, the stack of de rigueur reading (Patrick White: A Life) with a pair of reading glasses on top.
There was a mink blanket. ‘Very decadent. It says: “Fuck off, we’re rich, we can do what we like.” ’
It was wonderful to be with our friends, drinking tea and eating almond shortbread, standing on the balcony looking at the harbour. I felt we were supported, that no matter what happened from here on, we were going to be okay.
That night, John and I treated ourselves to a room-service dinner. Two attendants wheeled in a trolley that folded out into a table. They laid the silverware on a white linen tablecloth.
I popped the cork of our complimentary champagne. With a mouthful of salmon ravioli I raised my glass. ‘My darling John, I want to thank you for the years of love, comfort and support.’
He was touched. ‘I want to thank you for being my boyfriend.’
‘I’d like to thank you for all the times you let me fall asleep in front of the TV with my head in your lap.’
‘I’d like to say thanks for all the fun we’ve had.’
‘Yeah, the baby talk and the laughs.’
‘Thanks for all the holidays, Bali, Europe …’
‘The Barrier Reef and Uluru …’
John said meekly, ‘I really want to thank you for being here now.’
‘I love you.’ I leant across the table to kiss him. My elbow ended up in his gravy.
The haemotologist called John into the short-stay ward for his chemo. He was to be in overnight for observation, to make sure there was no adverse reaction.
He was at the naturopath for some herbs to get him through it when Craig rang. He was disapproving. ‘I don’t think he should be having chemo. He’s only going to poison himself. Can’t you talk him out of it?’
‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s gonna fuck up his bone marrow, destroy the lining of his bowel and make him nauseous. And his hair will fall out.’
‘John knows all that but he still wants to do it. I support him in whatever he chooses.’
John returned, braced himself and rang Craig. He sat for some time grunting affirmatively, then took a deep breath. ‘I know all that but I don’t want to sit back and do nothing. At least this way there’s a chance. If I don’t have chemo there’s no chance.’ He listened, then raised his voice. ‘Craig, it’s my decision and I would like you to respect it, okay?’ He hung up and took a deep breath and blew it through his cheeks.
We sat in an old Victorian ward with large windows and lino floor. John put on a pair of hospital pyjamas and climbed into bed. I sat at his feet rubbing his legs through the blanket. A nurse came in with a tablet and a glass of water. ‘This should stop you getting nauseous. Julie will be with you in a moment.’
Julie arrived with a kidney dish and four large syringes. I knew her from the treatment room and my monthly dose of ‘make me vomit’ Pentamadine. She was a cute, sexy woman with a blond bob and blood-red lipstick. She reminded me of someone from the Mickey Mouse Club.
She put a butterfly needle into John’s forearm while I gave him my hand to squeeze. ‘I always thought chemo would be bigger than this, you know, drips all day.’
Holding the Man Page 21
