ROAD TRIP DETOUR

Chapter 1 – Introduction My detour is also a Roadmap It was a gorgeous spring day in May, 1980 when I met him. It was called Regency East, one of the "after work" places frequented mostly by young professional gays on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I think it was actually just a few blocks away from the other extreme, a pick up place, a bar called Cowboys, where many young hustlers operated and offered (for money) what others seemed to want youth and sex or at least a retreat from whatever reality they were facing, or dodging. Life as well as the economy was good for many of us. The time was just past 6 p.m. and the place was beginning to fill up. Lots of activity, laughing and energized chatter. Alcohol was freely flowing as any watering hole at that time of night. It was a Thursday, the unofficial start of the weekend for many. Clinking and clanging of wine glasses, beer bottles and just about everything in between with people interacting everywhere which slightly distracted me a little. But then I saw him. He was standing towards the back of the place. He seemed to be talking to a friend and they were both dressed professionally. But he was a little more dapper in a three-piece light brown suit, smartly tailored, sipping some white wine, but essentially just observing the scene however he seemed open to eye contact and so I moved in pretty quickly. It was part of my modus operandi to survey these places rather fast and then decide whether "the conquest" was worth it or not. He seemed to be distracted too - maybe he saw me when I came in? So I quickly walked towards him and reached out my hand... Hi I said, ''I'm Rich - you are looking very fine today". "Thanks he said - I'm Steve". And so it began, with some friction here and there in the beginning, but ultimately a ten-year love affair that eventually ended sadly for him, for me and for his family. After the "first date" that was set up after meeting at Regency East, when Steve was not flying, we spent almost all of our free time together. We moved in together after about two years changing our previous habit of alternating our overnight stays at each other's respective apartments. We really enjoyed travel, good restaurants and just walking or relaxing on the beach near Steve's place. Then everything changed lightning fast. His illness progressed way too fast for everyone who cared about him and I became his caregiver administering powerful antibiotics through a venous line permanently implanted in his arm. We had intermittent bouts of hope but his overall body system's weaknesses and loss of appetite was extreme. He lost what little weight he had to spare as he was always fit and slim to start with. Things moved way too fast for everyone and no one had any answers. He soon took a leave of absence from his job and we tried to juggle schedules of who would stay with him so that he was never alone. We could not really afford a nurse to come in and so when I had to get back to a more regular work schedule, his mother came to stay with us for about a month when we got nervous that he would not recover. Most of the day he slept and he had no desire to eat. He had to be really encouraged even to drink water or OJ. I was getting increasingly worried. I can still remember his mom calling me at work and saying from our bedroom in a soft voice "he's gone." I could not believe it. My life was forever impacted and his memory still lives within me and warms my soul but there is an emptiness that never leaves me either. Steve was only thirty-five years old, and one of the many AIDS victims in what still ravages our world today. Almost at the same time he was diagnosed, I found out too. Sometimes I have survivor's guilt. Why did he leave the world early deprived of life's pleasures and journey while I still live on more than twenty-five years later? I guess it's a little luck, or genes, or some other plan. It just was not my time to move on. When you have what was, and still is, a death sentence for millions, you approach the world - and life - very differently. Yes, I was lonely and sad, really sad - and scared for quite a while. Who could I talk to? Who could I confide in? What would people think? I still think about it now too but I have moved to a different place mentally. Anyway, the loneliness was hardest on me. As the oldest of six kids from a strict Irish Catholic family, I was hardly ever alone. So, this is my story of how I managed to take a deep breath, move forward and connect with the many other people I have since met on the road trip of life, what I now affectionately call my road trip detour. Why share it now, you might ask? Three reasons. Reason number one - if somehow I don't make it through my recurring kidney failure issues, I want to at least pass along some of my life experiences to some pretty amazing twin children and hopefully some life lessons for them and others as well who might choose to read on. Reason number two - I hope my story will allay the fears that others might have who are HIV positive or who struggle with mental illness. The diagnosis and stigma are real but you can still live a pretty full and amazing life. Reason number three - After I finally went to see "Hamilton" - the message and challenge of "who tells your story" became more important to me. So, this is really my story. It's kind of weird but different people learn things at different times and I truly believe it's just the plan of the guy upstairs. Yes, a white gay Irish Catholic, HIV positive parent, now into his sixth decade on earth does believe there is a "God" or at least a higher power somewhere in the universe. I mean, what is the reason why we're here for such a relatively short time? Are we here to do something, learn something, change something and then move onto eternal life...or just the next stage? In my mind, I think it's that. We must be all here to do something, or experience something, or contribute something or change something. Then it's your time to move on. Finding the something is the challenge. Sometimes the something finds you.