There was a nun whose patient had sat up in bed and said, That’s all, Sister, I think I’ll go now, and died. ‘It was the happiest death I have ever seen.’
And there was a man who had had to seal his lover’s body in two plastic bags. ‘Dignity in death? Ha fucking ha!’
I was stunned by what these people had been put through. These were real people with lovers, family and friends. Why wasn’t the media dealing with these stories, rather than all that sex-death-horror shit? I started to wonder what I could do. Maybe I should get a group of actors together and devise a piece. I was listening to This Mortal Coil and when ‘The Siren’s Song’ came on I saw a stage with a mother holding her dying son. ‘Swim to me, swim to me. Let me enfold you.’
The next Monday night at the Griffin Theatre in Darlinghurst I approached the gay actors I knew and told them my idea. Monday nights were members’ meetings, when the space was full of actors drinking beer, exchanging gossip and trying to talk to directors. I got an enthusiastic reception, particularly from one guy, whom I will call Paul One, who had already lost friends. We wanted to reclaim an issue that had been hijacked by the media.
The following week we presented the idea and called a meeting in the theatre. As you would expect, every try-hard actor saw an opportunity to get into a play. I told them that it was great to see so much interest, but that we couldn’t use them all. The project was more important than any individual. Paul outlined the workshop we were planning. One of the guys had access to a hall and we decided to meet there in a couple of days.
The hall was in East Sydney High, a school for difficult students. Many of the kids were sex workers and junkies. It had parquet floors and large windows that overlooked William Street. We broke into groups and wrote on large pieces of butcher’s paper all the things we’d heard about AIDS. There was silence as we worked, kneeling over the paper. It was like a ritual. I then got each group to improvise something around the ideas they came up with.
While they were working a beautiful man came into the room, a Renaissance angel, strongly built, with red curly hair. I found out that Paul Two worked as a doctor at the Albion Street AIDS clinic but was interested in being an actor. He had heard about the project from his lover and wanted to be involved.
He sat with me and watched the improvisations: AIDS as an octopus, a plague, a whirlpool. Paul Two was not comfortable. ‘This doesn’t feel real. I could get some people to talk to you. There are some amazing stories.’
I was taken aback. A total stranger had walked in and changed everything. I knew he was right but I felt territorial.
‘I’d better put it to the group.’ Over cappuccinos we decided we would use only real stories. The two Pauls would organise some interviews. We left the café on a high, feeling that we’d come up with a good idea and that we might be able to make a difference.
Around this time I saw a South African general talking on the news about the Namibian border war. He referred to civilians as soft targets. I was appalled at his inability to see that those targets were people. It struck me that we could use this as a title. I put it to the group. Someone said it sounded like an anus. I snapped back, ‘Would you prefer Fuck Me Dead?’
‘You are off, Conigrave,’ someone said. That’s me, the one who says the things you’re not meant to say.
The group talked about the title for a while and agreed that it was a good reference to the siege mentality in the gay community, the way we were all banding together like people in a war. We decided to go with it as a working title.
Later that night my head was filled with AIDS, young people dying in pain. My relationship with John is not forever. Either we break up or one of us dies. There was no relief from this thought.
Paul One’s flatmate Richard was sick. Paul thought it would be good to interview him but didn’t want to do it himself. I said I would.
When I arrived at the house with my tape-recorder, Paul let me in. I suddenly felt wary. Is it safe to breathe? Paul’s been living with him, sharing cups and toilet seats, and he’s all right. My fear heightened when I was taken up to Richard’s room. He was half asleep. There was nothing to indicate he was a person with AIDS other than the large jar of liquid morphine beside his bed.
Paul introduced us and left us alone. Richard held out his hand. I shook it but wanted to wipe my hand on my jeans. I sat down on the edge of the mattress. The sheets were clammy. He must be having night sweats. Often when I asked a question he would collapse into coughing fits that doubled him up. I held my breath.
As we talked I calmed down. ‘What’s the morphine for?’
‘For headaches that nothing else touches. It also helps with the cough.’
‘You must have good parties.’
‘Oh p-lease. It’s not a party drug, it’s hideous. It tastes revolting and it cuts you out of the world.’
Richard described a recurring dream. ‘My boat has broken down in the Amazon but everyone else gets a nice little boat ride. I have to walk through this jungle with snakes and spiders and quicksand. When I fall into it someone pulls me out but I always sink back in. People drop supplies from a helicopter but it can’t land. I’m angry and lonely. But I learn a lot. I see a leopard having a baby. Everyone has seen a leopard in a book but the actual experience is something else.’
I posed the question we had decided to ask all the people we interviewed. ‘Is there a message about living with AIDS that you want the world to know?’
‘That it’s hard, bloody hard.’ He looked so vulnerable. I rubbed his knee gently.
I left wondering if I’d ever see him again. A couple of weeks later when I was having coffee with Paul, Richard walked through the room in a sari, carrying a lit candle. He didn’t acknowledge us. ‘He’s been a bit weird of late. Probably dementia.’
Franco asked me how the interview had gone. I admitted I had been afraid of contagion.
‘Afraid of getting AIDS?’
‘Well, maybe a little but also the other things he has. He was coughing violently. I feel bad because I judged him.’
‘Why don’t you get tested before the next interview? You’re making assumptions about your own status that may be incorrect.’
I sat thinking about what Franco had said. Imagine what it would be like to be told I had it. Franco and I had anal sex only six months ago and he is negative. And Paul from my year at NIDA is also negative. But there was that guy in the sauna …
When John arrived home, I told him about Richard and what Franco had said. He too had been thinking about getting tested, for his own peace of mind. ‘There was that boy Darrin I was seeing a couple of years ago. He gave me warts and who knows what else.’
John and I sat in the foyer of the Albion Street clinic, fascinated by the passing traffic: a couple from the cardigan set, two young queens laughing hysterically at something in Vogue, a moustached man wearing a leather vest. Reckon he’d be at risk. Every time the front door opened, I’d hope to God I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.
‘John 2118,’ called a short, bearded gnome of a doctor. John bounced up to follow him. Being left by myself was even more unnerving.
Someone came out with a grin on his face. ‘I’m okay,’ he announced. That’ll be me in two weeks. Eventually John emerged. He’d been asked questions, drilled about safe sex, given a physical and a blood test. My number was called. I didn’t bounce out of my seat like John.
The almond smell of disinfectant hung in the air of the consulting room. I asked for an AIDS test. The doctor, who introduced himself as Ralph, asked if I was in a high-risk group and I told him I was gay.
The questions began. How do you define your sexuality: homosexual, bisexual, transsexual? How many men have you slept with in the last six months? How many women? Have you paid for sex in the last six months? Are you in a relationship? Would you say it was monogamous? I wonder what John said to that? Probably not the same as me. Do you practise anal sex? Are you active or passive? If both, what ratio? Then he looke
d in my mouth, my eyes, felt the glands in my neck, in my armpits (which I hated) and in my groin.
‘How do you think you’d feel if in two weeks I told you you’re positive?’
‘I’m involved in a theatre project about AIDS, so I know it’s not a death sentence.’
‘I think you may be positive. Your glands are up all over your body. I’ll take some blood now.’
I would have thought I’d be shocked, but weirdly I felt whole. I broke the news to John. ‘It’s probably the flu,’ he said. ‘Mine weren’t up.’ After that I didn’t pay much attention to the possibility that I might be positive. I knew I wouldn’t be. As John and I headed to Oxford Street for lunch, I walked proudly through the flocks of gay men. Look at me. I’m a fast-lane gay.
I’d been cast in the Australian touring production of Brighton Beach Memoirs, a comedy by Neil Simon about his adolescence. I had the part of Stanley, the hero’s sixteen-year-old brother, and I was rapt. I felt uncomfortable about asking for time off to get my results. I told the stage manager that I had a specialist’s appointment that I’d waited months to get. She checked with the director and he released me.
Sitting again in the clinic foyer, I glanced at a beer-bellied guy in stubbies and T-shirt who looked like he’d just stepped off a construction site. I wonder what he’s doing here?
John was called in by a tall blond man. I sat reading an issue of Campaign but found it impossible to concentrate. Paul Two appeared and we waved to each other. He must often see people he knows here. He called in another patient and off they went.
Eventually John came out with a little smile on his face. ‘Negative,’ he said softly, and then grinned like a madman. I must be okay. I breathed a sigh of relief, put my arm around him and hugged him. Then Ralph beckoned to me.
I sat beside his desk. ‘I’m sorry to inform you that you are positive.’
I felt like I’d been stabbed. ‘Shit, you’re kidding!’ Ralph held my file up to my face: 2117, positive.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but my boyfriend is negative.’
Ralph excused himself and left the room. A minute later he returned with John’s file and the man who had given John his results. ‘Could you wait in the corridor, please?’ Ralph said to me.
John came and sat with me. I told him I was positive. His brow furrowed. We heard Ralph tearing strips off the other man. This doesn’t sound good. They called us back in together.
Ralph took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, John, you’ve been given the wrong result. You are in fact positive.’ No! Not my John. John’s breathing quickened.
‘I should explain. If your result is negative you see a counsellor, and if you are positive you see a doctor. The clerk put your file in the wrong pigeon-hole and the counsellor gave you the result without checking it.’
He took some more blood from each of us to do a cell-count. ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I’d like to see you both in a few days.’
John and I went home, told Franco, and then went upstairs to lie down. Some people use drugs to blot out the world. I use sleep.
A little while later, Franco appeared with a tray. ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea and some chocolate slices.’
‘You’re so sweet.’
‘It’s nothing. I feel terrible for you guys. If there’s anything I can do, just ask. I’ll let you get some sleep.’ He kissed us both and left the room, pulling the door to. Every now and then I’d wake up hoping it was a bad dream, but then the gut-wrenching feeling would come. It was true. It was as though I had ants all over me and I was brushing them off but they kept coming back.
The next day at rehearsal the stage manager asked how I’d gone with the specialist.
‘I’ve only got six months to live.’
She chuckled and walked back to her desk. What I really wanted to say was, ‘Hug me.’
John and I had separate appointments to get the next results. I went by cab during my lunch break.
‘You have a very high T8 count, the suppressor cells, which we believe indicates that you’ve only recently been infected. All your other cells are good, basically normal. Your T4 cell-count is 650. The normal range is 500 to 1100. T4s are the cells that the virus destroys and they’re the ones that we monitor. You’ve been exposed to toxoplasmosis, which is a parasite carried by cats, and you may end up developing the disease if and when your immune system drops.’
‘What does it do to you?’
‘Sometimes it forms cysts in the brain, putting pressure on the lobes.’
‘Glamorous.’
‘The good news is you haven’t been exposed to CMV, which is a virus that can make you go blind. You’re very lucky. Most gay men have been. I want you to maximise your potential. Eat well, don’t do too many drugs, exercise and get enough sleep. You’re lucky. You’re starting at a good place.’
John and I had decided to be careful who we told. I knew actors were huge gossips and the industry was not known for its acceptance of gay actors, let alone infected poofters. Foolishly, however, we’d told many people that we were getting tested and so there was lots of curiosity.
Paul from NIDA was in our kitchen and saw an HIV pamphlet stuck to the fridge. ‘How did your test go? Negative, I bet.’ I shook my head.
‘Positive? You and John?’
I nodded.
‘Unbelievable. I thought you guys would be the last ones to get it. How are you both?’
‘John doesn’t tend to talk about these things, but I think he feels he’s failed. And I don’t think it’s hit me yet.’
Paul wanted to cheer me up. ‘Trust you to be first.’
‘The price of being a fashion leader, darling.’
Later that day the phone went. ‘It’s Veronica. Why haven’t you rung me? I’ve been beside myself with worry.’ I can’t tell her over the phone.
‘I’m fine. We’re both fine.’ It’s not a lie, we are fine at the moment.
Veronica started to cry. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you told me you were positive. I couldn’t stand it. I’m sorry.’ How am I ever going to tell her to her face?
‘Don’t be sorry. It’s nice that you care.’ I got off the phone, shell-shocked, wanting John to hurry home so I could offload what had just happened.
That night we sat on our bed. ‘Do you think I infected you?’ pondered John. I was stunned, wondering where that thought had come from. ‘The way our cells are, me being more advanced, you with your high T8s …’
‘It’s not important.’
‘I just wish I hadn’t infected you.’
‘We don’t know if that is what happened. We can never know. Don’t blame yourself. We didn’t know that such a thing was lurking. It didn’t even have a name. We’re both infected. That’s all we can know. Come on, worry-wart.’ I pulled him down onto the bed and took his T-shirt off, kissed him, and pulled his trackies down so he was lying in his jocks. Then I leapt off the bed. I had a surprise. ‘Condoms and lube!’
‘I don’t want to have anal sex. That’s how we got into this mess.’ John’s jaw was clenched.
I was taken aback. For me anal sex had an emotional dimension that other forms of sex lacked. But I didn’t feel like challenging John, and I no longer felt like sex.
‘Find a place that’s comfortable for you, either lying down or sitting.’
I was at a meditation class at the clinic. Running it was Petrea, a gentle woman with rosy cheeks and a calming voice. People said she had had leukaemia and had cured herself by meditating in a cave in France for eighteen hours a day.
I was a little nervous about meeting other HIV-positive people. One guy’s face was covered in the purple lesions of Kaposi’s sarcoma and another was so thin he looked like he might snap in half if you sneezed on him. I tried hard not to stare, but I was so curious.
‘Devote this next little while to getting in touch with and nurturing yourself, creating an environment for healing within your body. Visualise
an elevator with five levels. With each level you descend, you feel more and more relaxed.’ Is someone snoring?
‘Begin to descend. Five … letting go of all outside sounds except the sound of my voice.’ With that racket going on? You’ve got to be kidding.
‘Four … allowing all tension in your body to drain away into the floor. Three … leaving all thoughts of the past and the future. Two … breathing quietly to your own rhythm. One … letting go and becoming more and more relaxed until you are completely relaxed.
‘Stepping out of the elevator you find yourself on a beautiful golden sandy beach, stretching in both directions, a soft curve where the sand meets the sea. The water is shimmering. As you glance to the right, you see a hot-air balloon tethered to the ground. Its canopy has the full colours of the rainbow. Place into the basket any feelings that make you uncomfortable or create tension in your life: fear, anger, guilt, resentment.’ My God! Another snorer. I’d like to put them both in the basket.
‘Loosen the rope that secures the basket to earth. See it leave the ground. It’s like a zoo in here. ‘As it moves away from you, feel the sense of lightness, the sense of release, knowing you no longer need those thoughts and emotions. Watch them drift away from you till the earth becomes a speck in the distance, finally disappearing from view.’
We went on to fill our bodies with sparkles of energy from the sun. ‘When a sparkle bumps into a healthy cell it bursts open, filling the cell with new vitality. And when diseased cells come in contact …’
I started to drift off. I could hear her voice but could no longer make sense of it. When the teacher stopped guiding us, my leg jolted and I realised that I too had been asleep. I felt the need to pretend that I hadn’t. It was like being caught smoking at school.
After meditation came a support session where each person got to talk. The skinny guy told how tiring his diarrhoea was. He felt like an invalid because he now wore nappies in case of accidents. Someone else was waiting for a biopsy result. ‘The doctors think it might be lymphoma.’ His voice quivered. The teacher allowed him to sit in his pain. It was hard because I wanted to hug him and comfort him. I felt sorry for the sicker guys in the group but another part of me was thinking, I’m never going to let this happen to me.