John and I had not yet spoken to each other in the series of barrelhouse-blues-and-free-improvisation-classes we both attended in 1980 with about twelve other students. One evening, our teacher improvised a beautiful and mysterious piece, then asked if it reminded any of us of someone in the class. I raised my hand right away and said John. I was right.
A few weeks later, I defended John when the teacher forgot he had promised to play a recording John had brought of piano improvisations he had made at home. There was just enough time to hear them and they were interesting. After class, John came up to me, threw out his arms, and shouted, “WOW! YOU REALLY SAVED MY LIFE!”
He asked me to teach him classical piano shortly after that. After a few months, we developed a friendship centered on listening to his vast collection of music. One time when I was visiting, he asked me to play food on the piano—popcorn was easy enough but pears flambé, beans, and milk were challenging to say the least.
As our friendship grew, I enjoyed interacting with this probing individual. A few years into our friendship, I told him I had a private problem I needed to talk to him about. He opened his big eyes wide, stepped back a couple of steps, and exploded with “WOW! TELL ME ABOUT IT!” John was kind to me when I moved out of my home for a few months. Most of the people I knew projected simplistic explanations on me that had little to do with my situation. John showed compassion, however, by listening attentively and giving me his honest feedback. That he was so supportive during this difficult time for me added to my motivation to be helpful and loyal to him when AIDS struck him.
When John contracted AIDS, I visited him in the hospital often. He was so weak he could hardly stand up. Even though he was anguished about his condition, he would take care of his friends who visited, giving them grief therapy.
I didn’t mind talking about death, unlike some of his friends who were terrified they could come down with the disease. AIDS was a death sentence then—in 1986-88. Some of his best gay friends were so scared they abandoned him. When a straight couple, dear old friends of his, was told by their evangelist minister to stay away from him, and his dentist, also a good friend, refused to treat him, he felt as though they had pounded a stake in his heart. “I’ve been surprised that some friends and acquaintances have withdrawn and avoided me after my diagnosis,” he said. “Do I remind them of their own vulnerability to illness, of the thin line between life and death? It is a shock when people disappear. One never likes to imagine one’s friends as inconstant…”
Once home, the fear John had suppressed during his life-and-death struggle in the hospital surfaced. He would wake up in the night shaking from macabre nightmares. He struggled with not yet being finished with life, with the injustice of it all. One night he tore up every shred of newspaper in his house in a rage.
This is Part II of an expanded story from Chapter 4, The Enneagram of Death. Read part III here on April 23. Read reviews of The Enneagram of Death – Helpful Insights by the 9 Types of People on Grief, Fear, and Dying and Elizabeth’s 6 other books and CD: http://www.wagele.com
Also, save Saturday May 25 for my talk on The Enneagram of Death at East West books in Mountain View CA at 7:30 pm. 324 Castro Street, 650-988-9800 http://www.eastwest.com