“I Won’t Be Able to Tell My Neighbors” An AIDS Story. Part IV final


EnnDeathCover7inches copyJohn’s mind started to cloud and I didn’t trust his driving so I started using my car for outings. He was always asking metaphysical and other kinds of questions. “What’s the worst sound you ever heard?” when he couldn’t stand the noise my windshield wipers made any longer.

John could neither tell his mother he was gay nor had AIDS so she didn’t have the chance to nurture him in his last days. I’m a mother of four and would want that opportunity for myself, so finally, close to the end of his life, I begged him to tell her the truth. He said, “I will tell my mother not for her, but for me. I don’t want the dishonesty of sudden hushed extinction or secrets opened after my death, like trunks of obscene jewels. I want to be proud of my life, to celebrate my destiny, whatever it is. I want to lay down my head in peace, not in squalor and hysteria and infamy.”

It turned out badly. The first words out of her mouth were, “I won’t be able to tell my neighbors.” He had predicted as much. She didn’t come to be with him. His sister came from Wisconsin for a visit, though. After he died she wrote that her closest friends knew and were understanding but she preferred to keep the reason of his death a secret. 

John ached to be fully alive during his last weeks. “I want to take the train forever. I want to ride through the guts of every back city, every mountain canyon, every forest and field. I’ll see lots of junked cars and old wooden buildings, the country 100 years ago, 70 years ago, 40 years ago. And I’ll speak to no one. I will be the one who nods his head, reads his Hemingway, eats peanuts and stretches out with hungry eyes, starving to live just one more day, just one more day.”

Knowing John satisfied my need to be, as well as to have, a reliable friend, as this note attests: “Elizabeth! Thank you for being my perennial, conscientious and loving friend. It is wonderful to walk and talk with you—to investigate the labyrinths of existence—and sometimes just to bitch about life. But let’s hope there are more ordeals in the fog like in Point Pinole, the cold chill of truth sweeping in across the bay, and the eucalyptus friends catching the meanings in their silver leaves and scorched arms.”

This was the last installment of an expanded story from Chapter 4, The Enneagram of Death.

Read reviews of The Enneagram of Death – Helpful Insights by the 9 Types of People on Grief, Fear, and Dying and Elizabeth’s other books and CD. http://www.wagele.com

Also, Elizabeth will give a talk on The Enneagram of Death May 25 at 7:30. East West books, 324 Castro Street, Mountain View CA 650-988-9800 http://www.eastwest.com

John Herlin

John Herlin

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