Without intending to, I confronted my own mortality that night. I also came up against a stereotype I did not want to acknowledge. Is it my own prejudice in assuming one word begets another—at least in the eyes of others? Am I wrong for trying to be “better” than the majority in order to avoid falling into this stereotype?
I am a gay man. Honestly, it is not something I am always proud of. After all, why would I want to celebrate a non-choice choice—something that has made me feel distanced from my closest friends or, even worse, inferior in conservative, American politics? For all the struggling I have done over my sexuality, I am surprised how quickly it can cut me down.
But I’m gay 24/7. It’s an integral part of who I am. So to this end, I feel most at ease with my so-called “own kind.” They, too, share the same (potential) secret. What other, single issue could worry me any more to reveal? So pair me with another guy my age. That’s a start. If we share the same religion or basketball allegiance, I feel more at home. If he’s gay too, then I feel an unspoken understanding. As a physician, though, I worry about giving unfair attention to people “like me.” Nonetheless, I also feel a responsibility to protect them.
And as a physician, there will be times when I fail to protect my patients. As a human being, I will likewise fail to protect my friends and peers. Sometimes this will not result from anything I did or did not do. Even so, I will still feel awful. Drawing the line between fault and guilt should be clear enough, so why have I taken on responsibility that is not mine to take?
It all started because I was hungry. (There was, of course, a lengthy prologue of which I was blissfully unaware.) I was driving back home to appease my empty stomach and to see an old friend who had been incommunicado for a year and who had just reestablished contact. Two birds, one stone, I thought.
Emerging through the drafty diner door, my friend looked the same as the day we first met, some five years prior—two teenage boys deciphering their sexual orientation. Either my memory of his past hugs failed me, or he squeezed me tighter than usual this time.
Have you ever sensed when something is not right? You wonder if maybe you are being a little paranoid, but you’ve got an uneasy feeling that cannot be attributed to the greasy diner bacon burger you just wolfed down.
He kept setting me up to guess where he had been over the past year. I interlaced my fingers and asked, “Is it something I’m going to get mad at you for?”
And so he confessed: He had been using crystal meth—a drug that has gained somewhat recent notoriety for its use in the gay community.
And I knew. I just knew.
He continued, “Remember back in May when I had a scare?”
Now, in the gay community this immediately means, “There was a chance I had been infected with HIV.”
“But it wasn’t just a scare … The doctor called me up—she left me a message, actually—that we should discuss some blood work in the office. Yeah, right. Blood work.”
Without ever saying the words that he had become HIV-positive, my friend had guided me to the conclusion. Guilty by association. I was speechless, unable to offer a solution or even meaningful comfort. I had known him “before and after” infection. The two things could not be further apart in my mind—my friend and HIV. I struggled to face the (un)reality.
I felt badly for him, but then I got mad at myself for feeling that way. I tried to decide if I should feel or act differently or if our relationship was the same. It was and it wasn’t.
I wished to have some emotion—any emotion. I worried that a gay man with HIV was fulfilling a stereotype. I was angry for his choices but also angry for how that reflected on a minority community that had to bond together. As soon as I realized that I had felt something, I deemed it “inappropriate” and tried to cast it away. I didn’t know what to do. My mind raced through a virtual phonebook, trying to identify a confidant who could help. Whereas my friend had months to get used to his new “status,” it was a heavy surprise for me, and I didn’t want to bear the load alone.
There is something unique about a personal friend acquiring an illness. This was a new “status” for me, too. I could no longer hear, see, taste, smell or feel. Relief, anger, fear, sadness and hope were my new five senses.
“I still love you,” I said before leaving the dichotomous roadside diner and confessional.
As I walked back alone to my car, all I could do was take note that the weather had gotten warmer and that the violet crocuses had come out.
Benjamin Silverberg is a second-year graduate student and practicing physician. His biweekly column will begin in the Fall. You can follow Ben on Twitter @hobogeneous.
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