A reader writes:
This post touched and saddened me for so many reasons, and I wanted to share my own story of dealing with and losing someone to HIV.
My parents, who were totally wrong for each other but impulsive, ran off together and eloped. By the time I was born, my Mom, who was raised and rebelled against a very strong and strict Catholic upbringing, realized her mistake, and they divorced. I had contact off-and-on with my Father and his family up until his death at 32 of a cerebral hemorrhage. My Dad was an Air Force brat, and by the time I was born, his small family had pretty much dispersed throughout the country, but I knew he had a brother who lived in San Francisco and was an artist.
On my 21st Birthday, in 1987, I received a package in the mail from him. It contained a beautiful short strand of pearls and a note which read: "Dear Collette, These once belonged to your Great Grandmother Margie Coffman…" He went on to describe this unusual and forceful woman I'd never met. He added that now that I was 21, and the only female granddaughter in the family, he thought they should go to me. He added that he had recently been diagnosed with HIV, and should I want to get to know him, or have any questions about the paternal side of my family, it would be a good time to get to know one another.
We had five wonderful years of letters and phone conversations to become Uncle and Niece. I flew out to San Francisco to see him after he entered into full blown AIDS. He died in 1992, and was the last and only link to my paternal line. What I wouldn't give to have him get the drugs which make HIV a survivable disease.
The Dish 