THE OTHER SIDE OF TENDERNESS (My AIDS Diary) FOUR: A Litany Of Stings

I go through this valley alone
even God has deserted me
friends smile and predict medical errors
while lovers turn away in the dark

it cannot be

Who am I to rage against
this tiny thing that strips me
into a litany of stings so great
that even hell hath dimmed her fury?

I will not fight

Take me into the darkness
the real well of pain
and shield me from the light
of heartbreaking hope

just let me be

Carlton’s Diary:

Sunday, 27th January 1991

Cathy invited Nick, a colleague from work, to have lunch and I busied myself in the morning; setting the table, arranging flowers and preparing delicate and visually appealing starters with savoury biscuits, smoked oysters and gherkins. These have always been my chores when we invited guests for a meal.

I was already on my third glass of wine when Nick arrived, bringing two bottles of white wine. Good! At least I wasn’t the only one expecting to drink a lot.

I hadn’t met Nick before, although Cathy had mentioned him. He’s divorced with a young son and has a reputation for being a ladies man. He looked as though he was in his mid forties but I knew from Cathy that he was in his early fifties; olive skin, dark, wavy hair perfectly cut and combed, an imperious Greek nose, dark eyes.

His short sleeved, crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone was a startling contrast to his dark hairy chest; hair that curled around the white edges of his shirt and came to an abrupt stop at his Adam’s apple; I couldn’t keep my eyes off this protrusion that bobbed in his throat like the float of a fishing line that was straining to hang on to the fish that it has just caught. He must have a hell of a job keeping that eruption of wiry curls from invading his face. I’d hate to do the shaving that he has to do in the morning.

Nestled in the black mat of his chest was an ostentatious, gaudy gold chain and cross. Hair escaped from his shirt sleeves curling down his tanned arms to his hands. A bulky gold chain encircled his left wrist and a gold Rolex his right one so that his hands appeared to be completely disconnected from his body. In contrast to the rest of his exposed skin they were hairless, and the most beautiful hands that I’d ever seen. They were sculptured like the hands of Michelangelo’s David; strong and pale but exquisitely expressive, and both of them were holding my hand.

He’d kissed Cathy and now he was holding my hand for much longer than was necessary, staring into my eyes, and speaking in a deep baritone, “It’s so good to meet you Carlton, Cathy’s told me so much about you.”  

When I finally managed to rescue my hand and my eyes from his entrancing captivity I went into the bedroom with my glass of wine and took a Reactivan. I’d promised myself that I’d not take any medication during the day but Nick’s presence had unsettled me. Something in those searching black eyes, as though he was able to clearly read every secret of my heart and those smooth artistic hands holding mine, made me feel a desire that I didn’t want to feel.

I was infected goods now. I didn’t need to feel those desires that would never be consummated again. They only hurt; unfulfilled longings that would never flower into physical expression. I needed to kill all feelings with medication and alcohol.

While Cathy was busy in the kitchen Nick asked if I had any opera music. I put on a CD by Sarah Brightman. “She has a pretty little voice,” Nick says, “but is it really opera?” I felt affronted by his condescension and changed the CD for one featuring Maria Callas. Nick sighs, “Now that’s what I call opera.”

Over lunch Nick tells the story of a young woman at work who fancied him; an extraordinarily intimate tale to be telling a work colleague and her husband that you’ve just met. This woman was always inviting Nick around to her place for a drink but he didn’t really find her attractive. Eventually, just to shut her up, he goes to her flat. She disappears into the bedroom and when she comes back out she’s completely naked. Nick starts to make love to her; kissing her, caressing her, teasing her until, as he puts it, “She’s begging for it.” Then he leaves her on the floor of her lounge and walks out of the flat.

“I left her lying there, panting for it, begging for it, and I felt nothing. The strange thing is that it never stopped her infatuation for me; after that her looks became even more intimate. I could feel when she was in the office, before I saw her, because those looks of hers found their way through my clothes; like a laser beam that was burning my skin.”

I was relieved when Nick left. Although I was making a concerted effort to be entertaining I found myself, with the combination of drink and drugs, lapsing into another world where I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I could hear the words; I just couldn’t comprehend there meaning.

After he was gone I admired the flowers that I’d arranged on the table, which looked so perfect they seemed ornamental. I said to Cathy in a slurred voice, "Aren't they pretty?"

I read my stars; ‘You are currently involved in a major upheaval in your life or the working pattern of your life.’ You don't say.

I fell asleep with the sounds of War of the Worlds playing all night on the permanent soundtrack of my mind.

Monday, 28th January 1991

I want to tell everyone. To stop people on the street and shout, “I may be dying, help me, please stop this from happening to me.” I want to tell Adrian and Kate and lean on them for support. Explain to my boss why I can’t get to grips with my work and why I’m absent so often. Why I’m so tired, so tired.

Most of all I want to confide in Cathy and have her support, understanding and forgiveness. Even her pity or anger would be better than this awful, fearful loneliness; living with this secret; these invaders slowly eating away at me while I helplessly do nothing.

Cathy has the right to make decisions about her life. She has the right to choose her own future, to refuse to go through the dismal future that she may have with me, rotting slowly from this disease, having to nurse me through the attacks of opportunistic diseases that will make me as helpless and dependant as a child. And if she decides to stay, she has the right to start making decisions with me. Where we should live. How we’re going to take care of finances, insurance, medical aid; a barrage of questions that need answering; a life plan; a battle plan.

What about my own rights? My right to accept my life the way that it’s been and to have no regrets and take the good with the bad; to forgive myself if I’ve made mistakes; to realize that this isn’t a punishment from God for having sinned; to refuse to give in to the 'victim' syndrome. To fight back. To fight what? Maybe I don’t have it after all.

Please God. Perhaps this is just a non-event.

Ross, Denis and Helen have all counselled me to keep this to myself until the next test - in five weeks time.

If that Eliza is positive and if the Western Blot confirms the result, they’ll then be able to do further tests to check the damage to my immune system and give a diagnosis; HIV positive, AIDS related complex or Full Blown AIDS. Perhaps even a prognosis; maybe later, maybe soon, maybe tomorrow. Then I might have something to report to Cathy, Adrian, Kate and those that I’ve put in danger, if I knew who they were.

Until then I take pills and listen to War of the Worlds.

The Angel is always near.


(From Part Three of Other Voices, a semi-autobiographical novel of triumph over adversity by Carlton Carr)
(Drawing: A Litany of Stings by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
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