THE OTHER SIDE OF TENDERNESS (My AIDS Diary) SIX: The Angel of Death

i have a sadness
that has settled down so deep
that nothing I imagine
could ever reach
to tear it out

not drugs nor drink
can sink that far
nor angels in whatever form
perform this miracle
and remove this scar

Carlton’s Diary:
Wednesday, 30th January 1991

My life has always had a soundtrack. Some of the sound has become scratched and faded but can still be replayed in my memory. My mother’s voice singing to me in the cot; "Soft as the voice of an angel, breathing a lesson unheard.” My father’s voice; “Don't expect life to be fair.”

The tracks that I’m still able to play, some of them faded but audible, are on tapes that date back to the time I fell in love with Robbie and Cathy. They feature my squeaky adolescent voice, reading the poems that I’d written for Robbie and given to Cathy. The sound of my piano playing, the notes not always right, the piano out of tune, the timing erratic; but God knows how I meant every note.

Cathy and I saw the move Ghost today and I wanted to tell her that, as romantic and unrealistic as it may seem, if I die before her I’ll never be far away. When she hears the rustle in the autumn leaves, or hears the strains of some old love song that we shared, or sees a single rose, I’ll touch her from wherever I am and tell her again that I love her.

Thursday, 31st January 1991
The paradox of this disease is that while it may be killing me it also corrects an imbalance that exists in my life. One of the reasons that I rejected a gay life style and chose to get married so young was because I didn’t want to be old and lonely; like the old and lonely men who bitterly recall the days when they were young and attractive and wanted; desire not having left them they watch the young men who laugh in their faces at their lust. I didn’t want to be one of them.

So what did I do? I married a woman twenty years older than myself. With all things being equal the probability of still being a lonely old man, alone with my senility and largely unquenched desire, remained until I became HIV+. Now the chances of growing old together are pretty good. Cathy has a twenty year head start but I’m putting in a last sprint to catch up. If God is good to both of us perhaps we’ll reach the finishing line together.

I write a letter to Adrian because it’s easier than picking up the phone and I don’t have to be afraid that I may unwittingly reveal my precarious health crisis.

Dear Hilda,
Will we grow old together? Go bowling on Saturdays and sit on the seashore on Sundays watching the sun or the sea or the surfers?

Some nights we’ll go to the movies and complain about how they’ve gone to the dogs. You’ll wear your clothes with flair, perhaps a red scarf and an ivory cane for your failing legs. I’ll wear my suits and gold cufflinks and with the help of eye drops, Second Debut and cologne we’ll carry it off.

On rainy nights we’ll stay in to avoid catching cold and listen to our ancient records and go through our photo albums remembering, not very accurately, the things that have happened to us.

We’ll grow irritated with one another and fight and accuse each other of unmentionable things. We’ll rake up the past but stay together having no other place to go; both of us having no one. Keep this letter – it will raise a laugh should things really get bad.
As Always,
Dora

Saturday, 2nd February 1991

The physical signs;

The rash.
The terrible tiredness.
The bouts with sinusitis and bronchitis that take so long to heal.
Occasional night sweats.

But still there’s no proof.

Today was dad’s 68th birthday and as usual he had lunch with us.

When I was young my father’s hair had already begun to recede. In the wedding photographs that hung on the lounge wall next to the three brightly painted, plaster of Paris flying ducks, my father had a full head of curly hair.

As I was growing up I watched the bald patch eat away at his wavy, thick locks. By the time I was a teenager dad had grown his remaining strands of hair on one side of his head and began to thicken them with Vaseline and comb them over his bald patch. When he became frenzied, while preaching, this improvised wig would loosen and hang from the side of his head. He looked like a mad scientist or an extra in the Rocky Horror Picture Show and I swore that if I ever lost my hair I’d do it gracefully.

My hair has already begun to thin out and recede. Dad’s totally bald and has bought a lifeless, dull rug of a wig that lies lustreless on the top of his head as though an emaciated kitten has crawled up there to die in peace.

Cathy treats him as though he’s a child. “Sit over here Daniel, where it’s comfy and out of the way of the draft and I’ll make you a nice cup of hot tea,” and dad quietly does as he’s told with a frozen smile that’s died on his face, like the dead kitten on his head.

It’s difficult to be with him because he no longer volunteers conversation. Cathy, however, can hold an extended conversation with a brick wall so she kept the uncomfortable silences at bay with her chatter.

While she was busy in the kitchen, preparing the meal, I asked dad if he’d ever seen an angel. My question drew the longest reply I’ve had from him in years.

"Yes. It was a Saturday. That morning your mother and I took you to the beach. I’d had an asthma attack the night before and wasn’t feeling well. I walked up and down the sand doing deep breathing exercises. Your mother wanted me to go into the water with you, to look after you, but I couldn’t. This upset her.

That night I awoke and there was a man in the room. He was extremely tall, more than six feet, and handsome, with short dark hair. He wore a soiled white robe. He asked me where you were and I replied that you were in your room. He said that he’d come to fetch you.

He turned and walked towards the room in which you were sleeping. I’d not felt afraid because one can only see angels with the eyes of the soul. When he turned I noticed that he had black wings.

My soul left my body and I was inside your room, looking down on what was happening. I could see you dying, thrashing about.

Your mother came into the room and lay down beside you, holding you in her arms. She said afterwards that she saw your tiny soul leave your body and me, floating inside the room, beckoning you back.

Slowly life returned to you.”

I asked him if he’d ever seen an angel again and he replied, “No.”

I’m not sure if my memory of this scene, that my father had just confirmed, is a recollection of actual events or a remembrance of something he had dreamed and told me about in my adolescence. I could call mom and try to get corroboration but I don’t want to open myself up to her inevitable ridicule. Anyway, I know from my reading that personal history is real, even if it’s fictitious, second hand, family mythology and that it’s the stuff that archetypes are made of.

Throughout my life The Angel of Death has waited in the shadows for my soul’s release. He dares me to take risks; to gamble with my life by driving drunk or drugged, having unsafe sex or indulging all the slow suicides of my addictions. He whispers to me that death is divine and promises peace and solace in that endless night. He shrouds me with the veil of depression, shutting out all hope and light. He invites me to join him, to lay myself down and surrender to his tender seduction, with promises of peace.

(From Part Three of Other Voices, a semi-autobiographical novel of triumph over adversity by Carlton Carr)
(Collage: Angels 2 by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
http://othervoices.blog.co.uk