In my lifetime so far, I have truly, deeply loved only three people.
The first was my life partner of 13 years. He lost a long, hard-fought battle with HIV/AIDS in January 1996, three days after his birthday, 15 years ago last week. There are many stories to tell of him and us, but they will (perhaps) come later.
This post is about my second love — his name was Donny, and he was wiry, dry and whip-smart. His passions were Star Trek, Chihuahuas, vodka, computers and A/V gadgets, Mexican food and beer, the beach, Bombay Company, Kitaro and Yanni and Pachelbel’s Canon, cooking, 80’s electronica and Courvoisier.
Donny’s was one of several new faces I encountered as I ventured (back) into the social scene in the spring of ‘96 — alone for the first time really, after months of care-giving and final arrangements for my partner. Donny and I frequented the same bar after work, and it didn’t take long before we knew each other by name, and occasionally joined in some spirited, liquor-infused group discussions about this or that. But, he had sort of a reputation for being aloof … a loner who didn’t like anyone getting too close.
One afternoon I got to happy hour a little early. Donny was already there, perched on the middle stool at the bar by himself. I sat down next to him, and we exchanged hello’s and chatted a bit with the bartender. All pleasant enough, but it became pretty obvious that something was eating at Donny, as he hunched over his drink and didn’t say much.
The bartender had to go in the back for something, and Donny and I sat in silence for a minute or two. Finally, I took out a coin, put it on the bar and said, “A nickel for your thoughts, because I know they’re worth more than a penny.”
He looked up for a second, laughed, and then sighed so hard that his face almost dunked his drink. “Oh, just some work stuff,” he said. “It’s very technical, you wouldn’t understand. Or care, probably.”
I told him I’d paid my nickel and would take my chances, and that I was a good listener if nothing else. Reluctantly, and as if he expected my eyes to glaze over at any moment, he explained that he was having trouble with “configuring some dial-up ISDN lines so customers could upload raster images to a file server for output to an industrial plotter”. As it happens, I’d worked with networks and computers for nearly 20 years, and had direct experience with almost everything he said. So I nodded, and rattled off some appropriate jargon back in his direction.
The transformation in Donny was immediate, like a high-speed time lapse of a flower wilting, but in reverse. “Oh my God, someone who actually understands this shit!” From there we babbled on about tech stuff for a couple of hours, oblivious as the rest of the bar buzzed around us. We swapped phone numbers and e-mail addresses and IM usernames, as well as a few rounds of drinks and shots.
That night led to many other discussions, dinners, adventures, vacations, birthdays, Christmases, remote cam sessions, and evenings just sitting quietly listening to each other breathe. We had our own peculiar dynamic, along with the occasional blow-up and reset, but the vast majority of our time together was very special to me, and I think (hope) to him as well.
I came to realize, however, that Donny was mortally wounded, psychologically. He had some serious trauma in his childhood, and his teen years weren’t much better. He’d been screwed over by his own first love and all his closest friends in a triple-cross fit for a soap opera, and would tell you in a second that he’d just as soon die alone than risk it again. Nevertheless, we made a lot of progress and I’d hoped my continuing patience, love and kindness would eventually convince him that not all men were pricks.
Unfortunately time was not on our side, as they say. In late fall of 2000, Donny started acting a bit strange. He said it was just stress, and though it seemed more serious to me, I didn’t have any grounds to question his diagnosis. By January 2001, he’d really gone downhill, and his parents came into town to take him home with them for a little while.
A few days later, 10 years ago last week, I got a call from a friend who said Donny had been put in the hospital, and there was a good chance he wouldn’t be getting out. They had discovered he was HIV+, and MRIs showed his brain was completely clouded with dementia-inducing infection. I wasn’t worried about him infecting me, but it still came as a shock because he’d specifically said he had tested negative back in September. Before that, he’d always claimed that AIDS was just a scam that doctors were using to sell expensive drugs; I’ll never know if he truly believed that, or was just fronting his denial.
The doctors were able to stabilize his condition and eventually sent him home to hospice care. I visited a few times, but it was always awkward — Donny’s parents didn’t really want outsiders involved, and were in their own state of denial (they originally told me he was just ‘dehydrated’). And realistically, he had become a 90-year-old Alzheimer’s patient trapped in a barely ambulatory 35-year-old body. It was heartbreaking, and impossible to tell most of the time if he even recognized who I was.
9/11 happened a few months later, and everyone hunkered down in their respective worlds. I thought about him every day, but it didn’t make sense continuing to impose my presence where it wasn’t really needed or wanted. Somehow, Donny ‘miraculously’ hung on another couple of years after originally being given only a month to live. But if any part of his consciousness was still intact, I know it was Hell on earth for him to be trapped in that body, in that place for that long.
On February 2, 2003, eight years ago today, Donny finally passed away. I wasn’t invited to his funeral — didn’t even know about it until after the fact. I’m sure people said nice things at the service, which he probably would’ve derided as hypocritical ‘platitudes’ (his favorite word). I suppose in some way this post can be my own belated eulogy for him, though he’d undoubtedly find it ridiculous that I even still think about him at this point.
But I do, and in particular I’ll always remember that first night we really bonded, talking about ISDN lines (of all things). I like to envision a miniature Big Bang occurred that night — and set in motion a universe of feelings and experiences — the moment when his and my lifestreams intersected and intertwined. And I don’t think there can be a better or more memorable gift, to receive or give, than the realization that someone truly does understand and care about what’s on your mind.
Cheers, Donny, wherever you are. It’s not been and never will be the same here without you, but I hope you carried all the love and finally escaped all the pain you were dealt in this world.
