I confess, I let myself take life for granted.
I like to refer to the late 1980s as the honeymoon phase of my lifelong marriage to a deadly virus. It was during this newly infected period, when HIV and I were still reeling from the intoxicating novelty of it all, that I first read Paul Monette’s Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir. Monette’s book is a harrowing, firsthand account of his battle with a disease that was ruthlessly devouring him, while society waved a judgmental finger and did shamelessly little to ease the suffering. Monette’s very personal story had a profound impact on how I began to view my own uncertain future with HIV. A life inextricably joined to an intimate companion who could, at any moment, fatally betray me.
The book’s most pointed lesson for me at the time, was regarding the critical nature of what I like to call spontaneous gratitude. That is, the need to be thankful in every living moment. Need? Did I say need? Blech! Let me try again. Choice. Yes, I much prefer choice. The choice to be thankful in every living moment, because each of those moments could be our last. It was a lesson I learned well. One I challenged myself to put into daily practice during the sunset years of the old century and the dawn of the new. Decades I spent ping-ponging from doctor appointments, to political protests, to memorial services. And, after a certain passage of time, I assumed that my belief in spontaneous gratitude had become intuitive. That I was able to feel sincere appreciation for the gift of every moment without conscious effort. As it turns out, however, many lessons – even the most pointed ones – need to be learned more than once.
Flash forward twenty years. By 2007, Paul Monette had been dead for more than a decade. Twelve years to be precise. About the same amount of time me and my then life-partner Will had been together. By then, HIV had become a far more manageable illness. The development of new medications, while not offering an all-out cure, certainly held the promise of extended life. Men like me began to look again at dreams deferred. We reconsidered youthful aspirations that had been abandoned in lieu of getting our affairs in order. For me, those aspirations were owning a home, finishing college, and maybe even pursuing a graduate degree. As fate would have it, Will’s ambitions were surprisingly similar.
We were determined, Will and I. We saved money and together we bought our first home. A tiny, brick bungalow perched on a hillside below Mount Washington. The front of the old house overlooked the 2 freeway, and beyond that the eastern slope of Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale. Sitting on our front porch, looking past the slow, snaking traffic at a blanket of soft green grass dappled with blanched headstones, it was difficult not to be reminded of just how fortunate we were.
We moved into our new home with two cats, Maggie and Bob, but it wasn’t long before our furry family began to grow. First, came a dog. Honey, a sweet golden-lab mix, was a stray that I brought home from work one day. Shortly after Honey’s arrival, we found three abandoned kittens in the vacant lot next to the house. One of them was already dead, but we managed to nurse the remaining two back to health. Pierre and Brigette were their formal names. And for a time, they lived feral and unapproachable, in the small cupboard under the bathroom sink. As time went on, they grew, mellowed, and even discovered their ability to purr. The turnaround in their personalities eventually earned them the affectionate nicknames of Mister and Sister.
Living there, in a heaven of our own making, Will and I made some very auspicious plans about how we would move forward into the unexpected future that had been gifted us. The idea was that Will would apply to grad school while I finished my BA. And then, after Will completed his postgraduate work, I would apply to a master’s program in playwriting. Ambitious to be sure. But, as it turned out, the God’s of pedagogy were on our side. I registered for classes at California State University, Northridge to finish my undergraduate degree in Theatre and Will was accepted to an MFA program at New York University. The arrangement would require a few years of long-distance living, me at home on the west coast and Will back east, but we both felt that our relationship was up for the challenge. And, after all the schooling was said and done, we would return home. Where Bob would be perched on the stone arch over the entry from the street. Welcoming us back to our enchanted hillside.
Sometime during Will’s stint in grad school, however, the LA housing market went slightly bonkers and our very modest house more than doubled in value. With mounting student loan debt and likely more borrowing on the horizon, we mutually decided that it would be wise to cash in on our newly acquired equity. Will flew home and we worked hard over a few summer months to get the place looking storybook beautiful. I took the lead on landscaping while Will focused on new moldings throughout the interior. We also enlisted the help of our parents. Will’s folks painted every inch of the well-weathered, masonry exterior. Front to back and foundation to eaves. In the cozy dining room, my dad restored some of the original woodwork around the built-in china cabinets. It was truly a family enterprise and the shared effort paid off. When the property was listed, it sold for well over asking in a matter of days. And just like that, our little heaven on the hill suddenly belonged to someone else.
Will returned to New York. And, after relocating to a house in Northridge, I continued with work, school, and caring for our animals. By that time, our furry family was down one member. We lost Maggie to kidney failure in the months before we sold the house on the hill, and I buried her there in the backyard under an old, gnarled pomegranate tree. It brought me comfort then to place her gaunt, silky carcass in a ground so sacred. And I often still think of her there. Forever resting in a place so loved.
As time went on, the distance between Will and I seemed to grow. It was more than just the long miles between New York and LA. I began to feel less needed and more detached from the whirlwind of his east coast existence. Perhaps it was that fraying connection that drove me to begin an emotional affair with another man. Maybe I was driven by good old-fashioned loneliness, or a fit of mid-life insecurity. Or, it could be that I simply caved to a delicate strum on my frail vanity. You know. That ego-boosting rush of testosterone that’s unleashed by the flirty glance from a good-looking guy at the other end of a crowded bar. Feeling desired again. In spite of my advancing age and my enduring HIV. Deceived by the pharmaceutical promise of countless tomorrows. Detoured by the inviting eyes of a handsome stranger. Dazed by the unfamiliar cush of a bloated bank account. Somewhere, in all of that, I had been disgracefully reborn. And in that fog of spiritual confusion, I forgot the valuable lesson I had learned in Borrowed Time all those years earlier. I abandoned my pledge of spontaneous gratitude and lost sight of my blessings. But the bottom line, regardless of why, is that I had been unfaithful.
Will and I tried some couples counseling, but the truth is I had somehow become steadfastly defiant. I inherited an unrelenting stubborn streak from my father, and, in the circumstance of my faltering relationship, that refusal to bend ultimately left me standing tragically alone on a summer-hot sidewalk in the San Fernando Valley. And from that lonely vantage point, I watched Will drive away. Honey riding shotgun and Bob, Mister, and Sister in cat carriers in the back seat. That car, filled with everything I loved most in the world, headed north to where Will would be working temporarily at a small liberal arts college for the coming academic year. In the fall, I would be headed east. I was moving to Will’s recent stomping ground, NYU, where I had just been accepted into an MFA playwriting program at Tisch School of the Arts.
It would be a year before I saw any of them again. When I returned to LA for the summer between my first and second year of grad school, I planned to drive out to Las Vegas where Will had accepted a permanent teaching job. Just before I was scheduled to visit, however, he called to let me know that Bob was lost. He’d escaped through an open door at Will’s new apartment and disappeared into unfamiliar surroundings. My drive to Vegas the following day was fueled by a simmering panic as I imagined Bob frightened and alone in the searing desert heat. A pile of ‘lost cat’ fliers with Bob’s picture sat on the passenger seat next to me. His stern, feline gaze daring me not to question every life choice I had made leading up to that very moment.
Will and I had a strained reunion. Steeped in an emotional blend of anger, fear, and guilt. I played with Honey and tried to reingratiate myself to Mister and Sister, but I sensed that our time away from each other had made them understandably wary. Before returning to my hotel, I left fliers on car windshields in the sprawling, outdoor parking lot around Will’s building. That evening, in my room overlooking the dazzling lights of the Vegas strip, I searched the internet for information on how long a housecat might be expected to survive in extremely adverse weather conditions. The statistics were not comforting. After saying goodbye to Will the following morning and making one, final, investigative sweep around his apartment complex, I got in my car and headed back to LA.
For days, I prayed that Will would call with news that Bob had returned. Perhaps he wandered home, was found by a neighbor, or turned up at a local animal shelter. But that call never came. I returned to New York in the fall with a lingering despair. Highly cognizant of the steep price I had paid for flipping heaven. More aware than ever of how fortunate I was to be afforded the continuing opportunity to pursue my dream of being a writer. And reminded once again to not take life for granted. Spontaneous gratitude. In every moment. For who I am with. For what I have. For exactly where I am.
Post-graduation, I moved back to LA and Honey returned to live with me. Not long after, she passed away peacefully in her sleep curled up on the living room couch. Like Maggie, Honey is buried in the backyard of a home where I no longer live and I am always happy to think of her there. Mister and Sister lived out their pampered days with Will in Las Vegas and died in loving arms. In the years since, Will and I have re-claimed a friendship of sorts. One I cherish. For my part, I am grateful for the abundance of joy we shared during our time together and happy that we both went on to build extraordinary lives independent of each other.
And then, there is Bob. His story’s end forever unknown. For him, still, sometimes I cry. But I have faith. When the day comes for me to inhale one final breath of gratitude and to cherish my last moment. When a door is left open for me and I am offered an escape into unfamiliar surroundings. When I find myself approaching a new and glorious heaven on a hill. Bob will be there. On the arch over the entrance. Waiting once more. To welcome me home.
“If later on, as we read this, we might think “How happy we were then!” at least we’ll have that. That as we lived them, these moments, we knew they were important, and that’s all there is.”
― Paul Monette, Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir
