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he felt up to it, we often had long, gratifying conversations. Nighttime,
though, seemed to allow the ' demons' to attack. If he was in particularly
low spirits, Tom would ask that the light be turned off. During these
dark times he often disclosed his pain, his loneliness and his fear of
death as he could at no other time. Sometimes, I would just sit in
silence on the side of his bed and hold his hand. He said it helped keep
the fears away and he could often fall back asleep. One night I dozed
off and awoke to find Tom leaning over me.
" Geez," he laughed, " didn't they tell you it was dangerous to
sleep with someone with AIDS?"
I know that they didn't mean the actual act of sleeping, but it
was a light moment in a long spell of darkness and I treasure that
moment of shared laughter.
Soon, my three weeks was up and I had to return to Alberta.
Our last night together, we talked the night away. This was the rest of
our lives' and we tried to cram all those lost years into those few hours.
We discussed with pleasure the things we had done and seen, and
cried together for the times we would never have. We spread out the
more than a hundred pictures I had taken and he chose some special
ones he wanted me to take with me to remember'. When I told him I
would come back whenever he wanted, he made me promise not to.
He wanted me to remember him alive. I reluctantly agreed. The next
morning as I prepared to leave, he had one last private request
" When you get to the car," he said, turn and smile but dont
wave. I'll do the same. Our last memories of each other will be of
happy times shared and not goodbye."
Holding back tears, I did as he asked.
A few weeks later I received the call. After months of pain, Tom
had finally died. I honoured my promise not to go to his funeral but it
was hard to do. That day I spent looking at my pictures: the two of us
riding an elephant Tom laughing at an overly curious black bear, Tom
with armloads of gladioli, Tom with Megan. Other pictures of times less
happy tried to enter my mind but I did my best to block them. I felt I
owed it to him to only remember the good.
I think of him often. As I write this, I have in front of me some of
those pictures and on my desk sits the owl figurine that he bought at
the Birds of Prey Show. I remember his words that day and envision
him flying free. A china owl, some photos and a dried gladiola are all
the tangible things I have of Tom, but each of them brings memories of
our short time together. It's those memories that really matter.
Although I miss him and I still cry, time has dulled some of the
overwhelming emotions I felt at the time. The sharp pain of his toss has
Object Description
| Rating | |
| Title | Write On! |
| Language | en |
| Date | 2004 |
Description
| Title | Page 62 |
| Language | en |
| Transcript | he felt up to it, we often had long, gratifying conversations. Nighttime, though, seemed to allow the ' demons' to attack. If he was in particularly low spirits, Tom would ask that the light be turned off. During these dark times he often disclosed his pain, his loneliness and his fear of death as he could at no other time. Sometimes, I would just sit in silence on the side of his bed and hold his hand. He said it helped keep the fears away and he could often fall back asleep. One night I dozed off and awoke to find Tom leaning over me. " Geez," he laughed, " didn't they tell you it was dangerous to sleep with someone with AIDS?" I know that they didn't mean the actual act of sleeping, but it was a light moment in a long spell of darkness and I treasure that moment of shared laughter. Soon, my three weeks was up and I had to return to Alberta. Our last night together, we talked the night away. This was the rest of our lives' and we tried to cram all those lost years into those few hours. We discussed with pleasure the things we had done and seen, and cried together for the times we would never have. We spread out the more than a hundred pictures I had taken and he chose some special ones he wanted me to take with me to remember'. When I told him I would come back whenever he wanted, he made me promise not to. He wanted me to remember him alive. I reluctantly agreed. The next morning as I prepared to leave, he had one last private request " When you get to the car," he said, turn and smile but dont wave. I'll do the same. Our last memories of each other will be of happy times shared and not goodbye." Holding back tears, I did as he asked. A few weeks later I received the call. After months of pain, Tom had finally died. I honoured my promise not to go to his funeral but it was hard to do. That day I spent looking at my pictures: the two of us riding an elephant Tom laughing at an overly curious black bear, Tom with armloads of gladioli, Tom with Megan. Other pictures of times less happy tried to enter my mind but I did my best to block them. I felt I owed it to him to only remember the good. I think of him often. As I write this, I have in front of me some of those pictures and on my desk sits the owl figurine that he bought at the Birds of Prey Show. I remember his words that day and envision him flying free. A china owl, some photos and a dried gladiola are all the tangible things I have of Tom, but each of them brings memories of our short time together. It's those memories that really matter. Although I miss him and I still cry, time has dulled some of the overwhelming emotions I felt at the time. The sharp pain of his toss has |
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