Surviving and Thriving with AIDS: Hints for the Newly Diagnosed Michael Callen, Editor

©1987 PWAC NOTE: THIS IS OLD NEWS, posted for historical research only. The medical information herein is extremely outdated!

CHILDREN WITH AIDS

A MOTHER WITH AIDS SPEAKS OUT
Name Withheld by Request

Losing a child is something I know a mother could never forget. But in my case, I could never forget nor forgive myself, for I blame myself in a lot of ways cause maybe if my life was different my son would be alive today.

It's been almost a year now that my son passed away and instead of it getting easier, I think of him even more. In the beginning I asked God over and over: "Why my son? Why not me?" I would have traded places with him if I could. I thought maybe God is trying to show me something by taking someone who is so dear to me. To see your child sick off and on for four years is very painful and not being able to help, you feel so helpless even though I loved him very much, it was so hard for me to see him so sick. Just holding him in my arms would hurt him. His little bones were always hurting him. It was just like he had one layer of skin on his bones.

To look at how small and helpless he was brought tears to my eyes every time. Now that he is gone, I think of him every day. I get so depressed, it's just not fair. I can never understand. One thing I am glad is that he is not in any more pain and it helps me to know a sweet little boy like that couldn't go any place but a place better than this. And I also feel that one day we'll be together.

But until that, he will remain in my heart.

ALL IN THE FAMILY
by Jane Rosett

I spent Christmas day visiting some friends who live at Harlem Hospital. My first stop was the Infants' AIDS Ward. I was greeted at the nurses' station by six-month-old Sarah. She's the floor favorite. A spunky BIG baby, Sarah jiggled up and down in her sling-on-wheels.

"In a few months, you'll be rolling around here all by yourself--this is, if no one adopts you," one of the nurses said proudly. Then she slipped into a baby voice, "Please adopt me. Please take me home. I promise to be good...."

She oogled at Sarah and the baby bounded an autistic bounce. The teddy bear I gave her was twice her size; the bear's hat covered Sarah's entire head.

She has a caged crib, but clearly prefers the nurses' station. Who wouldn't? Sarah's the VIP on the seventeenth floor. Her brother isn't so lucky. Tommy's two and is dying. Christmas is his birthday. Tommy's baby sister Sarah is at least as big as he is. He lies gazing all day and night in his caged crib which is right next to Sarah's.

Eight kids in a room. Surrounded by bars on all sides and on top. Most of them are small enough to fit through. They could escape if they had the energy.

"No one ever visits," one of the nurses offered. "One of the mothers used to come by occasionally, but she died in November. Grandmothers come. This one," (pointing to a girl who was born in June and still weighs five pounds), "her grandmother stops by every now and then."

* * *

At a dinner party held at Harlem Hospital for People with AIDS, some women congratulated another woman who has AIDS and who thinks she's pregnant: "Are you going to keep it?" one woman asked.

"I guess so. Why not?"

This woman is aware that her baby could be born HIV positve, but, as she explained it, she has already given birth three times and was carrying the virus during those conceptions.

* * *

Harlem Hospital has been Tracey's home since last February. When I arrived she was nodding out because someone had given her some methadone. Her brother Bob, who lives across the hall, explained: "Tracey says she gets it from the nurses, but I know that's bullshit. Why the hell would they give her meth? It only weakens her bones even more. She can barely walk as it is. Think they'd be stupid enough to give her meth?"

Once siblings of different genders grow up, they aren't allowed to share a room anymore. Unlike Sarah and Tommy, Tracey and Bill aren't allowed to sleep next to each other.

In her own defense, Tracey claimed: "Santa got me high, but my grandmother got mad. I don't get why she's so pissed...I feel better." The Christmas dinner her grandmother brought her stank. The meth syringe was stuck in the pineapple which had been intended as a condiment for the ham. Tracey was high, not hungry.

You don't have to be a grandmother to visit PWAs at Harlem Hospital. Just take the Number 2 train to 135th Street and Lenox Avenue.

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