A Portrait of Jim

"Here - talk to her," Ronnie snapped, and handed the phone to his friend, Jim. Ron, my very first young love, had become bored with chitchat, so compliments of Bell Telephone, I met Jim early in the summer of 1966. We became fast allies, joined by one universal truth: Ronnie was dumb! So much for thirteen year olds being eloquent. Jim and I only saw each other twice that summer when our opposing swim teams competed, but oh, the hours spent sharing our adolescent hearts via phone and letter! We laughed, we cried, we gossiped and philosophized, safely buffered by this new, unconditional friendship.

Each time we needed a place to lean, there was only ever one choice. And even though my parents kept waiting for me to officially date this elusive friend, that was not our destiny. Instead, we shared a yearly date to see Ronnie perform in his high school musicals, and then watched him in his college productions and onto Broadway in the original cast of "A Chorus Line." We were so grateful that a throwaway moment years before had brought us together. Little did we realize what was still ahead.

There would be no pretense in our friendship, I learned, the summer I lied and told Jim, the high school tennis team star, "Sure I play tennis!" - only to find out the ability to return a serve was an acquired skill, not an athletic guarantee. He chided me  as we stood on the court after 8 missed serves, reminding me I only ever had to be myself, not someone I thought I should be. We left to get ice cream and I now realize this was the first of many invaluable lessons Jim taught me over the years.

Jim counseled me patiently through a doomed-to-fail, long-term high school-to-college relationship, using candid assessments and his willingness to endlessly listen. When I moved to Michigan with my husband, a thousand miles from family, I felt so alone as I struggled as a new wife and mother, Jim called late one night and reminded me once again all I needed to do was be myself. He rejoiced at the birth of my 3 children; listened with sadness as I began to share remembrances of a less-than-ideal childhood, wondering why he hadn't recognized it or somehow been able to prevent my sadness then; and walked with me through the death of each of my parents, never judging the sorrow or regret, just letting me be me.



In turn, as a senior in high school, I had held his hand as he watched his beloved father die from a brain tumor. I sat in the pew at his wedding, a relationship which collapsed just a few short years later. At 25, I nodded in recognition as Jim walked back through childhood neglect and abuse; and in our early thirties, fought more than once to bring him back from the edge of depressions that ended in suicide attempts. And still, our biggest journey was yet to come.

My father died in early January 1988 and no matter where I called, I could not locate Jim. I learned weeks later he had nearly succeeded in another suicide attempt, only this time no one could identify him until he regained consciousness. When his call finally came and he explained his absence, Jim tearfully started, "I have something to tell you...."and I stopped him. Over the years people had come to recognize the uncanny connection between Jim and me because we so often knew what the other was thinking. I easily finished his sentence, "You are gay and you have AIDS." As Jim sobbed, I knew we had begun the last leg of our friendship together, one that would take an unbelievable eleven years.

AIDS in 2015 is not the same as it was when it first emerged. The horrors of the disease were numbing. It was dubbed "the leprosy," a disease that both devastated and humiliated. I had heard all of the statistics of AIDS, felt well-informed but blissfully insulated, certain I was compassionate and secretly glad it was something that was happening to someone else.

Not only did it happen, it threatened to smother my family as we realized my dearest friend was its latest casualty. We offered Jim long distance support, answering his cries for comfort at 2 AM and sending money and necessities whenever we could. His partner was one of the early victims (a term not often used) and I counseled Jim in the creation of the AIDS panel to remember Mike. Mike's death certificate read "brain tumor," but we knew the truth.

I traveled to Philadelphia and suddenly his faceless support group and AIDS hospice volunteers became real. Jim's degenerative condition was more than a diagnosis from afar, and suddenly, irrevocably, my entire family found itself immersed in the cause for AIDS education and the humane treatment of those afflicted. These were not victims, but people in pain - brothers, uncles, mothers, infants, best friends.

And so, when I returned to Michigan, I lectured on compassionate care for people with AIDS, talking to the Native American reservation outside Traverse City and to gatherings of caregivers at local hospices. I spoke with the passion of a friend who wanted to make Jim's life better by using my teaching skills to educate, to help. I became known to physicians' offices who would call and ask me to visit families of AIDS patients who were too scared to let their child come home for fear they would all be infected, or who feared the stigma they would endure if their own friends or communities knew what they saw as the plague on their houses. But they needed to talk, to cry, and it was a privilege and an honor to be trusted. For some, I was the only one who ever knew their truth, even now, years after their child's death.

My own children learned compassion and love by dancing with Jim along a Michigan beach when we
gave him the gift of a visit to our home. His doctors didn't want him to travel, but I put emergency care and transport in place and they finally agreed. It was a wonderful time of sharing and it would be the last trip he would make.

My family organized a holiday collection, shipping cartons of personal items like lip balms, deodorants, and lotions to the Philadelphia hospice in honor of Jim. I flew to Philadelphia, spending time caring for him, helping him write his will so he could control where his few possessions would go. I stood at the bedsides of Jim's fellow hospice patients - Barry, a Puerta Rican immigrant who had left his family behind in order to get care; and David, a New York actor who had come to die alone in Philadelphia. I watched the dignity yet horror of their deaths, then held Jim as I knew this too would be how his life would end. There were no cures, no reprieves.

On December 14, 1998, after too many crises to remember, too many dark nights, too many bedridden days filled with dementia and fear, it was Jim's turn to escape the pain of his earthly shell and walk in the light. I grieved not being there at the end, then rejoiced. My friend was pain-free at last.

I still miss him nearly twenty years later. Jim was always the right foot to my left, the fellow Pisces who was always rejuvenated by walks along the ocean; the dog lover, businessman on Wall Street; lover of Broadway shows and Seinfeld; the political cynic and my family's cheerleader, ever and always. He was the non-judgmental voice at the other end of the phone no matter where I lived or what hour of the day. Jim embodied friendship.

He was indeed my bridge over troubled water. Thanks for just being you, my friend.

Note: I have been unable to find a photograph of Jim but when I do, I will add to the blog.