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What the AIDS Crisis Taught Me About COVID-19

[additional-authors]
October 30, 2020
Photo by Jamie Lords / EyeEm/Getty Images

As I endure the COVID-19 pandemic with my partner Danny and our son Kevin in our downtown Los Angeles apartment, I cannot help but revisit memories of living through another epidemic in my community: the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Despite some parallels — the uncertainty about the mode of transmission, the effects of infection, the lack of effective treatment — that time seems divorced from today’s reality. But the lasting lessons from the HIV/AIDS epidemic have helped me weather the current storm.

I recall that, just as I was coming out in 1980, I heard news of gay men stricken by an illness that corrupted their bodies’ defenses and left them to the ravages of tortuous infections, cancer and death. I remember how, when it first came to light, when we did not know how it was transmitted or what to call it, we wondered whether social kisses, shared food, a hug or touching a doorknob could lead to death.

I lived through the fear and the loss of friends during the late 1980s and early 1990s. In November 1991, my partner at the time, Martial-Rio, died of AIDS complications. By the time we had met a few years earlier, the mode of transmission and the means of protecting oneself were well known; Martial-Rio and I took all the necessary precautions.

But the precautions for physical safety we practiced with each other did not shield me from the emotional pain of seeing my partner suffer the relentless indignities of — and life-sucking progression of — the disease, or of my powerlessness in the face of it. Friends helped, lending me support, a sympathetic ear, and warm hugs. Many of them had endured the same experience as I had with their partners, friends and family.

After Martial-Rio died, my feelings see-sawed between numbness and terror, which inflicted my psyche despite knowing that I was healthy. At night in particular, I was stricken by the fear of death. I needed periodic reminders of the reality of my health. Maybe the fears my mind focused on kept the loneliness and despair of losing my partner at bay.

Shortly after Martial-Rio’s death, my therapist abruptly became too sick to see patients and died of AIDS shortly thereafter. Far from an isolated incident, I lost other friends and mentors, some of whom I had not even known had HIV/AIDS. About six months into working with a new therapist, he asked me whether I was afraid of dying or, rather, afraid of living. The question resonated with me. I was living and moving on in a way, but it took almost a year for the feelings of terror to subside.

A motorhome converted into a mobile HIV screening lab by the AIDS Healthcare Foundation (AHF) is parked on a busy street on its first day of operations on April 28, 2004 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by David McNew/Getty Images)

Many in the LGBTQ community channeled their pain and fear during the AIDS crisis into activism, with direct, in-your-face demonstrations, political lobbying or organizing or by bringing legal challenges. I was more attuned to the latter type of action. And I felt most energized when working to advance the cause of justice for the community.

Thinking back to that period of my life, it seems like another life. While I recall the despair, it now seems unreal. I understand that, perhaps, moving on and making the most of my life required compartmentalization of that earlier time to a different place. We do not forget, but at the same time, we remember as though watching a play, as if looking at someone else’s life. Maybe I learned this method of adapting from my parents, who fled persecution in Vienna in the late 1930s to build a new life in the United States.

But that compartmentalization is not the only reason that COVID-19 feels so different from HIV/AIDS. As I have learned more about COVID-19, the health fears seem starker and yet, less real. Transmission is much easier than with HIV: errant droplets exhaled by an infected person can lead to contracting the illness. But, in contrast to the early days of AIDS, I am not confronted by so much death in my small community. I am not inputting multiple funeral dates on my calendar. Comfort seems more difficult when friends, out of necessity, remain physically distant and give support only by phone or video chat.

During the height of the AIDS crisis, focus on work provided solace, a respite from my mind’s fears after my partner, mentors and friends died of AIDS. Now, however, work disruption is an endemic impact of the COVID pandemic. I have not suffered the ultimate work disruption — loss of my job — but I have lost collegial connections and interactions, the division of work and personal time, the ability to meet in person with clients and court hearings and trials. All of these interferences heighten isolation and cause cognitive — as well as physical — dislocations in work.

In the midst of the AIDS crisis, I needed to learn to find meaning in everyday life and work. I also needed to continue to have hope. I had always wanted to be a father. About a year before Martial-Rio died, we talked about having children. A few days before he died, he asked me to promise not to give up on that dream. I promised, amid so much death, but I could not fathom bringing a new life into the world.

With time, hope returned. I began to attend sessions at the L.A. LGBT Center for lesbians and gay men who wanted to explore having children. After the first session, sitting in my car, tears welled in my eyes. I felt I could do it. And I did. When my son was born, I chose Chaim as his Hebrew name because his birth was an affirmation of life and hope.

I also learned patience. I needed to give myself time to heal, reach out and rekindle hope.

These experiences offered me a source of resilience, which has become important as I — and so many others — endure the COVID-19 pandemic. I understand the need to feel productive and to make a meaningful contribution. Life does go on. Keeping a perspective of what is important in life, family, community and making a difference fosters a sense of hope and meaning as this long crisis drags on.

The AIDS crisis also taught me how critical a shared sense of responsibility is to addressing a community-wide health crisis. In responding to the devastating impact of AIDS on gay men, the lesbian community and gay male community came together in new ways. (The shared responsibility, however, was not without its faults. White-dominated AIDS and LGBT rights organizations neglected communities of color until late in the crisis.)

My experience during the AIDS epidemic taught me that one can learn lessons, even when life’s meaning is unclear.

Despite the differences between the two crises, they both had an existential impact on my everyday life, leading me to question, “What now?” Maybe that impact is a benefit, even if one would prefer that life return to how it was before the first infection. My experience during the AIDS epidemic taught me that one can learn lessons, even when life’s meaning is unclear. Caring for my partner and friends in the darkest times gave me the strength to affirm life and have the hope to bring new life into the world. Losing so many taught me to cherish the relationships I have. I gained a perspective on the importance of standing up for others who cannot fend for themselves and about taking care of oneself especially when in crisis.

We should approach COVID-19 with the same open mind. If we continue to seek meaning in life — even when the meaning seems lost — we will look back on this time maybe not with fondness, but with an appreciation of what we have learned.


William Weinberger is an attorney with a business and employment litigation practice in Los Angeles and serves on the Board of Trustees of Congregation Kol Ami, West Hollywood’s Reform Synagogue.

 

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