My father passed away May 22, 2005. That was six months and ten days ago. He was diagnosed with HIV in the fall of 1987. I was around ten years old, and we were living in Atlanta Georgia. He came home that afternoon, after a quick conversation my mom ran to her room and began screaming. She didn't come out for hours. The whole scene was pretty wierd because my mom is the strongest person I know. My dad came out of the closet before I was one, which means they did not have a sexual relationship, she was obviously not infected. My father got tested on my mothers request who did not trust his partner. Despite their sexual prefrences they were bestfriends and through a lot of ups and twice as many downs they stayed together to raise my brother and I.
I don't remember a day that we spoke my parents didn't tell me they loved me. He started getting sick in the early 90's, some new cocktails came out in 1996 which helped my dad return to his halariously quick witted self. That up lasted for almost three years. Before 2000 my parents and I moved from the crowded city to a small town in the pacific northwest. The air was cleaner, the crime less, and the closest doctor with AIDS experience four hours away. Those years my father and my began to disappear. His former lover of nine years told him that he knowingly infected him. We also found out that those wonder meds would cause his joints to crumble, making movement nearly impossible. By the spring of 2003, my proud wonderful father needed constant oxygen, unable to eat, or control boidly functions. He remained that way for two years. He was also shrouded in guilt.
This past May he finally let go. My mother never let spend one day in the hospital. The day she called me, his hands and feet were purple due to lack of oxygen. He said that he was only bruised. While I was at the airport in southern california my mother was waiting with my father. He was ready to go, he asked her no to invite his children home, I am sure he wanted to spare us his pain. He asked her to go upstairs and get some sleep. When she returned 15 minutes later he was in a coma, and quit breathing moments later. She called me while I was in the security line at the airport. He had felt it was rude to die in front of people.
I am sure he is in a place free of pain and guilt now.

Sent via Email December 3, 2005 from USA.