Remembering Brad: On the Loss of a Son to AIDS (22 page)

I am struck by the similarities between the psychological stages in the dying process as described by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, including denial, anger, bargaining, despair, and acceptance, and the progress of grieving that others experience. That the stages so nearly correspond for the two groups is not surprising at all when one recognizes that the dying person is, after all, so obviously a griever. I want to comment here on the effects of anger as a part of that process.

One of the ways the mind attempts to cope with inscrutable deprivation is to find someone or something to blame. That at least diminishes to a degree the absurdity by providing a cause-and-effect explanation, and it provides an outlet for frustration. As I observed the extended suffering of my homosexual son, whom did I blame?

Not Brad. Having already concluded that he was not responsible for his homosexuality, I considered him in his total experience more sinned against than sinning. He made mistakes, but he learned from them. Could I be angry at his mother and me? Ultimately not. Setting aside my earlier homophobia, we had tried hard to understand and assist him. We too had changed. Did I blame God? No. God’s purposes are ultimately beyond my ken, and while I assume that they are benign, it would be foolish for me to presume to judge the infinite.

But did I blame our society for its closemindedness and intolerance? Yes, I did, for those cultural attitudes were finite, very close to home, and there seemed to me little excuse for such callous indifference on the part of a self-declared religious nation toward the plight of persons like Brad. And did I feel anger toward some of those institutional pillars of Christianity which ought to have been in the forefront promoting tolerance, understanding, and a climate fostering individual self-realization? Yes, I did. For those institutions were immediately, conveniently at hand, and I thought their failures were stunning.

Our relationship with our own church was inescapably affected. We felt how ironic it was that the presumed haven of spiritual comfort for those distressed was to us, during our long period of perplexity, remote from what was happening in our lives. In the greatest extremity that any of us in the family had faced, our church simply was not there for us. How was this possible? The doctrinal position on homosexuality was only symptomatic of a larger problem concerning the church’s epistemological view of how spiritual truth becomes known.

As the Mormons see it, prophets and others in the hierarchy are the conduits through whom God speaks. That means that on sensitive issues, real dialogue is pointedly discouraged. That means that in Latter-day Saint congregations there is no openness to discuss a matter such as homosexuality, except to dismiss it
a priori
. Officially, the church shows little interest in examining or crediting experiential truth when it lies outside orthodoxy. Since our experience over the preceding seven years had led us to a contrary view of the causes and existential realities of homosexuality, an unspoken barrier rose between us and friends whose highest loyalty is to the authority of the church. Under these circumstances, how could we approach our brothers and sisters to share with them the incongruous division between doctrine and the actual experience with which we were struggling. We remained silent.

There were, to be sure, several of our Latter-day Saint friends who became aware toward the end of Brad’s life of what was happening in our family. These included at least two of our ecclesiastical leaders, in whom we confided. On a personal level, these men responded with deep and sincere humanity. But they had no doctrinal comfort for us, nor could they speak out, then or now, to encourage through dialogue in their congregations a clearer, more tolerant understanding of homosexuality and its burdens.

For us, the implications of this situation extended beyond the issues relating to homosexuality. This experience simply added dramatic weight to our perception that organized religion is most concerned with conformity and preservation of the collective status quo. There would have been, I think, no lack of good will and support on the part of many of our LDS acquaintances if there had been a framework to encourage it. But the rigidity of the institutional church disarmed both their ability to respond helpfully and, not less important, our ability, even our willingness to allow them to do so. I remember two separate well-intentioned members of our ward who said to Sandra and me following Brad’s death: “We want you to know that we don’t think any the less of you because of what your son became.” None of us felt sufficiently comfortable to pursue the ambiguity of those statements.

If I grieved during this period, some part of it was sadness that our spiritual community had been weighed and found wanting. In spite of my increasing unorthodoxy, the church had always been important to my identity. Now, with some regret, I saw it diminished, fading as a vital force in my life.

I have learned that remorse can profoundly influence grief. One of the heaviest burdens in the aftermath of loss is the nagging awareness that one might have done better by the departed loved one. Three years later I still find myself thinking that I was not all that I could have been to Brad in his ordeal. Why didn’t I come out of the parent’s closet while he was still alive and acknowledge openly to the world that I had a gay son of whom I am proud. Why did I accept the convenient path of avoidance by agreeing with him that it was prudent not to let the world know
—
or more precisely our generally narrow-minded community. Couldn’t I by such an example have helped him know at a deeper level of my unconditional acceptance of him (was it really at that time unconditional?), and might that not have helped him leave this life with more personal acceptance and peace?

Moreover, did I really do all I could for him in terms of giving him my time? Should I, during his illness, have missed work more, should I have devoted less effort to finishing up the construction of our house, less time to church-related activity? Should we have spent more money than we did to increase his comfort, to bring him a few additional pleasures. As we went through that last year, it seemed we did the best we could, yet now I wish I had done more. How much is enough? I know that this is not a rational response, but it is there nonetheless. I know that the worst of grief will not be over unless I can forgive myself for not having been more for him then.

* * *

DECEMBER 5, 1989, the third anniversary of Brad’s death: a day fraught with melancholy. I am remembering that we did not spend his last mortal day entirely at his side. He had been hospitalized for six days. Sandra was with him during the morning. About noon Brad told her he wanted to be quite alone. We understood. After all, we had been hovering about continuously. After work I stopped in to see how he was. Sleeping
—
quietly. I sat there in his room for half an hour, then went home. About nine-thirty, I said, “Let’s go to the hospital.” When we got there we were startled to find him
in extremis
, struggling to breathe, sweating in agony. Why had the nurses not called us? We had needed to be there, if not for his sake at least for our own. We were terribly angry with them.

It was not an easy death. We are not sure to what extent he knew we were with him at the end. That haunts us. We were not able to tell him one last time
—
with assurance that he heard
—
that we love him, for somehow it seemed he was far away from us in the process of his dying, that we should not intrude too much on his solitude. And that haunts us. He was given a sedative about 11:00 on our request, and that probably hastened the end which came at 11:45. Did we do all that we could to support and ease his way in those last two hours. We do not know.

Where is he now, today? Has he found rest? On this day it is not easy to think of him as his old vital and intense self. I am too haunted by the memory of that gaunt face outlined sharply in a hospital bed. I remember too vividly his death throes. I pray he has had three years of peace and that he is happy, that he is among friends, that he feels our love reach out to him. But what if there is nothing beyond (this is not a natural thought to me, yet I must acknowledge its possibility)? Or worse (I contemplate this standing in my morning shower, trying to wake up): what if he is miserable, what if the state of the dead is a condition without shape or meaning, just frustrated, dark consciousness? I push this from my mind and pray with renewed fervor that he has found peace and is happy.

* * *

June 1991. Many more months have passed. It is now six years since the recognized onset of Brad’s illness, four and a half years since his death. According to conventional wisdom, time heals. That is partly true. While the months and years were passing, our wound of loss gradually scabbed over; little by little the crusty surface sloughed off, smoothed out. We have grown accustomed to his absence. To all outward seeming we go about our lives untroubled and well adjusted. We find pleasant days filled with challenging work, rewarding relationships, diverting experiences.

But to be accustomed is not necessarily to be reconciled. Time’s healing is but partial. Under that apparently restored surface lies a small hard knot, an inflamed residue of pain, a concentrated core of grief that gnaws at psychic tranquility. I am convinced this will be a permanent dis-ease, Blake’s invisible worm that lies concealed in the crimson joy of the rose.

Yet even if it could be dispelled by some deep healing, I think it should not be. I would be loathe to lose it altogether. It stands as a reminder of the truth about this flawed condition of mortality, a reminder
—
as Linda Loman tells Willy in Arthur Miller’s
Death of a Salesman
—
that “life is a casting off. It’s always that way.” I have acquired that knowledge dearly, and I do not wish to forget at what cost.

Epilogue:

The Great Western Cooperative

The Incarnation of Christianity implies a harmonious

solution of the problem of the relations

between the individual and the collective. . . .

This solution is precisely what men are thirsting for today.

—
Simone Weil

A poor man inherited a small farm in another country. Overjoyed at his good fortune, he journeyed there to take up his land and work it for his living. When he arrived, he found his acreage located in a well-developed agricultural region, surrounded by other small holdings, each carefully cultivated by its owner. “Surely,” he told himself, “this bodes well. Clearly, the farmers on every side of me are comfortable. Their lands and buildings are well tended. I am sure that I too will prosper.”

Early on the second day, a committee of neighbors came to call on the newcomer. “Welcome in our midst,” they said. “You see that we are successful in our agricultural endeavors. It was not, we are told, always thus in our region. We owe our present good fortune to the establishment here of the Great Western Cooperative, a wonderful organization that oversees all of our endeavors and virtually guarantees that our farms and our lives will flourish. Since you will doubtless also wish to be a member, we are here to tell you that on Sunday next you may present yourself at the meeting of the Cooperative to be inducted.”

And thus it happened that the man became a part of the Great Western Cooperative. “Surely,” he reflected, “this bodes well.”

Since he had not previously been a farmer and was only roughly acquainted with the methods of agricultural husbandry, he was grateful for his new friends and their Cooperative. Cheerfully, they advised him about crops and seasons, provided him with seed and fertilizer. They showed him how to use his implements, tutored him on the care of his animals, rented him machinery owned by the Cooperative. It seemed they had the answers for all his problems. “Best of all,” they said, “when harvest time comes, the Cooperative will buy your crops and sell them. Our leaders know the markets, whereas you will doubtless take a frightful beating if you attempt to do your own marketing. It’s a desperate world out there when you try to go it alone. Of course, the Cooperative takes a commission, but that is only as it should be, considering the benefits. In the meantime, just be sure you attend all the Cooperative meetings, on Sunday afternoons and on Wednesday evenings. That is where one learns what one needs to know about farming
—
irrigation and weed control and crop rotation, for example. And there we learn to take full advantage of the Cooperative.”

“Well and good,” said the man. He attended the meetings diligently, absorbed the instruction as best he could. And he worked hard in his fields. When fall came, his crops of corn and oats were good, and he sold them to the Cooperative. Moreover, because he had made good silage for his animals, he came through the long winter without hardship.

The second year began auspiciously. Spring came early, with good moisture, and the man prepared his land for planting. “I think,” said he, “that this year I will raise barley, potatoes, and soybeans.” But that Wednesday at the Cooperative meeting, the Section Leader informed him that, while barley and potatoes would be just fine, soybeans were not a possibility since the Cooperative did not favor soybeans and therefore did not stock soybean seed. “Well, then I’ll get my seed elsewhere,” said the man. To which the Section Leader responded, “Members are expected to buy all their seed from the Cooperative. So, you see it really is not possible. Let us know when you want your barley and potato seed delivered. We can deliver your fertilizer at the same time.”

“But,” said the man, “I really won’t need the Coop fertilizer this spring. You see, during the winter my cows produced a considerable hill of manure, and I plan to use that instead.”

“I am sorry,” said the Section Leader, “but all Cooperative members have to use the designated fertilizer. That’s one of the conditions of membership.”

“But what must I do with all of my manure?”