People Affected By Aids Tell Their Stories

They want to tell their stories, but not all of them are willing to reveal their identities. Many with AIDS fear hatred, harassment and rejection by society and by their own families. In some of the stories below, only the individual's first name or a pseudonym is used.

For some families, rejection remains unreconciled, and only the person with AIDS is quoted. A mother or father who has abandoned a child with AIDS often is an unwilling source for a story.

Kass Anderton

Kass Anderton was exposed to the AIDS virus in one of several heart surgeries she had in 1984, before there was a means for screening blood used in transfusions.

"My friends and family have been through an awful lot," says Anderton, who has Marfan's syndrome, which affects skeletal development and strains the body's organs. She has lower-body paralysis, due to one of the surgeries. "And to have AIDS iced on that . . ."

Several members of her family grew angry, blaming the gay community for the spread of the virus.

"When it fosters anger in others, that makes you scared," she says.

Anderton recounts how she lost touch with one of her brothers and his family for two years because of AIDS: "I was accustomed to seeing them, and they wouldn't come to family gatherings. I was grieving the loss of my relationship with my brother, of having my life written off in a way, of never seeing my niece and nephew again."

With time and education, Anderton has pulled closer to her family, including her brother, and can now see the children.

"One night he called at midnight; he was at my corner Safeway, and asked if he could come over."

Fighting back tears, she adds: "He told me the truth is that he just didn't want to lose his sister."

Louis

Forty-year-old Louis, not his real name, was court-martialed by the U.S. Air Force and excommunicated by the Mormon Church in his hometown of Salt Lake City for being gay.

Now he has AIDS. His wife, who remains active in the church, is supportive, but Louis is torn about telling his three teenagers of his illness.

He believes some members of his suburban Seattle church ward would support him and his family even if they learned he had AIDS. But church leaders have instructed him to see a psychotherapist in Utah in order to be "cured" of his homosexuality.

"I don't really think it will change anything, but I'm curious enough to try."

Louis still has a strong belief in the church and wants to be accepted back, if only for the sake of his family. "It means a lot to them."

George Anderson

"I freely admit that I was prejudiced and probably still am," says George Anderson of Seattle, the father of Robert Anderson, a Seattle restaurant manager who died last year. "These things are ingrained in you."

Even when George Anderson realized his son had AIDS, it was another year before the two talked about the disease.

In a letter he wrote to the Living With AIDS column and in a phone interview, George Anderson described the transition: "It must have been hell for him not to have been able to come to his parents and confide in them. As it turned out, we did finally communicate, but only when he was in the hospital. If only we had talked years earlier.

"But at least we did and I will always cherish those memories of our down-to-earth talks."

Skip Wright

While his mother provides support, Skip Wright says his father hasn't called in two years, despite his son's AIDS diagnosis: "He blames his entire life on his kid's being gay."

His father dreamed of sending Skip to West Point; Skip went on to become a professional ballet dancer. "There hasn't been much positive support for me since I left the house."

Skip, 32, has built a family with friends and his partner, Keith, who is also infected with the virus and is classified as having pre-AIDS symptoms.

"We have a healthy relationship, with trust. Keith takes good care of me, but we don't make unreasonable demands. We say `uncle' to each other when it gets to be too much. We care for and about each other and that helps us stay healthy. I love him a lot."

Don

When his mother offered him a place to live after his diagnosis, she asked him to invent a story to tell the neighbors.

"She had never been on me about being gay, but somewhere in the back of her mind, this is God's condemnation. She has no reference point. I knew it would be ugly and nasty."

Don, who's not using his real name, was raised mostly by a couple originally hired by his mother as baby-sitters until his last two years of high school, when he went to live with his mother and stepfather.

"That was a horror story; he was a real redneck and I was fairly effeminate. There was a lot of psychological trauma for all of us."

Don stays busy on the speakers' circuit and has found a family in the AIDS support groups.

"I went through a time of not knowing who I was. One of my biggest concerns is that we're going to end up alone, but I don't believe that anymore."

Craig

When Craig, 38, became ill more than two years ago, his parents came for a visit: "But they saw that I was OK, and it led to a fight, denial, anti-gay issues."

"My mother believes all homosexuals should be locked up and the key thrown away.

"For them it would have been easier to have found me dead."

He asked them to leave.

In May of 1990, he attempted suicide. Alone and semi-conscious from an overdose of drugs, Craig called the Northwest AIDS Foundation.

"I was in a lot of pain, and sick. I needed help, I needed emotional support.

"Now, from total hopelessness, I've turned around: I have a whole support system, a partner, and I want to live, with a decent quality of life."

Thomas

After years of sexual abuse by his brothers, who called him a queer, Thomas, not his real name, left home at age 18, the night he graduated from high school.

His father was an alcoholic and his mother was killed in an automobile accident before Thomas reached his teens. The aunt who took over the family tolerated the abuse, discouraging him from contacting the authorities, he says.

In 1976 he married, joined a church and had a child: "I wanted to please, I wanted a `father' to please. I tried to exchange sexuality for God."

Thomas was divorced in 1981 and moved to Seattle "to escape" three years ago.

Part of his monthly Social Security disability check goes to child support. His wife remains angry. Attempts to visit his daughter, now 13, have been resisted. "I've divorced my whole family; let them be who they are. I was always afraid of dying and I'm just beginning to live."

Patricia

There's little financial help for Patricia, unable to secure permanent U.S. residency documents after returning to the United States from a visit home to Latin America.

The United States, she explains, has strict immigration laws regarding HIV, although she is allowed to continue living here. She doesn't want her real name used.

The 26-year-old came to the United States in 1986 with her son, now 7, to rejoin her mother and other relatives.

A case manager for the Northwest AIDS Foundation is scrambling to round up emergency financial assistance to pay Patricia's skyrocketing medical costs.

Patricia is afraid to tell her ethnic community about her disease. She has told her mother only that she is sick.

"I feel rejected. I believe that if I told my mother I had AIDS, she would never touch me again and be a fanatic about dishes, clothes . . .

"There needs to be a lot more education in the Latino community," Patricia says. "I would encourage them to be tested, especially the males. They are not taking care of themselves or each other to stop the spread of this."

John Rowe

John Rowe and his partner, 25-year-old Tony, were bonded in a ceremony at Providence Medical Center just shortly before Tony died of AIDS in April.

Tony fled his home at age 14, after trouble brewed surrounding his homosexuality, and lived on the streets of Seattle for several years before meeting Rowe, a former minister in the Episcopal Church.

Shortly before Tony died, Rowe tracked down Tony's mother: "It was very apparent she wanted to be spared the inconvenience of having to come up.

"But she asked me to pray for him every day. She couldn't handle his homosexuality."

Rowe doesn't know if Tony's mother ever learned of the bonding ceremony.

"I became his family. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that he wasn't going to make it this time.

"All I could do was ask him: `Will you meet me at the end of that tunnel with the bright light?' "