Richard Lewis

I met Richard Lewis through the Buddy program at the Pittsburgh AIDS Task Force. Richard died on January 11, 1993. During this time, I posted to soc.motss about Richard. Here are some of those posts...

I was assigned to my first 'client' about two months ago. Jason brought up an incident where a friend of his had a buddy that died, and the friend went out the same night. While my friend is still alive and doing pretty good, he did have a crisis a few weeks ago where I reacted similarly.

My friend was in the hospital, and I went to visit him. He had been on IV medication, but this day, no IVs were being administerd. All the veins in his arm had collapsed, and the doctors wanted to install a central line (heart cathedor). My buddy was scared. The residents treating him had hurt him trying to get blood from him, and he was afraid of the pain of installing a the central line. His family didn't trust the doctors at the hospital because the doctors had lied to the family before and (like most doctors) felt they knew what was best for their patient, and the doctors didn't communicate well with him or his family.

After some serious conversation, my friend decided to have the central line installed. He did, however, request that one of us stay with him during the procedure. The doctors agreed, but didn't want a family member. That left me. I don't like blood, let alone surgery, but I held my friends hand and talked to him while the doctors installed the cathedor. He felt no pain, and was comforted by my presence. After the procedure, he went to sleep and I left.

I felt emotionally drained. I was shaken, and relyed on my support system (my friends) to help me. If my friends hadn't been there, I could have spoken with my team leader or other support systems provided by the Task Force (we have a support group which meets every two weeks). A buddy is not alone.

Later that night, I went out to a dance club. I was still pretty drained, but I wanted to be around people. I stayed to myself for the most part, and talked a little to some friends. But I also thought. The next day, my friend was doing better. He got out of the hospital yesterday.

I hope this personal experience relays some information to those people considering this rewarding volunteer activity.

Last night my buddy(*) died from complications of HIV. He would have been 37 on February 1. My buddy was a special person who always put the concerns of his mother and sister ahead of his own. Although he was very sick during the 18 months that I knew him, the love between his mother and my buddy is something I will not soon forget. My buddy was diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. He was always afraid of dying, which might explain how he survived 6 years and diseases such as candida, pneumonia, MAI, CMV and a host of others. I can recall long nights in the hospital when the pain of these illnesses was too much for him, and his screams could be heard throughout the corridors.

I can recall the fear he had of the pain caused by the medical procedures which extended his life. During the last couple months of his life, the person that was my buddy faded into incoherence. All we his care-givers could do was try and make him comfortable, which I hope we did.

My buddy spoke often of wanting to return to his friends and job in Washington, DC. He wanted to return to AmTrak, where he worked as a porter. Over time, as it became clear to him he could never return to that job, he spoke of other work AmTrak could give him. He spoke of wanting to live until the next century, and surviving until a time when a cure could be found. These wishes kept him going.

During the time I knew him, my buddy was hospitalized more than not. Hospital workers told his relatives to prepare for his death countless times, only to see my buddy bounce back and be released from the hospital. However, each hospital visit, every extended stay which lasted weeks or months, sapped my buddy's strength. My buddy always feared the pain, and in the end, he was painfree. But the disease robbed him of his dignity. He could not talk. He was blind. He required assistance to aid his breathing (although he was not on a respirator). His mother and his sister did not sleep for days, trying to make him more comfortable. Although they fought it, they finally accepted the reality that he would not be coming home from the hospital this time.

I will miss my buddy. He was a good person.

The last time I saw Rick, he was in a coma. His breathing was labored. I spoke to his mother, and asked if she finally accepted that he might die. "Yes. That might be for the best." She cried, and I whispered to Rick, "It's OK. Your mother said it was OK." Soon after, his breathing began to calm. I don't know for sure, but I've always believed he heard us and that gave him the permission to die.

I attended Rick's funeral. His mother called me "her friend," which has always been meaningful. I also remember his aunt, so religious, demanding to know if he had "renounced his homosexuality and repented before he died." His mother said he did, but I never heard him say it. Still, it is one of my memories.

Braking The Cycle: please consider a donation.

back to bike page »