I enter his room and am pleased with the way he looks, a good-built body, thick arms, shapely legs, naked, his hair the blondest blond, his eyes the bluest blue. I enter his room and greet him good morning and he smiles revealing the most perfect and whitest teeth. I try not to think of him as a naked man. I try not to think of him as an object of lust. If I'd see him on the street and he'd pass my way, I'd probably be the one the Gentleman of Ipanema passes by, I'd utter ooooh because he's tall and tan and young and lovely. He used to model. He used to grace the fashion ramps all the way from Paris to New York to London. And I am here saying good morning to him while he is lying naked on his bed. I remember the many beautiful blonds I saw. Nowadays I'm so good at them I can tell the good-looking blond from the bad blond. I can also tell the fake blond and the real. I can tell you how soft these blonds can become, how racist they can become.But in truth, they are no different from me, from the blacks, from the brunettes; besides I prefer brunettes, the Latino kind of brunette. I grew up a child surrounded by mestizos, my taste goes along with what I grew up with.
I get close to the ears of this beautiful man lying on his bed. "How are you today James?" I ask. He stares at me with his bluest eyes and smiles, he gestures with his lips that he needs a back massage. I say, "James you know I don't do that. Massage has no value to you."
I untie the straps around his wrist, "Now James," I say, "I'm gonna free you of these restraints. Please, please, please, don't pull your IV lines. The last time you got untied you messed up your bed. Now I'm gonna move you, awright? I'm hoping to get you out of bed, gosh, how long have you been on this bed now? Two weeks?"
"Three," he gestures with his lips. James is non-verbal. He's connected to vent.
What started as an abdominal surgery ended up in infection that led to a multi-system failure. He recently had dialysis. For a thirty-six year old well-built healthy looking man that's almost impossible. But for James, who has been HIV positive for the past twelve years, that is probable.
I remember the days when AIDS was still new in America, I was in Tennessee when I treated my first AIDS patient, a young black girl who was placed in strict isolation and when I entered her room I thought my (austronaut) outfit was about to send me to the moon. They covered me from head to foot. Nowadays, the fear of AIDS in America is gone. But the fear of death from AIDS remains. Of course.
I start moving James' extremities when his lover comes in. His lover - he's responsible for everything about James, I guess he's the power of attorney too. A handsome brunette - just as sexy and lovely and oooooh-kind-of-walking-beauty-as-James - enters the room. He is red-eyed. From so many nights of crying, I guess, or many nights of praying.
"How is James?", Rich, the lover asks me.
"Oh he is asking for a back rub", I say. "The bitch!" I add. We all laugh, James, Rich and I. We are all brothers in this. We all know this.
James asks me the same questions every patient in this goddamn world asks me: When will I get better? When will I come home to my house? When can Rich and I make love again? When can I work again to help Rich pay the bills? Etcetera. Etcetera.
I gently whisper, "I don't know. If I can predict the exact date a man recovers, I'd be a prophet. Only God knows. We'll just take things one day at a time."
Really. I've been in this business almost half of my life. And everyday this is all the shit I see. I am tired of easing others' pain. I am tired of being asked like I have an answer. I'm tired of coming to work in this little hospital surrounded by this sadness, this helplessness, this disease. When I go to a bar and see a handsome blond, do you think I don't see James? His image and the likes of him is imprinted in my brain whenever I try sex. And his lover, I recall the look of Rich everytime I venture into relationship. What Rich has to go through is too much for me. I'm afraid this work has gotten me frightened of something I don't wanna be frightened of. Nowadays, I want to go into Computers. I'd like to work in a tall building overlooking the beach and just create wonderful computer programs and put out beautiful images of beautiful people and beautiful writing on the web. I'd like to talk with computer guys. I'd like to...........
I flex my muscles. "Ok James, here we go." I roll him on the side of the bed, carefully watching the million lines attached to him. I sit him up on the edge of the bed, watching his face for any signs of pallor. This will be the first time he'd stand again. I bend to embrace him and pull him up. We're like a tall blond and a short Asian pair, doing a slow dance, small steps, one single turn, I make sure his knees don't buckle, and if they do my own knees will push them back to keep him standing. To make him stand and survive. I turn him towards the chair. I slowly bring him down. Check the lines again. Quick job. Effortless. I'm a veteran in this kind'a shit by now.
He looks at me with a wide grin in his face. The fact that he can get up and potentially use the bathroom again makes him happy. The fact that he can still feel his legs makes him happy. The fact that he can still make small steps gives him comfort.
Rich says to him, "James you did it man, I am glad you did it. You'll make it man."
They stare at each other with a most tender stare between two people in love - the stare that tells each other "We'd be together in this forever". And then,
Rich kisses James. A kiss between men in tears and struggle. A kiss facing a future full of uncertainties. A kiss that bids each other a tender goodbye. Or a refreshing hello.
I see The Kiss.
I pull the curtains and walk away, pretending everything is just as plain as it used to be. I treated James as a patient. Another patient is waiting for me to be treated. I walk like it's just another ordinary day.
Yet, I wanna cry. Who the fuck will kiss me the way Rich kisses James?