His breathing was rapid and shallow; O2 in place, his eyes
stared at the ceiling of the hospital room. He was a soldier in his late 20’s, his
once strong body now emaciated, a shell of its’ former self. His arms rested on
top of the bedsheet, bluish nodular lesions of Kaposi’s sarcoma landscaping
them as they did the rest of his body. His lungs a “white-out” on X-ray as the unusual
cancer spread relentlessly. It was 1985. He was dying of AIDS. They all died,
all of them, from this frightening and poorly understood disease. It was a
terrible time.
I was in my Internal Medicine residency at Eisenhower Army
Medical Center at Ft. Gordon, Georgia outside of Augusta. The AIDS epidemic was
exploding and the military was not immune. Eisenhower was the HIV referral
center for all the Armed Forces, their families, and retirees for the Southeastern
US, Europe, and Panama. By the end of my first year of training, I was caring
for a medicine floor of 20 or more soldiers in varying stages of HIV/AIDS.
I was half way through what was to be a 15-month stretch of
inpatient care without a day off. Each week a 100-hour plus marathon of unceasing
work intermixed with every 4th night call, 36 to 40 hours of punishing
sleeplessness. I was thankful it was only every 4th night. I was in
“survival mode”, my own humanity replaced by a depersonalized self I did not
recognize. Patients were no longer people to me, they were work, more work in a
limitless sea of disease and death in which I frantically tread.
Fear, prejudice, and ignorance, permeated the culture of the
time. People were afraid to be in the same room with an infected individual,
especially those in the last stages of the disease. Sons, husbands, and fathers,
at times, abandoned by those they loved, never to see them again. They were all
gay, these young men in the prime of their lives. They had simply kept it
hidden from a society that could not accept who they were. Shame,
embarrassment, and guilt further drove their families away as much as the fear
of the virus.
No one came to see him with caring words or the warmth of
love given through a human touch. The only people to do so were the doctors and
nurses. We battled our own fears and prejudices only to have them slowly erased
as our hearts broke by what we witnessed. No longer did I see him as “more
work”. I finally saw him as a human being in need of acknowledgement,
affirmation, a non-judgmental look, and most of all a touch given with compassion,
caring, and love. No one should experience what he did no matter who they were,
what they did, or what they believed. He deserved the same dignity we all do. The
protective wall I had built around me came crumbling down and my heart to
appear again. The nurses and I loved on him until his breath became air. He was
not alone.
It was a terrible time, a sad time. It was a time that changed
me as a person and I am forever grateful. I will always remember that young man
from so long ago. He gave me back my humanity. Now HIV is a chronic, treatable
disease but in the beginning….
Thank you for your hearts of compassion, empathy, and
caring.
Andy Lamb, MD
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