Excerpt from The Sea Is Quiet Tonight

Dr. Jerry Groopman left a message with my service to call him,

saying he had news. I was afraid he was going to ask if I’d had the

node biopsied, and since I had not yet been approved for new health

insurance, I had not. But it was news of a different sort. “Robert Gallo

at the NIH has developed what he hopes will be a test to detect the

virus for AIDS. At the moment it’s being called HTLV-3. Soon he’s

going to be collecting blood samples from gay men in New York, San

Francisco, and Boston and will do a study to determine the accuracy

of his test. You can be in the first cohort to be tested if you’re willing.”

“Yes,” I said. “My Grandfather Murray used to say, ‘The devil you

know is better than the devil you don’t know.’ If the devil is in my

blood, I guess it’s better to know.” Despite the lighthearted sound of

my response, I felt sobered. I had my blood drawn for the study in

mid-May.

The Gamma Interferon group Mark had been part of had finished

in mid- April without producing statistically significant results,

though he obviously had benefitted from the drug. He and Richard

were on to new vitamins and whey protein in large doses. As he said

ironically, “Desperate men require desperate measures.” When I told

him I had enrolled in Dr. Gallo’s trial for HTLV-3, he didn’t say much

but asked every few days if I’d heard anything. I reassured him that

when I did, he would be the first to know. I did a substantial amount

of obsessing while I ran: Do I have the virus? Do I have the

antibodies? If I’m sick, how will I manage knowing and still continue

to take care of Mark?

All six of the original members of Mark’s group were still alive, but

others that I’d only heard about had joined the group and died within

a few months. And there was a progression in symptoms among all of

them. The face of AIDS was drawing nearer to me personally. No

matter what the results of Dr. Gallo’s test were, I knew the

information would change me and change us. If I were healthy, I

feared it would further separate me from Mark, making me “the well

partner” rather than “the apparently well partner”. If I were sick, I’d

be joining him in his illness.

In early June we hit a hard patch. Mark was tiring more easily

again without the Gamma. I drove him down to New York City on a

Friday to stay for two nights with close friends and to meet with his

attorney. He perked up when we crossed over the Triborough Bridge

into Manhattan, clearly looking forward to being away from the

gloom of Boston. I dropped him off at the attorney’s office and then

drove out to Fire Island for a couple of nights by myself. Knowing that

he was with people who loved him relieved me briefly of my

hypervigilance. We had one short phone check-in on Saturday

morning and he sounded fine. I spent the two days walking the long

stretch of beach between Cherry Grove and the Pines, crisscrossing

the boardwalks we had walked, passing the house where we’d had our

first night together. By this time two more of the six roommates with

whom he had shared that house were sick. AIDS was inescapable. I

was reminded of Mark at every turn. In the late afternoons I sat at the

bar in the Monster drinking beer, simply trying to allow my central

nervous system to calm down. It was a relief to be alone and to zone

out. I felt like a soldier on furlough from the front.

When Mark arrived in Cherry Grove on Sunday, he was ashen and

short of breath. As near as I could put together, he was responding to

what had happened in Boston in the few days we’d been gone. His

friends in the PWA group were under siege: Pedro Martinez had died

the day we left, David Tiffany remained in a coma, and Richard was

convinced he would be next, “to make three”.

It took hours for Mark to settle down, and I believed that our being

separated had been a bad idea. He was used to a more protected

environment at home. While he’d gotten done what he needed to do

in the city, the stimulation and pace had rattled him. He said

repeatedly, “I shouldn’t have left Boston, I shouldn’t have left the

guys.” I knew it was fruitless to suggest that his presence would have

changed nothing. We spent the whole evening cuddling on the sofa,

and talking, me rubbing his back, and the rigidity in his body

gradually diminished. We left for Boston the next day.

A week later, in the late afternoon of Monday, June 11, I got a

message from my answering service to call Jerry Groopman. I had

two clients left to see before going from Cambridge to Brookline for

David Tiffany’s memorial service. He had died a few days after we

returned to Boston. I debated postponing the call until the next

morning but found myself dialing the number from memory. When I

identified myself to the office manager, she put me through to Jerry

immediately. There was no small talk.

“You tested positive for the HTLV-3 virus, Mike. Don’t jump to

conclusions about this. These are the very first clinical trials. What we

know is that everyone who has AIDS has HTLV-3, but there are many

men in these trials who have it but seem otherwise healthy. Some may

never develop full-blown AIDS.” Listening to him, I had my first

experience of going into shock. Did he just say that I do have the
virus? I sat down, afraid I was going to pass out.

I was silent long enough that he said, “Are you there?”’

“Yes, Jerry. I’m sorry. I’m at work and have to see a client now.” I

heard my voice, completely toneless, but felt powerless to respond

otherwise. “Thank you for calling.”

He said, “Don’t panic. At this point we believe the incubation

period is two to five years. We’re learning so much now. It might just

mean that you’re a carrier.”

Right. And it might just mean that I’m dead in the water.

I stared blankly out the window for a few moments and, still in

shock, met with my clients, one after the other. I felt grateful that the

professional habit of listening closely kept me present to their work,

though later I couldn’t remember a word I had said.

David’s memorial service was held in the garden of a mansion in

Brookline. It was a hot but beautiful early summer evening, and

dozens of people were scattered across the lawn. Guests had been

asked to wear white instead of black, and at first sight they looked like

wraiths or angels. I tried to relax and appear normal, smiling,

greeting friends, heartache arising as I remembered that this was the

third memorial service in two months for people from Mark’s original

group. These losses were happening so quickly now. I was also

worried about the impact of my diagnosis on Mark. I knew he would

be devastated, and I tried futilely to figure out a way to soften the

news. But how do you soften a potential death sentence?

The service was structured as a Quaker meeting: people shared

when and if they felt moved to, with long silences between speakers.

Finally we stood in a large circle, hand in hand, while a man played

“Blowing in the Wind” on a harpsichord that had been placed in a

gazebo. The only time I cried was when Mark spoke about his

friendship with David, how much he would miss being able to count

on his courage and sense of humor. Wine and soft drinks were then

available and people milled around.

I got Richard and Patrick alone for a few minutes and told them

about the test results. Richard hugged me and asked, “Does Mark

know?”

“I’ll tell him when we get home, or maybe tomorrow.”

“No,” Richard said firmly, “let him know tonight. He’s done

nothing but worry about it for weeks.”

I could see Mark working his way toward us through the small

crowd and said, “Let’s just talk about David’s service for now.”

Later, when I told Mark, he was silent for long moments. We were

sitting in the bay window looking west down the river toward the
remnants of the sunset, and he reached over and took my hand. I had

spoken calmly and repeated all the reassuring things Jerry had said to

me. Finally he said, “I wonder if we need to change our game plan.”

“What’s our game plan?” I asked.

“Despite the threat of you having ARC, we’ve been operating for

many months as if I’m the patient here. But if you become sick, we’ll

need to think about how to take care of you as well.”

I felt a rush of love for him, so grave and worn out from these last

difficult weeks. We carried so much grief, the losses of our friends, the

pressures of these long months, and the false promise of Mark

regaining his health.

“I think we stay with the game plan we have, sweetheart. I feel fine

physically, other than being tired and scared. Let’s go on the

assumption that I’m a carrier until proven otherwise. Who knows,

someday one of the drugs or treatments they come up with may work,

and you’ll get better. We’ll all get better.”

He said, “I’m sorry that Pedro and David won’t have the chance to

get better.”

“Me too.”