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David Tworkowski
I grew up in the Chicago area, a product of the Catholic education system, and was sexually confused for a number of years. Although I always acknowledged my homosexuality and never saw it as something to be ashamed of, at the same time I did not think it was right to act upon it. So at the age of 25, in the mid-1970's, I found myself in a very lonely place. At the time, I was a very dedicated and passionate recreation supervisor for a suburban park department. I poured all of my energy into my job until I reached the point of burn-out. It was classic sublimation.
So I ventured out into the world of gay bars, telling myself if I didn't act upon my sexuality, I would die a lonely person. I was fascinated and excited by the whole gay scene and became sexually active, feeling like I needed to make up for lost time.
During this time, I had a friend who would often visit San Francisco. He was a rather unstable person, suffering from depression and anxiety, somewhat prone to paranoia. I can still recall the first time he told me about a 'gay cancer' that everyone was talking about in San Francisco. I remember thinking to myself how absurd the whole notion of this was. Common sense told me then that there could not be a special cancer just for gay men. From that first day, I always felt that I had very good instincts about what later came to be called GRID and finally, AIDS.
I met Ernie in the late 1970's and we became devoted to each other. It didn't take long to discover that we were sexually incompatible, but we stayed together for nine years as the closest of friends. In 1979, Ernie and I took a vacation to Los Angeles. While there we visited a bathhouse and, as usual, went our separate ways. When we returned home, I was diagnosed with both gonnorhea AND syphilis AND two forms of parasites. A few weeks after that, I developed arthritic-type swelling in my fingers and knees. I was working as a hotel desk clerk at the time and had difficulty standing for long periods, so I was transferred to reservations. The condition was diagnosed as Reiter's syndrome and the VD infections had apparently set it off. My symptoms disappeared in about four months and my doctor said they may or may not ever reappear.
In the late 1980's I was enrolled in a follow-up study to the hepatitis B vaccine program and was monitored for HIV and t-cell levels. When I received an HIV-positive result, I was not at all surprised. I certainly expected that result and since I already suspected that there was questionable science surrounding it, I did not take it as a death sentence, maybe just a warning to slow down the sex.
I was told that by testing a frozen blood sample of mine from the hepatitis B vaccine program, my positive status went back to 1984. Eventually, I considered the t-cell monitoring to be a stress-producing waste of time and stopped participating.
In the mid-1980's I went to work for an airline, first as a reservationist, then as a flight attendant (my current position). Around this time Ernie came down with a severe case of shingles and was told he could be at risk for AIDS. Nevertheless, he chose not to be tested.
But a couple years later, I received a tear-laced, panicked phone call from Ernie telling me about a diagnosis of testicular cancer. This, coupled with an HIV-positive result, was enough for his doctor to pronounce a death sentence. I was present when Ernie asked his doctor, point blank, "Am I going to die?" and was answered back with one word, "Yes."
Ernie's cancerous testicle was removed and he was treated with a light dose of radiation. He was terrified the entire time and it pained me to see him endure the terror. But things were to get much worse.
About one year later, he began to experience sweats and nausea and started to lose weight rapidly. He was certainly in the process of dying and I cannot describe the grat pain and sorrow of watching my dear friend endure it all. He was just so terrified the whole time. No reassurance of mine could lift his spirits.
I was desperate to help him and around this time was introduced to a rather unorthodox community organizer who shared with me his dissident view of AIDS. He shared articles with me, coming out of New York, telling about the dangers of AZT therapy. He told me about Peter Duesberg and other researchers who were questioning the establishment view of AIDS.
I hosted a meeting in my apartment and invited all our friends to join Ernie and hear some important information from my new activist friend. Unfortunately, things did not work out well. My friends didn't buy any of it. My new activist friend turned out to be a hustler and swindled hundreds of dollars from me that he used for his personal benefit. And even though Ernie stopped his AZT use after just a short period of treatment, he continued to waste away for months.
Then he suffered from terrible stomach pains. When I pressed his doctor as to what was causing the pain, I was told, "It's the virus." After nagging him for weeks to find out what actual condition was involved, I was finally told that it was stomach cancer. It immediately dawned on me that he was not an AIDS patient, but a cancer patient, mis-diagnosed.
But it was too late and when Ernie was sent home to die, I stayed with him until the end, applying ice cubes to his tongue to keep him hydrated. I jumped into this bed and held him tightly at the same time that close family members were afraid to touch him without wearing rubber gloves.
When death came for Ernie, something inside of me died also. I will always carry a sadness about witnessing the life force being sucked out of this vibrant, out-going soul.
After Ernie's passing, my current partner Thom and I watched in horror as a dozen or so of our friends and acquaintances also passed on.
We moved to Portland, Oregon, to be with Thom's ex-partner and dearest friend Jeffrey who wasted away while under the heavy-handed mother who insisted from the beginning on a strict regimen of poisonous AIDS medications. We watched as he first went blind, and then lost his mind. Once again, when death came, it was a blessing.
After a nightmarish hospital experience that preceded the loss of my mother, Thom and I were devastated. She meant the world to both of us. At the time living in Chicago, we decided to change the scenery and move to San Francisco.
It wasn't long before we both fell into a party scene, centered around crystal meth. For two years I participated in this scene and observed young gay men destroy their bodies and minds with this dangerous drug. And I observed them blame all thier problems on AIDS.
About one year into my useage, I developed an extreme arthritic swelling on my big right toe. My Reiter's syndrome had returned! My rheumatologist insisted that it was AIDS-related, but by now I wasn't buying into any of the fraudulent AIDS pseudo-science. I was in great pain and was forced to go on a medical leave of absence from my job that lasted for two years. I was terrified I would lose my job, but I eventually got better and stopped the partying when I saw the devastation surrounding me. My friends were wasting away and losing their minds. And once I pointed this out and let my views on AIDS be known, I was immediatly ostracized. I lost all of my friends.
When I moved to San Diego with Thom in 2000, I had developed a bitterness toward San Francisco and all it represents. I've connected with an evergy at HEAL San Diego that has lifted my soul. I am so grateful to the wonderful people in this group for pointing me in a positive direction.
I have no regrets. My two year glimpse at the San Francisco party scene was an incredible education. Those friends I lost were never really my friends to begin with. And even the hustler/activist who took my money was possibly also responsible for saving my life.
I've always felt that we inevitably end up where we need to be. I certainly now have this sense of being guided to San Diego.
God, it's a good life!
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