Heaven's Coast - Mark Doty [97]
But AIDS of what sort? Other than the minor annoyance of thrush, none of the familiar OI’s show themselves: no pneumonia, no lesions, no toxoplasmosis, no cmv retinitis. He’s had nothing identifiable but those cottony white patches of fungus in the mouth which a daily dose of some drug prevents. He looks thinner but he’s not wasting away. He just seems increasingly tired, less present, more transparent, as though he were stretched taut over some vacancy within. HIV fatigue? his doctors ask. Viral activity?
Sometimes I’m overcome by waves—no, a continuous molten outpour—of anger, though it’s never directed at what I’m really in a rage about. In the bank, for instance, some petty annoyance or irritating policy sends me into a fury; I’m flushed, my heart’s pounding, I want to pound on the counter. I know the teller can hear my voice shaking with all I’m holding in, though I am also letting out quite enough.
April. Support group. We all had a good week. Andy and Martin have forced pots of bulbs, and they’re blooming, and because Martin feels better, they’ve been to the movies. Saul, blind now, loved feeling the sun on his face, these bright days. Alan held still for his injections, so this time they didn’t hurt him. Jerry made a huge pot of vegetable soup, and Henry cleaned his plate, and asked for seconds, and between them they ate it all, then Henry got up out of his wheelchair and helped to wash the dishes. Wally and I, given a week without fever or headaches, went for the longest walk.
Whatever it is comes and goes, a lost week followed by a brighter one, a flourish of energy. The inability to predict is thus a source of terror and a gift.
May. Wally’s feelings are so contagious, he’s such a restless and unfocused presence in the house, which we’ll really have to deal with somehow, this summer. I’m weary of school, but the time I’ve had going to and from work’s also the only time I’ve had alone. I don’t want to get cranky and tense, I want to stay cool and enjoy our time, but I worry about that being hard when he’s so much at loose ends. The most important thing for me to do may be to make decisions about how I’m going to use my time. We can’t both fly around madly or we’ll go nuts.
Wally’s planned to do windows for the clothing store this summer, a bit of work out of the house that would give him a project every couple of weeks, allowing him to work for just a few hours and rest in between as much as he likes. But the first time, for the Memorial Day windows, retail preparations for the season’s opening weekend, it’s clear what an enormous toll it takes to sketch a plan and gather the props. I drive him and them to the store, he works for a few hours and then comes home to rest, later works a few hours more, and then he’s exhausted for days. He accepts one more offer to do the windows, after this, but then postpones twice, and finally cancels.
In June, Wally goes with a group of men with AIDS to Watershed, a workshop in ceramics in Maine. I’m happy for him to have something new away from home, away from me, with other people; his illness and his depression isolate him. We talk on the phone every night; he loves the landscape there, and likes the workshops and the people he’s with, but tires so easily and deeply, feeling weary to the bone. Long afterward, nearly a year after his death, I’ll find a yellow spiral notebook mixed in among the cookbooks, a little journal he began there and soon abandoned. How it’ll shock me then, the fact of his handwriting, his voice coming through the plain clear print:
June 13, 1992. It’s very hot outside. I worked a little with clay and felt nervous. Nervous that I might do the wrong thing. I know there is no right or wrong. Just do what you feel. There is a part of me that just wants to break free and work. Let it out and not be afraid. I feel safe—but I’m still