My Life Sentence

Learning I was HIV-positive 37 years ago changed everything. But lying to the man who I’d trusted turned out to be my biggest act of compassion.

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“Did you hear me?” My friend Jaime shouted into the phone.

I had, although I couldn’t answer. I exhaled through tight lips, leaning on my left elbow—my eyes fixed on the bedside clock, which had just ticked over to 7:31 a.m. I remained quiet, hoping the silence would freeze time, as advancing it would kill me.

“Tim,” she shouted. I pulled the phone receiver from my ear. "I said Jason is in the AIDS ward at St. Luke’s Hospital."

My heart hammered in my ears and against my ribcage, as bile rose in my throat. There was only one reason my ex-boyfriend was in the AIDS Ward. And in 1988, there was only one way out of there.

"Are you OK?” She asked.

“I…”

“Do you feel sick?"

I considered that question, taking stock of my body, mentally scanning from head to toe. I did not feel sick, but now that word meant something different, something nefarious. Something I wasn’t familiar with. Yet.

"I feel fine,” I croaked. “Can I call you later?"

"You need to go get tested, Tim,” Jaime said. “And you should probably go see Jason before he dies."

The red digits on the clock morphed. 7:32 a.m.

I dragged myself out of bed—the word AIDS banging against my skull. I hadn't seen or talked to Jason in over two years, but I was certain of one thing: If he had it, then I had it. We didn’t use protection. He told me we didn’t need it, and my naïve, 21-year-old self didn’t argue.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, my wide-eyed reflection blurred into scenes of Jason and me. We met at Jaime’s dinner party. I exhaled and shook my head in disbelief. I hadn’t even been invited, I had begged her to let me attend.

Staring into the weathered porcelain sink, I replayed the first time I saw Jason walk through Jamie’s door—his handsome face, thick black mustache—and how impossible it was to look away from him.

“I had to go to that fucking dinner party,” I shouted, then fell to the floor and cried for almost an hour.

When I finally made it to work, my swollen eyes betrayed my strained smile. My co-workers kept pressing, wanting to know what was wrong. I hadn’t spoken the words aloud yet. How do you even begin to tell people you’re going to die? It was 1988, and by that point in time, everyone in New York City knew at least one person who had disintegrated from AIDS. Now it was my turn. When I told my co-workers the news, it was obvious they were frightened for me.

Lenny rushed to the phone to call St. Luke’s to confirm Jason was, in fact, in the hospital, and it wasn’t just some ugly rumor. For a sliver of a second, I let myself live in the hope that it might be.

Lenny’s eyes widened before hanging up the phone. "He's in room 1014,” he said shakily.

“So he is in the hospital.” I replied.

Lenny grabbed me and rocked me. I could feel his cheeks getting wet. “He’s on the 10th floor at St. Luke’s!” he said, pulling away. “That’s the AIDS Ward."

In the middle of that group hug, I knew: I was 24 years old, and I knew I'd never see 30.

Lenny and Gina, my other co-worker, were upset, but a shadow of excitement surrounded the news. This was gossip. Good gossip. They had just hit the gossip jackpot. Nobody would be able to top this. They’d boast about how “my co-worker probably has AIDS, and his boyfriend is dying” for weeks.

Lenny insisted that I call the hospital and talk to Jason. Unable to make decisions, when he handed me the phone, I asked for room 1014.

“Hello?” He sounded the same.

"Jason, it's Tim."

"Oh, hello."

I cleared my throat. "Why are you in the hospital?"

"I can't really talk about that now."

"I know you're on the 10th floor, Jason. And I know what the 10th floor is.”

I heard his labored breathing.

"Do you have AIDS?" I demanded.

"Yes."

The confirmation came with no sadness, no drama, and no contrition. It was as if I asked him if he’d gotten home safely.

I could feel Lenny and Gina’s eyes on me.

I did not respond to Jason. I put the phone back in the cradle and excused myself. I walked for blocks. My inner voice, normally cruel, offered me calm reassurance instead. As I slid into the darkness, the voice told me I had nothing to fear. I clung to that hope, even as I called my doctor to make an appointment to get tested. Just go get this out of the way and life can go back to normal.

The next 48 hours were far from normal. My brain refused to be silent as every horrifying image of a man dying of AIDS haunted me. Was I going to end up like that?

I had many tears and many questions for the nurse, for which she had few answers. What shocked me most, however, was when she told me it would take a week to 10 days to get the results. How the hell was I going to keep the “everything is going to be fine,” monologue going for that long? How was I not going to lose my mind while the seconds dragged on?

After vials of blood had been drawn and a cotton ball was taped to my arm, I opened the door of the doctor’s office and walked down Park Avenue to take the cross-town bus to St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital on West 58th Street.

Timothy around the time of his diagnosis in 1988.

I had been in New York City for five months in January 1986, having moved from a very conservative suburb of Philadelphia, where being gay in the 1970s and ’80s was frowned upon, to say the least. So, at 21, I moved to a place where I knew it wouldn’t matter; a place I could finally get a boyfriend.

I heard about AIDS in some stories on the news, but the devastation it was having on the gay community in New York was something I knew nothing about.

The first group of men I met while bar hopping were severely scarred from the crisis, having lost lovers and friends from the disease. They drilled into my head that when I began to have sex, I must use condoms.

I met Jaime while working my first retail job. She talked incessantly about her gay best friend Jason: how handsome he was; how well dressed he was; how funny he was. And, most importantly, how single he was. So, when she mentioned her dinner party, I knew two things: Jason would be there, and I had to get invited.

Not only was I excited to meet Jason, I was excited to be going to an actual dinner party in New York City—because what is more fabulous than a New York City dinner party? Nothing. And who are more fabulous than the people there? Nobody! And I was going to be one of them.

Jason made an epic entrance into the party. Broad shouldered and tall, he bounded into the room and I gasped when I saw his wavy black hair, thick black mustache, and dark chest hair poking out of his silk button-down shirt. He was ’70s-porn-star-hot. Although he was definitely my type, I didn’t think he’d want anything to do with me. Within seconds, however, his thick frame bent forward to hug me. He stayed by my side the entire night. I stammered and blushed through drinks, dinner and dessert. To my surprise and lustful astonishment, the evening ended at his apartment in the West Village. Another first for me: being invited back to a man’s New York City apartment.

My wildest dreams could never have put me in this man’s bedroom. I was so nervous: my ignorance of all things sex, my insecurities about being too pudgy, and the sheer uncertainty of how all of this was going to work. When he kissed me, all of those fears melted away. I trembled as we undressed. When my pants hit the floor, I bent over and pulled out a condom from a pocket.

“We don’t need that,” he said.

“What about this AIDS thing?” I asked.

“I’ve been tested a hundred times. I’m fine.”

He laced his fingers in mine, the condom fell to the floor, and I felt safe.

That night was the pinnacle of joy, hope, and possibility. The sex was a bit too rough, but I had never had penetrative sex, and didn’t want to seem inexperienced. He seemed to get more turned on when I told him it hurt as he jammed himself inside of me. I tried to hide my shock as he slapped me across the face, but I couldn’t hide it the second time it happened. By the third time, I was ready for it. I tried to be a good student and relax like he told me. And finally, it began to feel good. When it was over, the affection he showed me was like a drug, and I wanted more. So I ignored the blood on the sheets.

The next morning, we showered together. It was one of those moments you don’t forget because of its perfection. Kisses were passionate in the steamy bathroom. This tall handsome man looked lovingly into my eyes as he lathered me up from head to toe. I wanted to cry for dramatic effect, but there was nothing to cry about. How lucky was I to have gotten everything I’d ever wanted so quickly after moving here?

Soon enough, the shine began to tarnish. He started acting distant when we were together—less affectionate, not wanting sex. And days would pass without a return call from him. At the three-month mark, Jason told me he’d met someone else. I was crushed. Endless days with that gnawing emptiness in my gut; sleepless nights questioning every move I had made. And the fear that I really was not that attractive after all. They say nothing hurts as much as your first heartbreak. True. Well, except visiting your first boyfriend in an AIDS Ward.

After the cross-town bus rattled to a stop, I hopped off and walked toward St. Luke’s. Ironically, it was a gorgeous summer day—sunshine, birds chirping, leaves waving in the breeze—as I trembled more with each step. At 24, I knew very little about life, about death, about sickness. When I was 14, I’d had my appendix removed. That was the only time I’d been in a hospital, and now St. Luke’s loomed above.

Prior to last week, my thoughts about AIDS were not too complex. People were not living with AIDS in the 1980s; everyone who was infected died. Terrified and alone, I entered the elevator and pushed 10 to head to Jason’s floor.

When the doors opened, my head jerked back from the brutal stench of urine—thick, aging, uncollected urine—which overpowered the smell of feces and rubbing alcohol.

Nurses moved frantically from room to room, wearing face masks and rubber gloves. The sound of Bob Barker summoning the next contestant to “Come on down!” mingled with the sounds of crying.

No visitors, just sickly men with sunken cheeks and gruesome sores purpling their bodies. As these men wandered, they pushed IV poles, some with one bag of liquid running into their arm, some with two bags—all of them shuffling on slippered feet too heavy to lift off the ground. Zombies going nowhere, dazed and drugged, they passed each other without a word, as their hospital gowns ruffled around their scrawny frames.

Invisible and stiff with fear, I noticed movement at the end of the hall. A man with a mustache. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the ‘stache. As he got closer, the stranger smiled. I checked over my shoulder to see if he was smiling at someone behind me, but I was the only guest in this house of horrors. When I turned back, he’d inched closer.

No. No, no, no, no.

"How are you?" Jason asked.

I wasn't sure what to say, but it didn’t matter, I couldn’t speak. What the hell happened to Dinner Party Jason? Where was the tall, hairy, beefy, slightly updated porn-star Jason? The most beautiful man I’d ever seen, who’d been violently intimate with me for three months? I wanted that Jason.

This shriveled, gaunt-looking man had thick, purple veins pulsing through translucent skin. This rotting mess had sunken cheeks and sores on his neck. He was losing his hair and had yellow stained teeth and fingers. He smelled like death.

"I'm… I’m OK,” I stuttered. “How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know, I'll be fine. Just here for a few more days, and I'll be home."

Unsure if that was sarcasm, I smiled, refusing to cry. Not because I wanted to remain strong for me, but something inside of me ached for him. I knew that breaking down in the middle of this oppressive ghost town would make him feel worse than he already did.

"What's that on your arm?" Jason pointed a bony finger.

"I, uh, just came from the doctor."

"Oh.”

I held his gaze and grimaced.

“Well, I suppose if you have it, you'll blame me."

Shocked at his statement, I took a moment to absorb that slap.

The truth was, I hadn’t had unprotected sex with anyone but Jason. Everyone was so scared of contracting AIDS at that time, sex without a condom was off the table.

“If I do have it, you’re the reason, Jason,” I said, bitterly.

“So you say,” he said dismissively.

“It’s the truth!” I shouted. “You told me on that first night we were together that you had been tested and you were fine, and I honestly have not had unprotected sex with anyone but you.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, his tone incredulous. “I never got tested until six months ago, when I started getting sick.”

A gut punch. I gasped for breath. “Jason, you told me you were fine, that’s why we had sex without a condom.”

“I don’t remember any of this. Besides that was, what, three years ago? How many other men have you been with since me?”

“Jason, you are the only person who ... If I have it, you are the reason, Jason.”

I snarled through gritted teeth.

“So you say.”

“Are you really going to be an asshole right now?”

I don’t know what I expected from him when I came here, but I never considered him denying his part in all of this.

I studied his ashen, deflated face, barely able to glimpse the man I knew, wondering if my mother would be able to recognize me when she came to visit me here. It was time for me to escape.

“I have to get going. I’m glad you’ll be out of here soon.”

“Me, too.” He smiled and moved in for a hug, just like he had done at the dinner party, but this time he had to move an IV pole out of the way to do it.

I embraced his withered frame, shocked at how much bulk the hospital gown had given him. He took hold of the pole and shuffled alongside me to the elevator. All I could think of was our first night together.

“What about this AIDS thing?” I had asked.

“I’ve been tested a hundred times,” he told me.

For the third morning in a row, I called the doctor’s office to see if the results were in. Nearly two weeks after I’d had my blood drawn, the nurse informed me that they were available.

“I’ll come right over,” I said.

“Actually,” she said. “The doctor wants you to come in this evening around 7.”

If it had been good news, he’d have given it to me over the phone. That much I knew.

When I opened the door to his office, I was met with: “We’re closed.”

“I have an appointment.” My voice quaked.

“Ooh, Mr. Hedden. Yes, come right in.”

The sympathy in her eyes gave it away instantly. She led me to the waiting area, its walls lined with mirrors, but what caught my attention were the figures scattered throughout: life-size dolls made entirely of women’s stockings. It took a few seconds to process these bizarre interlopers.

A dozen figures—some male, some female, all stuffed with cotton, their faces stitched crudely into the fabric—positioned around the room stared at me. The women were in dresses; the men wore suits. Some wore glasses, others hats, but they all had strange stitched expressions. Had I stepped into some twisted fun house?

I needed these last few minutes for myself, but all I could focus on were the freakish figures surrounding me. My sanity seemed to be slipping away.

I tried to figure out where it felt safe to look when the doctor called my name. Relieved to escape this sideshow, I followed him to his office.

He took his seat across from me and folded his hands. He stared at me for a few long seconds. Then with a shaky voice he said: “You have it.”

He let out a heavy sigh. This must have been an unbearably hard thing to tell a young man of 24. Or maybe he had delivered the news to a dozen young men today.

When you know what’s coming, you convince yourself that hearing it won’t be as bad as you imagine. But in 1988 at the height of the AIDS crisis—thousands dying every day, front-page stories on every newsstand, no hope in sight, and the vision of my ex-boyfriend withering away in an AIDS ward across town—it hit me like a violent blow to the chest.

I don’t remember much of what he said. I barely registered that I was crying. All I can recall is him continuously unrolling paper towels and handing them to me. Something about AZT, something about right away and finally, he said, “If you need anything, please call me. For anything.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed he was crying, too.

Stumbling out of his office at dusk, I jumped in a cab and cried as I headed to my apartment.

Once inside, I screamed, then cried some more. I paced, repeating the words: “What am I going to do?”

I sobbed for hours, drank a cocktail or two, passed out, and woke up the next day on the sofa. This was my first day of life with HIV. Of how many, I didn’t know. As the sun poured in my window over the East River, I let it fill my eyes, enjoying the white-blindness and warmth. When I couldn’t take anymore, I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair. What was I going to do? I had to go to work. But that would be the easy part.

When I was too young to remember, my father was killed by a drunk driver, leaving my young mother to raise four children under the age of 10. Growing up, I watched my mother get up every morning and go to a job she didn’t particularly like, but it was the only way for her to provide for us. As a child, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I didn’t realize the pressure she was under. I didn’t know her working wasn’t a choice, but a necessity. Being witness to a lifetime of her strength and grit was about to come in handy as I sat on the edge of my sofa on Day One.

I knew coffee would taste great, so I finally moved myself to the kitchen and started my day. Slowly, like moving through tar.

By the time I got to work, I felt numb—utterly exhausted from the past two weeks. I’d spent so much time thinking about death, my inevitable decline, and the AIDS ward I was destined to end up in that I needed a break from it all. Now that the first wave of drama had passed, I knew there would be more to follow, but I couldn’t think about that now. The daze became a strange comfort.

Aside from the life-eating bug in my blood, things in my life were pretty much the same, and I took comfort in a passing thought: If I was positive today, I must have been positive a month ago, two years ago even. I felt no different now, so perhaps I should just live my life and pray for a miracle.

A week later, my phone rang.

“Well?” said the raspy, bitter voice on the other end.

“Jason? How are you feeling?” My eyes grew hot as they threatened to overflow.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Finally home.”

His familiar labored breathing unsettled me. Then, in a very soft, almost-caring tone, he asked: “Did you get your results back?”

I wanted to kill this man. I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to grab onto those protruding cheekbones and hurl him across the room for what he did to me. I had spent the last week cursing his name. Above all, I wanted revenge.

But when the moment came, just as in the hospital, I couldn’t bring myself to deliver another blow to his frail body. With my hands shaking, I delivered the news.

“My test results came back negative, Jason. I’m fine.”

I heard him blow out a cloud of cigarette smoke and, channeling Bette Davis at her most sarcastic, he spat: “Well, aren’t you lucky?”

Was he surprised? Relieved? I don’t know. I just knew I had done the right thing.

Knowing who infected me wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make the infection any easier, or harder, to bear. But Jason was dying. He watched as his face, his body, his very existence slipped away. To be trapped in limbo, in a body that could barely hold itself upright, closer to death than life, must be the worst fate a person could endure. I couldn’t let him die knowing he had condemned me to the same fate.

We said our goodbyes, and I told him we’d speak soon.

Two weeks later, the phone rang again at 7:30 in the morning. It was Jamie.

“Jason is dead.”

As with her first call two months before, my heartbeat quickened. I told Jamie how sorry I was for her loss. Then I hung up. As I sat on the edge of my bed, I begged God: “Please don’t let my mother have to make a call like that.”

Nearly 40 years have passed since that call, and I have never regretted not telling Jason the truth. I honestly don’t know where the restraint came from. If ever there were a moment to be selfish and cruel that was it. But what time and this disease have taught me is that Jason wasn’t solely to blame. I knew better. I could have insisted on protection. I could have said no. But in a moment of passion, I altered the course of my own life. And if for no other reason, I’m most grateful I didn’t unleash my bitterness onto a dying man.

Almost four decades ago, I sat in that doctor’s office and heard him pronounce my death sentence. It has been a very scary ride that included one near-death experience, which turned into a chance encounter that allowed me to be one of the first people in the world to join a drug trial for a groundbreaking AIDS drug. Since then, I’ve had decades to cherish life in a way only someone who has stared down death can.

I turned 61 this year. I’m called a Long-Term Survivor now instead of an AIDS patient. But I just tell everyone: I’m one lucky bastard.

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Timothy Hedden is a 61-year-old long-term AIDS survivor, award winning writer, reality television editor/producer. His writing has appeared in publications such as The Huffington Post and NBCNews.com. His claim-to-fame as a video editor is the wildly popular, Season 5, “Gone With the Wind Fabulous” episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. He is currently querying his two novels, The West 15th Street Murders and The Dead Housewives of Philadelphia. He lives in Manhattan with his husband, Michael, and their dog Bruno.

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