November 30, 2006
Eddie
We were the closest of the four siblings. Sis was a bit of a goody-two-shoes. Younger brother was a typical little-brother-brat and very much Mama’s boy. That left Eddie and me. We found outlets for our mischievous natures together. When I was four and he was seven, our parents got tired of hearing both of us declare that we were going to run away from home. They dumped the two of us into the back seat of that year’s old clunker and drove out to a country highway. We were unceremoniously deposited on the gravel shoulder, our most precious goods in pillowcases swung over our backs. Eddie had his BB gun, and would find rabbits which we would roast on sticks over a campfire. I had my stuffed monkey and knew how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the jars and loaf we carried. The Davy Crockett canteen and a few clothes completed our survival kits. Our bravado lasted for perhaps ten minutes, and we were both tear-streaked and repentant when Mom and Dad picked us up, somewhere around a hundred yards from where we’d started. That lesson was learned, though our parents may have later regretted our hard-won wisdom. There may have been days when they wished we were someone else’s headache. Throughout the late fifties and early sixties we frequently were called on the carpet together. “Wait ’til your father gets home” was Mom’s pronouncement that guaranteed her a quiet afternoon, as we retreated to our rooms to await the belt or Dad’s big, hard hand applied firmly to our backsides. Still, we tortured Sis and Little Bro, neglected chores and disappeared on adventures when homework was on the agenda.
Eddie had a garage band in his teens. My voice, not yet damaged by two packs a day, was pretty good, and I was soon recruited. Our public appearances were limited, but we practiced daily, much to the displeasure of neighbors. When we did our first paid gig, I bought cigars for all of the guys as a congratulatory gesture. I was rewarded with chaste kisses from the band. I’m sure I must have blushed furiously, since I had a crush on our bass player. So did Eddie.
It was hard to follow Eddie through school. His reputation preceded me, and I was often introduced as “the fag’s little sister.” Still, we remained close and I tried my best to forgive him for ruining my life. When I finally did run away from home shortly before I was due to graduate, I landed in his French Quarter apartment. He introduced me the gay bar scene, inadvertently guarding my innocence, as I quickly became “little sis” to my new friends. They found me “charmingly naive” and took turns steering me away from the hippies and bikers who fascinated me. It was many years later before I could appreciate their intervention.
Eddie and I drifted apart as adults. We lived in different states and didn’t see each other often. I grew up overnight with the arrival of my son, and set my sights on living a responsible life. Eddie continued to meander. He rarely supported himself, and never repaid the loans that helped him get by. He lived on the edges of society and found himself in trouble with the law more than once. He proudly declared that he would never grow up, choosing to cling to a Peter Pan existence. Still, he lived in my heart and I loved him. I fretted over him as much as I did my son.
I was one of the first to know he had been infected with HIV. The other who knew slipped one day and mentioned that Eddie’s most recent T-cell count had been good. Those words seared themselves into my brain and I reeled with the impact. It was several hours later before I pulled myself together enough to call him. He immediately began crying, and I knew it was because he knew that I knew. We talked many times in the weeks and months that followed. I pledged to take care of him when/if the time came that he needed help. I didn’t believe it would ever come to that. I just couldn’t.
Eddie became an AIDS counselor and did a weekly broadcast on public TV. He reported hopefully on each advance in research and treatment. He was sure that a cure was imminent. He continued to live his life pretty much as he always had, until suddenly he couldn’t. After several symptom-free years, Eddie was hospitalized several times in the space of a few months. I was living half-a-world away by then, and he wanted to continue his care with the doctors he had become comfortable with. I was not allowed to keep my promise. Sis stepped in. She was his twin and they lived in the same city. Their bond was strong, though “different” from the one that he and I shared. She was there to take him to the clinic, remind him to take his “cocktail,” and help him face his frustrations and fears. He still believed that a cure was near.
She called me in a panic several months after Eddie moved in. Dad was not doing well and little brother was not doing a good job of tending him. So, while Sis took care of Eddie, Dad was flown to my home, where his care soon became a twenty-four/seven commitment. While I was bathing our father, trying to get him to eat, struggling to get him off of the floor when he fell, I knew that she was doing the same for Eddie.
The end came quickly. Eddie was hospitalized with pneumonia. A few days later he was gone. My sister and an aunt were at his bedside, holding his hands when he quit struggling to breath. Eddie’s body was whisked away, to be used for AIDS research as he had wanted. I didn’t have time to mourn. Dad was having frequent strokes. I was exhausted with his care and barely felt the impact of Eddie’s passing.
Dad died five months later. My son and I flew him home to place him beneath the double stone where Mom had rested alone for a decade. Eddie was nearby and I think his death finally became real to me then. His remains had been released a few months before. The extended family was in turmoil, because Sis, with little money and reeling from her own grief and exhaustion, had allowed the county to bury him in a pauper’s grave. I was still dealing with Dad at that time and told her I would support her in whatever she needed to do. It had not occurred to Sis to ask the family to help, and none of them came forward to volunteer. Some of them have still not forgiven her for not giving Eddie the cremation he had stated was his preference. I understood her decision, and I think Eddie would have, too. And I think that, in some perverse way, he would have appreciated one last opportunity to stand the family on its ears.
Michael Edward B.
September 28, 1949 - December 2, 1998
I’ll be watching And the Band Played On again soon, Eddie. I’ll be thinking of you, and then of so many others. I’ll cry and hurt and then become enraged, for you and for them. And Eddie, you were wrong one last time. They still haven’t found a cure.
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November 30th, 2006 at 5:28 pm, Roye Says:
Powerful post Skeet, very well written. {{{hug}}}
November 30th, 2006 at 7:40 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo, Roye. Sweet words are sweeter still when they come from a friend.
December 1st, 2006 at 3:23 am, Vanda Says:
It was a powerful entry Skeet. Sad and beautiful memories for you. {{{{Skeet}}}}
December 1st, 2006 at 10:03 am, Antof9 Says:
What a lovely and heartfelt entry, Skeet, and what a beautiful tribute to your (obviously darling) brother.
Thanks for sharing this with the world.
RIP, Eddie
December 1st, 2006 at 10:30 am, annulla Says:
A moving, beautiful memorial to your dear brother. I’m so sorry for your loss.
AIDS has stolen so many beautiful people from our lives. Who would ever have imagined that after so many millions of tears have been shed, and millions of hearts broken, that we still don’t have a cure, a vaccine, or even a comprehensive eduction/prevention program?
25 years have passed, 25 million have been lost and still, the band plays on …
December 1st, 2006 at 10:44 am, SwampHag Says:
Thank you for sharing Eddie with us today. (((Skeet)))
December 1st, 2006 at 4:09 pm, constantweader Says:
Thank you for sharing Eddie with us.
(((((((((((Skeet))))))))
December 1st, 2006 at 10:13 pm, skeet Says:
Thank you all for stopping by. This was a hard one to write.
December 2nd, 2006 at 9:50 am, Dirk_Star Says:
Awesome post…
It could have been sad but that’s not what I saw in it.
It was loving and beautiful. It was a quiet ad reflective piece.
Well done.
December 3rd, 2006 at 2:08 am, allysther Says:
Very nice. Beautifully written and so sweet. Thank you.
February 11th, 2007 at 4:53 pm, Skeet's Stuff Says:
[…] eight years ago. I tried on various screen names for size, but none of them seemed to feel right. Eddie had died a few years earlier, and I still frequently thought of myself as Skeeter Bess when I remembered our […]
December 1st, 2007 at 3:50 pm, skeet’s stuff » World AIDS Day 2007 Says:
[…] know anyone who has been touched by the AIDS epidemic? If so, you’re wrong. You know me. My bother died of AIDS. I urge all of my blogging friends to read Eddie’s story and to share your own stories. Put […]
December 1st, 2007 at 5:35 pm, sweetisu Says:
RIP Eddie.
A beautiful memorial.
December 1st, 2007 at 5:54 pm, Karen Says:
You are a powerful writer, Skeet. Your brother has been honored with your words.
December 1st, 2007 at 5:57 pm, Lisa Marie Mary Says:
Skeet - you sweet, sweet thing - thank you so much for sharing your brother with us like this. Although I am reading last year’s entry, I know. I just today received an email from my big brother that was so kind and loving and unbelievably sweet. He had me in tears, and I’ve yet to respond - I’m kind of at a loss for words. And now reading this post about the sweet and lovely relationship that you and your brother shared - tears are rolling down my cheeks again!
I’m so sorry you lost your sweet brother - and your dad!
{{{{{{SkeeterBess!!}}}}}
December 1st, 2007 at 7:58 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo, Sweetisu. It’s been a year since I wrote Eddie’s story and it’s still the one that was hardest to write.
December 1st, 2007 at 8:00 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo, Karen, and mahalo for reading it. I hope it’s a reminder that every person lost to this terrible disease is precious to someone.
December 1st, 2007 at 8:06 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo, Lisa MM. I’m happy to hear that you and your brother also share a special relationship and still have time to cherish each other.
December 2nd, 2007 at 5:29 am, pelf Says:
This is indeed powerful, skeet, and I didn’t cry until the last paragraph.
*hugs*
December 2nd, 2007 at 8:56 am, skeet Says:
Pelf, it’s been nine years today since Eddie died. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime. Other days I feel as if it was just yesterday, that last time that he called me “sittle lister” and laughed with me over the phone.
December 4th, 2007 at 3:43 pm, Beth Says:
Oh Skeet. I truly had no idea. You post moved me to tears. You two shared a bond that most people out there wished they had. You two were very lucky to have each other. This is the absolute most loving and brilliant post I have ever read. Thanks so much for sharing it.
{{{HUGS}}}
December 6th, 2007 at 1:52 pm, Deb Says:
Thank you for sharing this story. I hadn’t read it before. ((hugs))