Me, Too: 2/2

Some people stay with you. Forever. Alton is one of those people for me. He was born in Huntsville, AL. Went to art school in Atlanta, GA. Showed paintings in NYC and Miami, FL. Then found himself moving to SF and becoming a High School Art Teacher in Piedmont, CA. He lived in Bernal Heights, the last ungentrified hill in the city, on Mirabel Street. I would become his neighbor and best friend for the last 5 years of his life.

Where to begin. I believe I already wrote about his partner, Roger. It was he that I first met. We both were gardeners and shared seeds over the fence. We'd have yard sales and parties together. Go out dancing down on this little club right at the bottom of the hill on Mission Street and afterwards to eat tamales or burritos, depending if it was an afternoon or evening danceathon. I don't remember the name of the club, but it was one of the few true latin dance clubs in the city. Don't know if it's still there. We'd also go the the club  and cafes in the Castro. When we'd get into raving conversations, in order not to interrupt each other or agree for emphasis, Alton would point from himself to me and back. When he really wanted to emphasize a point or make a mental book mark, he'd use two fingers as if to say same, here or me, too.

In the summers Roger's kids would come and stay for a month or so from Southern California. He'd been married to a woman, and had a son and daughter. Roger and Alton co-parented during the summer holiday and sometimes over school vacations. Alton loved being a Dad. He was great with his students and with his kids. Roger worked as an electrician, and had twice been struck by lightning. He was 1/4 American Indian, but I don't remember the tribe.

When Roger had the flu that just didn't quit, and made it so he couldn't work, we took him to SF General. Little did we know that he would only come home once more. They took all kinds of tests, and because I had been taking turns nursing Roger, as I worked from home while Alton had to go to the East Bay to teach, we all had to be tested for TB, because at first that was their best guess at a diagnosis.

It wasn't the flu or TB; it was AIDs. Alton found out within a very short span of time that his husband was dying of AIDS and that he, himself, was HIV+. The next two weeks in the AIDS ward of SF General were taxing. As I wrote earlier, I was the put in charge of everything, full power of attorney status. Dealing with Roger's relative and Alton's devastation. I can remember driving to and from the hospital (mostly to care for the dog and to check my phone machine for work messages). During those drives I remember watching the people walking on the sidewalks, crossing the streets, riding the buses and being envious of how routine and comfortable their lives continued.

This was not my first AIDs rodeo, but it would be the last one I managed. When Roger died, Alton and I were in the hospital room. Alton was rubbing Roger's cooling feet and telling him it was okay to let go. I was sitting beside Alton at the foot of Roger's bed. I believe Roger's family was not present, perhaps having left to get food or sleep. Alton and I hadn't much of either in days.

As Roger died, both Alton and I felt we saw his spirit leave his body and go out the window. We didn't tell each other at the time, but we looked in each other's eyes and then Alton did that thing he always did with me. He made two fingers, like a peace or victory sign, pointed to his chest, then mine, then at his eyes and back to my eyes with the same two fingers. No words were necessary. We would set the experience to words much later. Two fingers were all it took. Me, too.

After Roger died, we became as close as two people can be, without having sex. Emotionally, physically, spiritually and intellectually. I had a boyfriend, he lived with me, but I was closer to Alton. It would take me a few more months to realize that my boyfriend had a new girlfriend and that was why he was treating me like a roommate. Dear readers, so you see a pattern here?

After the boyfriend moved out, I moved up one street and over one or two houses, on Montezuma. It was a grand one bedroom apartment with a private garden in back and a smashing view of the city to a call all my own. Going dancing and to cafe's with Alton continued. He returned to work and was HIV positive, but thankful asymptomatic. We run on the beaches on the weekends and wear out Kodiak, the dog, by playing fetch in the surf. Crissy Field was best for that, as the undertow at Ocean Beach was too unforgiving for dogs.

If I was having a bad day with a bad date or badly behaved writer, I'd come home to find a nice piece of art tied to my doorknob or a sweetly sung song on my answering machine. Somehow he knew, even though he didn't always know for sure. We were so connected that the two of us just knew. Me, too.

Left to his own devices, his apartment that had always been a constantly changing exhibit hall, became even more full of lights, paintings and collections of music. Sheet music, CDs, tapes, records. Paints; oils, water colors, pastels, charcoals, and such from FLAX. The hours spent cutting, shaping, painting gold and blue stars in all sort of sizes and colorful patterns was astounding. Inspiring, too.

The trinkets left on my doorknob, or tucked in a book I must read, were always tagged with his signature blue and gold. Tonight before writing this, I was trying desperately to find the copy of The Little Prince that he gave me. The reason being he inscribed it and I wanted to remember what he wrote (as I remember it was significant to us) and it had a bookmark he made: a cobalt blue star bead on a piece of cobalt blue thread. A talisman between us. Me, too.

Then Alton started to get sick. It wasn't AIDs. It wasn't one of the opportunistic diseases associated with AIDs. It was testicular cancer; a type that your DNA is set to trigger if you're predisposed, and he was. Alton had a rough childhood. His mother died young of cancer. His father molested him and his sister loved him, but never fully understood him. This all seemed like an ironic and sick joke. But it wasn't and once again, I was put in charge. Power of attorney over all health, financial and so on.

Fortunately, I was not the only one seduced by his deep story telling, quick wit, generous spirit, talent to spare and genuine good-egg-attude. He had many friends, colleagues and administrators who helped during his illness. When he would get sick or scared, he'd call and I'd walk down the hill and crawl into bed with him and Kodiak.

When we first got the diagnosis, he became anxious and depressed. I received more midnight calls around that time, as he hated to be alone. He wasn't supposed to drink, or stay up all night, or over due it tomcatting around in the wee hours in the Castro. This was a tall order for him, and me by extension.  Keeping him from drinking was darn near impossible. He added booze to everything, a lesson I learned early in our friendship.

One time Roger, Alton and I were having a yard sale. Being seasoned city folk, we knew that selling baked goods as well would stop the sidewalk traffic long enough to have them get curious about the other items for sale. Long story short: Alton made a Lane Cake. Now, if you've read To Kill a Mockingbird or other fine southern literature (Eudora Welty also comes to mind), you will have heard of a Lane Cake. Basically it's a multilayer cake and between the layers are cherries, and in the layers of cake is bourbon or whiskey, and then it's frosted with buttercream icing and, usually, coconut. Well, those two kept glancing at each other and making all kinds of talk while I first helped myself to one slice, and then as the afternoon when on, another. Glances were exchanged, but I didn't catch the drift. All I'll say is this, I don't remember walking home after that sale, how I got in bed, undressed or anything else.

With this illness, I made sure Alton went to California Pacific. His school, although he hadn't been able to work for months continued his medical and salary. The Principal really was a good hearted man and did right by Alton. I'd go and hold his hand while the did endoscopies and other indignities to him. I'll admit, I'm not squeamish, and as odd as it may sound, it was fascinating to see how the medical machinery worked. Later, Alton being a very visual and verbal man, I'd tell him inch by inch what I saw, so when the results would come back, he'd be able to understand the systemic process.
The cancer spread; to nodes, organs, and,finally, everywhere. He was given 6 months to live.

Somewhere in the midst of all this I met the man that would become my husband. Alton was very nervous about meeting him and Peter was very nervous about meeting Alton. The both knew how much this meeting meant to me. He couldn't attend our wedding in October '96, because he was too ill and poor. He hadn't worked in over a year, but still his principal worked with me on health insurance and salary issues.  I sometimes wonder now, if he'd lived long enough, what he'd think of my divorce. I think he'd know it was right and I think he might have even asked me to do it earlier, for my own and the children's sake.

With in that 6 months though something happened. Alton found a new love, too. Me, too. He was in a stabilized state and had energy enough to go out prowling. One night he came home with Daniel and he basically never left.

Now I've seen what love can do. The healing and spirit infusing it can do. My sister's love of her son, also gave her much more time on the planet with her appendix cancer than the doctors or medical community thought was possible. If you measure the organs, blood, nodes and so on, the results may say that the body can not function or continue with the amount of disease taxing the body. But when you throw love into the mix, well all bets are off. You see love and channel energy back into people and make impossible physical situations defy reason and results.

I became pregnant and Alton was ecstatic. After Roger died, he lost his children as well. This was an opportunity to be a doting uncle. He would rave rhapsodic with the details of the Puppet Theater he would build for our daughter. When we'd go for longer chemo and radiation stays at the hospital, he'd take his art installations with him and we'd set up his room. He'd ask about how my painting of her nursery was going in our apartment in Noe Valley (I'd moved one hill away, but still only a 20 minute walk in a pinch). I was stenciling sea and mythical creatures around the top of the walls figuring that is where a baby would look most in it's first year. Both he and Peter worried about me on a ladder, but I've painted, industrially for a living, so I shooed them away.

The last time I could fly before her birth was to New Mexico for Thanksgiving. Alton assured me he'd call if he needed me (this was 1997, no cellphones), and gave him my father's phone number in Santa Fe. No calls and I assumed that all was well in SF. I came home to a zillion messages blinking away on my answering machine. Alton, his best friend in Atlanta, Alton, his Dr., Alton, BFF and so on. He was in California Pacific and it didn't sound good.

I'd called his family once before when I thought he might be dying. Now before I cried wolf, I wanted to be sure where we stood. The phone tree of caretakers for Alton and Kodiak had been in play since the last decline. Daniel was there in an off and on fashion. He couldn't get off work for this as they were not legally spouses. Meals, dog walk and such were in place though, thank goodness.

When I go to California Pacific, I knew this was it. Alton and I had both grown up in alcoholic families and as our friendship grew, so did our codes. Not only the Me, too,  but other words that worked in sentences, but didn't mean what we were saying. Having had years to decide this actuality, we decided it should be simple and direct, as he would most likely be failing and in pain. The phrase was, "I'd like to go home now". Simple and sweet. To which I was to answer, "Me, too". Alton was a religious man at heart, so home for him in this context did double duty, as well.

I went straight out to the nurses station and asked for an AMA form. Now if you haven't had the exposure to hospitals that I've had, you may not know that an AMA form is how a person like me, a Power of Attorney person, can sign out my patient with an Against Medical Advice form. Basically he no longer wanted treatment. He wanted to go home to die.

I called everyone. They all came. I set up a hospice nurse and we had daily meetings about how to proceed with pain treatments. We set up shifts, as I was due to have  baby in 5-6 weeks. We didn't the duration of his decline, as he was always surprising us with his ability to rally. But this time was different. He insisted on a Christmas tree and made us get out his ornaments and beloved bubble lights. He wanted it set up in his bedroom. He started talking to angels that no one else could see.

On the evening he died, I sat infront of him, feeling huge, ungraceful, tired and bloated. He could sense all that and said I was beautiful and wanted me to have the butterfly painting (see earlier post) as I was it and it was me. He said he too felt not his beautiful self (none of the above pictures do his handsome self justice), bloated (the treatments had made him full of fluids) and ungraceful (weakness and drugs). Me, too with the fingers, back and forth. Me, too. But then he almost got mad at me when I was having a continuance of not feeling beautiful. He insisted that I was and put his hand on my belly and gave me a deep look in the eye with a mixture of love and pain.

He then told my sister, Leslie, and Peter that he wanted to go sit in front of his Christmas tree. He made sure that his sister and I were in the living room. And then he died.

We had a memorial service for him in the garden. The garden where I first met Roger, and then, Alton. Kodiak went to live with a neighbor and Alton's spirit came to live with me. Me, too.

Good Night, HaPpY BiRthdAy AlToN ~ love you & miss you, G'night.

(Photos: http://www.hhs1976.net and Piedmont School District from my collection)