Survivor's Guilt

From Wikipedia:
Survivor's guilt or syndrome is a mental condition that occurs when a person perceives themselves to have done wrong by surviving a traumatic event when others did not. It may be found among survivors of combat, natural disasters, epidemics...

For those of us considered long-term survivors of HIV, survivor's guilt is familiar. In the early 90's, many of us could do little more than watch as those close to us got sick, entered hospitals, recovered, got sicker, entered hospice, and passed away as peacefully as the morphine drip would allow. I mean, we did something. We visited. We helped them with household chores and errands. We shaved their faces and snuck contraband snacks into the AIDS ward. We called their families. We planned their memorials. We lit candles. And we held hands. Their hands. The hands of their partners. And the hands of our other friends. It was something... but it still seemed like it was so little.

Twenty years ago I was young - very young. But I wasn't immune to the experiences of life and death. School friends dying in fatal car accidents. Intense altercations gone wrong when a knife was pulled out. Beautiful souls quieted by their own hands. I'm sure we've all experienced similar events... and we've cried, maybe thought, "Why her?" or even, "Why not me?"

From the "Memorial Book" in my
office lobby when I worked at CAP.

That last one... that's survivor's guilt. If you've thought that, you know what I'm writing about. I'm writing about times when it seems you've done something just as dangerous... or lived just as recklessly... or experienced an event just as traumatic... and somehow saw another sunrise. My understanding of this didn't come until I began to see my first friends pass away from AIDS. When young men & women I knew - who had not been dealing with HIV as long as me - were suddenly gone. How did I get so lucky? What had I done that was so different? Why not me?

Truth is, there is no answer. Maybe some who believe in God will say that He needed them for a different purpose or needed me to stay here. Maybe some atheists will say it's just the randomness of nature. Maybe some who are deeply spiritual will say they're not really gone - they live on in their energy, in my memories, and in the imprint they put on so many lives.


As I've grown older, I've had fewer friends pass away from AIDS. Yes, I've still lost some but nothing like 1995 when it was a dozen or more. No, as I've grown older I've realized that survivor's guilt isn't tied to being young and having HIV. It's not tied to any one thing in particular. I've seen friends die from lung cancer, drug overdoses and heart attacks. Why not me? When I'm the one who smoked for so long, experimented with way too many drugs, and ate enough red meat in one sitting to clog the largest of arteries? I'll never know the answer. And even if the answer is "God's will" or "randomness" or "they're not really gone," it doesn't matter. In the end, I learned one lesson much earlier than I ever expected. Death is the one thing in this world that can not be undone.

Absolute. Never changing. Forever.

AIDS Memorial Quilt panel with my
friends Steve & Bob alongside
my friend Jill's son, Ken.

It may be hard to comprehend but those words actually help me cope with loss. Once I came to understand there was nothing I could do to change it, I would somehow grieve and live simultaneously. It actually started the moment I walked out of Paul's hospital room in the spring of 1996. I stayed by his bedside. I don't mean just during visiting hours - I mean, I lived in that hospital room. Helped nurses turn him. Watched him hallucinate from the pain meds. Placed cool cloths on his forehead. Slept in a chair and sometimes woke to see him rip out catheters & IV's and run mindlessly down the corridor. And then one day it ended. I was the only one in the room when he took his last breath. I climbed into the bed with him for a few minutes before calling the nurses and doctors. I held him for just a moment. Because after watching all that pain, it felt, well, almost beautiful to see it had left his body. Then, as the staff did what they had to do, I walked outside to be alone. But I realized I wasn't. Landscapers were mowing the grass. Visitors were walking in with flowers for their loved ones. New parents were walking out with these tiny new little lives in their arms. It was at that moment - just minutes after losing my friend - that I came to understand that death may be absolute but, for those left behind, life must go on.

It may seem cold. Heartless. Not human. But if you know me you know I am none of those things. And I feel... intensely. Does loss slow me down? Hell yeah. But I can't let it stop me completely. And I can't avoid the feelings and get caught up in the "tasks" that need to get done. I have to do both at the same time. So I do - and I get through. And when I see the sunrise the next day, and the day following, I say, "Good morning," to those who have gone before me.


I have a feeling tomorrow's sunrise will be gorgeous. And I will say, "Good morning," to those three who have gone this week. You know who you are. And I know you'll hear me.