Miami Herald - Monday, November 10, 1997
John Barry, Herald staff writer

"I'd just like to meet a celebrity," said the 34-year-old man who was dying of AIDS.

Marc Cohen, a healer of pain whose only medicine is peace of mind, called Nestor Torres, who came and played his flute at Sierra's bedside. Days later, Sierra passed away.

The latest wish came from a 33-year-old named Jorge, just last week. He asked for a bicycle. So Cohen called the Bicycle Fitness Store, and a few days later Jorge, who couldn't even walk 12 months ago, pedaled off on a donated, silver 10-speed racer.

What a difference four years of medical progress have made for a charity that grants wishes to people with AIDS. Dying wishes have become living ones.

When the United Foundation for AIDS began offering room, board and one wish apiece to indigent patients being treated for AIDS at Miami Beach's South Shore Hospital in 1993, most of its missions of mercy rang with predictable finality.

They were dying people asking for a last visit with family, or a last vacation, or even a last serenade.

But these days, the stack of handwritten wishes on foundation vice president Cohen's desk tell another story -- one equally dramatic, but far less despairing.

In his stack is a request for a microwave oven; a plea for underwear and socks; a wish for a dining table and chairs; another from someone who wants only "food and a bed."

Such modest requests reflect how little these patients have and how humble their expectations are, but they also reveal what was up until now a rare commodity -- hope.

The medical miracle behind these living wishes lies on the desk next to Cohen's elbow -- a tray of drugs that keeps Cohen, who has AIDS himself, alive and well. The medicines are protease inhibitors which, combined with other drugs, virtually erase the AIDS virus from blood.

Since the protease inhibitors came along about two years ago, Cohen's prognosis -- the virus is undetectable in his blood -- and his job have both changed profoundly.

Cohen, 34, is a former New York art dealer. He met the foundation's president and founder, Al Evans, in 1993. (Evans died of heart attack last week. The foundation will continue, but a successor has not been named yet. "We're carrying Al's torch," Cohen says.)

Four years ago, Cohen was visiting Miami Beach to help Sierra, his dying friend. Sierra was destitute -- he needed food, a place to stay and transportation.

"Things were crashing around him," Cohen says, "and he had no one but me to ask for help." His efforts in helping Sierra get an apartment, car and groceries evolved, almost accidentally, into his role as the foundation's wish genie. He began assisting other dying patients, and "without even realizing it, I became more committed," he says.

His mission became even more compelling in 1994 when he learned that he also was HIV-infected. "I had a wish for myself that wasn't as tangible as some of these are," he says. "I wished for the strength to carry on on the front lines."

The role thrust Cohen into profoundly memorable death scenes. The most time-pressed and difficult wish occurred last year when Juan Oliva asked the foundation to unite him one last time with his father and sister, who were in Lima, Peru.

U.S. Rep. Ileana Ros-Lehtinen and Gov. Lawton Chiles helped prod the State Department into issuing emergency visas, and American Airlines donated the fares -- with only hours to spare. Oliva died the same day as his family's visit.

`Always there'

What has left the strongest impression among surviving loved ones is not the wish itself, but Cohen's involvement.

"The main thing is, Marc was always there," says Rosemary Wascura, whose 28-year-old son, Shane Moshanku, died in 1995. "Day or night, he was there to help. He came to visit Shane every day."

Shane, a credit manager for the Eden Roc Hotel, just missed out on the medical reprieve. He died just as the new drug therapies were becoming available. "Those last few months he was so sick, it was too late," his mother says.

She recalled one very rough day when Shane tried to get to the South Shore Hospital cafeteria from his room to watch the sun set on Biscayne Bay, but became so disoriented in the elevator that he jammed the door by pressing too many buttons. The first rescuer on the scene was Cohen.

Everyday needs

The family's experience with Cohen and the foundation led Wascura to create "Shane's Cupboard," a fund that covers everyday survival needs of AIDS patients.

"These are not people asking for a trip to Europe," Wascura says. "They're just trying to get by, and sometimes little things like underwear or even a pizza party are a big lift."

One of the most powerful wish experiences for Wascura was a man in his 30s who died clutching a teddy bear she'd given him. "It was the only thing he owned."

The deaths, of course, have not completely abated. Most of the people the foundation assists are uninsured and unemployed, and often must wait as long as a year to qualify for free disbursements of the $15,000-per-year drug therapies. "It's a battle," Cohen says. "The drugs don't always get here on time."

New possibilities

But for many of those who do adapt to the regimen, the change has opened up possibilities unthinkable a year ago.

In early October, the foundation granted a wish that may take months or years to make happen: It launched a search for the adoptive parents of Jonas, a 36-year-old patient whose health has been good since starting on the protease therapy last May.

Jonas, who, like the bicycle recipient Jorge, requested anonymity, says he wants to locate his birth parents, not to say goodbye, but to find out why he was put up for adoption and to learn his genetic history.

All he knows is that he was born Oct. 16, 1961, to Florence Beatrice Hopkins, now 59, at City Hospital in Baltimore.

The foundation paid $200 to start the search process through a company called International Locators.

"I just want my lineage," says Jonas, adding that before he started protease therapy, "I didn't have the strength to really do a search for my parents." Jonas contracted AIDS in 1994.

Likewise, Jorge nearly died of pneumonia last year and was so weak he needed a wheelchair. Now, after a year on the new drugs, he's 20 pounds heavier, and making good use of his new bicycle.

"I feel I've been born again."

DONATIONS

You can help Shane's Cupboard or the Grant-A-Wish program by calling Marc Cohen at (305) 672-2100, ext. 3389.

CUTLINES

RANDY BAZEMORE / Herald Staff GRANTING HOPE: Marc Cohen presents a new bicycle to Jorge, an AIDS patient in need of transportation.

CAPTION: photo: Marc Cohen with AIDS patient Jorge (a)
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