Being Alive Newsletter - April 1999
Mark Olmsted

But let's be optimistic: medicine has learned new things in leaps and bounds. AIDS deaths are considerably lower, and making plans for Mardi Gras 2000 doesn't seem downright foolhardy. So what's the problem?

I first got my test results in 1988, and immediately knew I must have sero-converted around 1981, when I was Marlo Thomas-That Boy!-in New York City at 23, and there was simply no reason not to gather as much adventure as possible. After a decade when most of my positive friends stayed well, I moved to LA to take care of my brother, who died of AIDS in 1991. What followed during the next 14 months was a death every two months, each and every one of them a truly close New York friend. So when I got my first opportunistic infection in 1993, it seemed downright idiotic to think past next Tuesday. I started training myself how best to accept the inevitable. Whether that's negative or simply realistic, I had buried too many attitude-positive friends who died insisting, "I'll beat this, you'll see."

I decided if I concentrated on all the bad parts about growing old, it would make death that much less of a dreaded outcome. And if death wasn't my worst prospect, but suffering was, than if I felt it necessary to end the suffering on my own I would have already dealt with the fear of death. Unfortunately, I may have done too good a job at demonizing the future.

Certain things were easy: I could look at some vulture in a club, drunkenly scanning the bar and getting rejected by the pretty boys, and say, "I'll never be him." The prospect of various writing projects never reaching fruition was a disappointment, but I could take refuge in the fantasy that, had I been here to shepherd them, they might have gained prominence, but they might just as likely have remained in "almost" mode. Death meant I wouldn't have to live with the failures. I wouldn't have to deal with saving and arranging for retirement, or possible waves of deaths in the family, (one wave like that was quite enough, thank you). Most of all, dead people don't fall in love, and though I might miss out on the Great Love of My Life, I would more likely be missing out on several more excruciating heartbreaks that were like living death for me.

I made a simple goal for myself-make it till 40, and you will have beaten this, even if it kills you later. Well, I made it till 40 and with the pace of new drug breakthroughs, it's starting to look like I might make it a lot longer. And I am in crowded company.

This is the ultimate in good news/bad news dilemma. Good News: You're going to live. Bad News: You're going to live. And personally, I have found it very difficult to recalibrate my mindset about the future past the next six months, at most.

First off, there's the work thing. There is a disability hole in my resume during the crucial, career-building years of 35 and 40. There are tons of connections I never made on the job, there is no IRA account, there is no pension fund. So, unless I am very lucky, I am likely to find either a great job that pays shit (gay magazine editing, for example) or a job that pays well but makes me want to kill myself every day at 8:59 am.

Second in importance, (first in shallowness) is the fear of losing the looks. Twenty years is a long time to turn heads-in fact it's quite addictive. The prospect of early death pleased me in one respect: everyone would remember me at my peak. (The upside here is that there is a large block of gay baby boomers who are getting older right up there with you, and what was once considered "old" in gay terms has gone up considerably. Forty is not what it used to be. In fact, I'd say it's at least 50.)

Thirdly, bad habits and addictions. I have used and abused alcohol and drugs in a manner that was clearly unhealthy. But indulging in such practices with the mindset that I would no doubt be dead before anything became unmanageable was a tidy little rationalization allowing me to avoid confronting the short-term and long-term consequences of my behavior. So it is bittersweet indeed to get your prayers answered. I take comfort in knowing that Herman Melville (I think) didn't write a word until 40, that I am now perhaps more likely to bury my mother than vice-versa, (the way it should be,) and that I get to see whether the world goes berserk with Y2K.

When I feel overwhelmed by all the choices I have now, choices I was sure that I wouldn't have, I just imagine myself getting mugged at knifepoint. Would I say, "go ahead, kill me", or would I plead for my life? I guess the good news is better than the bad news.

Mark Olmsted is a freelance writer who can be e-mailed at makemark@aol.com

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