Holding the Man

by Timothy Conigrave

  Jackie and Juliet came tumbling into John’s room, laughing hysterically, and then pulled up. ‘Sorry,’ said Juliet. ‘We were asking the nurse about you, and Miss Fluffy here farted loudly.’

  ‘Don’t I get a hug or anything?’ John asked like a little boy. They rushed him, making a big fuss.

  At that moment a group of people piled in: two of John’s mates from the school footy team, another old school friend Eric and his wife Andy with a big bunch of flowers. John loved seeing his old friends. He was grinning from ear to ear. I hadn’t seen him so happy for weeks. We lifted him into the chair and our little entourage wheeled him across the bumpy lawn, nearly bouncing him out once or twice.

  Down by the barbecue other friends stood silently. I was expecting them to break into applause. They walked towards us, trying not to crowd John in, taking turns to say hello and kiss him. Prue held her daughter on one hip. ‘Sinead, do you want to kiss John?’ She buried her head in Prue’s chest.

  ‘Hello, John.’ Pepe’s son Tashi held a daisy that he’d picked out of the garden.

  ‘Tashi, haven’t you grown!’ Tashi smiled contentedly.

  Peter was there with his New Zealand boyfriend Daryl; so was Prue’s boyfriend Kevin; Andrew, who had lived with John and Peter in the fabulous Patty Duke house; Mark, who had brought his daughters’ paintings into St Vincent’s.

  Some friends sat on others’ knees, arms around each other. Kids played chasey around the trees. The barbecue was under way, the air filled with the smoke of charred meat.

  I overheard John telling Kevin about his respiratory arrest. ‘It was so easy, I didn’t feel a thing. I wish I hadn’t been resuscitated.’

  Franco and James walked over to John and hugged him. ‘What are you guys doing here!’

  ‘I’m down here for the film I’m working on.’

  ‘And I’ve come down to see you, my friend.’

  People chewed on sausages, water crackers with paté, or Tim Tams, talking about John. I was aware that John kept saying he wished he hadn’t been resuscitated. I heard him complaining to Jackie and Juliet about his bruised ribs. At that moment he broke into paroxysms of coughing, but continued when he had recovered his breath. ‘I want to go down to Sorrento and then back to Sydney, but it doesn’t look like I’ll get there,’ he said sadly and started coughing again.

  It was starting to chip away at me. Why is he saying this? He’s saying he wants to die. I sat down by Pepe. ‘I can’t stand hearing John wishing he was dead.’

  ‘It’s going to happen, Tim.’

  ‘I don’t want it to.’ I cried on her shoulder.

  John was coughing furiously now. I announced that we were going indoors. Some people started clearing up, others came over and hugged him or kissed him. Many of them realised they might not see him again. James and Pepe walked back with us. The next time the group will see each other is probably going to be at John’s funeral.

  Back in a warm bed, John was still coughing. ‘I’m so tired, it exhausts me.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a sleep?’

  ‘If I could stop coughing I might.’ I rubbed his back. When I brought the resident in, John barked at him. ‘Fucken oath! Can you stop it? I want you to stop me coughing.’

  ‘What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Double my morphine.’

  ‘I can’t authorise that, you’ll have to ask the registrar in the morning.’ John sighed a world-weary sigh. ‘I’m sorry.’ The resident left and John started crying. ‘It’s so unfair.’

  After a hard night of coughing John got to sleep at dawn. I lay in bed with that sick feeling you get when you’re over-tired, but with John asleep I was able to catch some zeds.

  I woke a few hours later as Tom and Laura crept in and sat on the verandah. They had some photo albums with them. I hopped out of bed and joined them outside.

  ‘Sorry we didn’t bring more, we couldn’t fit them in our luggage. It was fun trying to work out which ones to bring.’

  We looked through them: our trips to Italy, Kakadu and the Daintree, and the daiquiri party for John’s thirtieth.

  John coughed. ‘Hi guys.’ He stretched and coughed again. ‘Ow, my lungs hurt.’

  The registrar appeared. ‘I believe you’re having trouble with the coughing. With the antibiotics you’re on that shouldn’t be happening. What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Double my morphine.’

  ‘I have no problem with that as long as you understand you may have another respiratory arrest.’

  John squeezed out the words, ‘Fine by me.’ The registrar said he would organise it. ‘What would happen if I ceased treatment altogether?’ John wanted to know.

  ‘You’d probably be overwhelmed by bacterial infections and drown in your own mucus.’ These thoughts are like arrows in my side.

  A nurse came and gave John more morphine. His coughing stopped, which cheered him as much as the albums. He chuckled, pointing at a photo of me in speedos at the beach. ‘Thick thighs.’ Tom loved seeing me being put down. John turned another page and smiled again at me standing in front of a pylon under the graffiti ‘Free Tim’.

  The morphine took hold and John drifted off to sleep. Tom and Laura said they would stay a while, so I wrote John a note: ‘Gone home to get some sleep, hope you get some too. See you tomorrow, I love you. Timba.’ I left Tom and Laura sitting with their arms around each other.

  Next afternoon I dropped into the Clifton Hill pool on my way to the hospital. The water was warm, sensual, pleasurable; it caressed my body. I swam hard, as if trying to rid myself of something.

  My muscles got tired so I lay on the grass. I turned onto my stomach, enjoying the sun and the view of a young man in electric-blue speedos, imagining what it would be like to bury my face in his armpits. I started to get aroused and turned away, but I lay there a while longer, drifting on the edge of sleep. Suddenly I was side-swiped by fear. Something’s changed. It doesn’t feel right. God, I hope he hasn’t died.

  I drove to the hospital as calmly as I could. John was alive but quite out of it. His breathing had changed.

  The registrar appeared. ‘We’ve given him Largactil to help suppress the cough and Atavan to remove any anxiety.’ He was watching me closely. ‘Are you happy with that?’ It wasn’t till some time later I realised that the doctor was suggesting the drugs would kill him.

  Lois arrived with bags of shopping. ‘Bob and I found a nice grave this morning. It’s under a tree, and we’re having a boulder as a headstone with a brass plaque on it. Do you like the sound of that?’ I did. ‘And Bob and I are going to be buried with him.’

  I was stunned. What about me? He is my husband of fifteen years. I chose to say nothing. That hurts. I feel invisible.

  She admired my T-shirt, which showed a Keith Haring cartoon for ACTUP. ‘John bought it for me when he was in San Francisco.’

  ‘Ignorance equals fear, silence equals death. Lovely.’

  Bob arrived, and after kissing John he asked if we could have a word outside. We went into the corridor. I sat on a table with my arms crossed, feeling defensive. ‘The funeral is going to be here in Melbourne at a Catholic church. And we don’t want anyone making a statement.’

  ‘You mean about AIDS?’

  ‘That and the gay thing. Everyone already knows, so there’s no need.’ So what’s the problem?

  ‘You know that’s against John’s wishes. Be it on your conscience,’ I said acidly. We stood uncomfortably together in the corridor.

  Eventually he spoke again. ‘It’s such a tragedy. How did this happen?’

  I wanted to say, ‘Your son takes it up the arse,’ but chose to say instead, ‘I’m sorry Bob, I don’t know.’

  I didn’t want to ring people in front of John and have him hear me saying that he could go that night. I scavenged coins from the nursing staff and used the public phone. I rang our friends in Sydney. Beth asked if I’d like her to come down. I said I’d love that.

  During the
night John’s breathing was so relaxed its hypnotic rhythm sent me off to sleep. I was woken later by him sighing. He moaned with every breath, like a wind through a piece of bamboo.

  I asked a nurse if he was all right. She called his name loudly. It didn’t rouse him. ‘John, are you in pain?’ He grunted no. I stayed sitting with him, watching him breathe slowly, enjoying the rhythm.

  Then it was morning. I asked the nurse to keep an eye on him while I had a shower and some breakfast. When I returned to the ward, my hair dripping from the shower, Lois was spoon-feeding her son. ‘Hello, my little mate. You’ve been asleep for days.’ He nodded with a big smile on his face. I asked Lois how he had been.

  ‘Bit mad, we’ve been doing all sorts of things, like playing basketball, haven’t we John?’ She finished feeding him and pushed the trolley away.

  ‘Do you feel good?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not coughing.’

  It was nice to spend some time with John while he was almost intelligible. But as the day wore on he drifted back to his dreams and the constant rhythm of the moaning.

  Our friend Kate from Darwin rang. ‘Pepe’s just told me about John. She said he was close to dying. Is that him groaning? Can you give him my love?’

  ‘I’ll hold the phone to his ear and you can tell him.’ I could hear her telling him she loved him, how sad she was for him. John groaned loudly. I took the phone away. Kate was crying.

  ‘It seems so unfair. He’s the nicest person I know. I want to come down but I can’t afford it, I’m sorry.’

  ‘He knows you’re thinking of him.’ I hung up and sat there with him. ‘Johnny, I hope you know how loved you are.’

  As the afternoon wore on, John drifted into unconsciousness. Lois fell asleep in the chair and I was feeling drowsy. It was as if we were in space, floating towards an unknown planet.

  I was roused by the rustle of Beth’s skirt as she struggled to get her luggage through the door. She’d come straight from the airport.

  ‘You look like you’re moving house.’

  ‘Girl’s got to have her accessories.’ She sat beside John. Lois opened her eyes and Beth introduced herself. I noticed the sun had gone down. It was nine-thirty. Beth offered to go and get us something to eat but Lois insisted on going herself. ‘I need a break, anyway.’

  When she’d gone, Beth entwined herself around me. ‘This groaning thing is interesting. My great-aunt did this too.’

  ‘What do you think it’s about?’

  She looked intently at John. ‘Perhaps asserting that he is still alive. Or comforting himself.’ John suddenly groaned louder.

  I was startled. ‘It’s like he can hear us.’

  ‘No doubt he can.’

  Beth and I sat gossiping on the verandah in the warm night air. ‘I saw Truly Madly Deeply the other night. I hope John will visit me like that.’

  ‘When you’re ready he will.’

  I asked for some time on my own with John. Beth headed off to the waiting-room with Harper’s Bazaar. John and I were alone again, alone with his groaning. I placed my head on his chest and put my arm across him as though I was holding him to this world. The moaning vibrating through his chest sounded like our sex, emotional, the end of climax as we drift off to sleep. It comforted me.

  The groaning started to sound like wailing, but he wasn’t crying. I gently rubbed his hand. Rub rub rub, pat pat pat. It seemed to calm him.

  Beth came back in. She sat next to me and put her hand on my knee. I rested my head on her shoulder. Lois returned wearing her turquoise shell suit. She dug into her bag and produced three salad rolls in Gladwrap. It was one a.m. We were in for the long haul. We settled ourselves. Beth and I top-and-tailed on the camp mattress.

  Peter joined us. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall. We sat through the night with John groaning. It was wonderful. We shared memories and laughed.

  ‘Lois, do you remember the time I was staying at your house and I forgot to bring my school pants?’

  ‘The only pair we had were old ones of Chris’s. I’ll never forget seeing you walking to the bus in very tight pants with the legs at half-mast.’

  We talked about John. ‘He was such a good-looking boy,’ Beth said.

  It amazes me how beautiful he still is, even when he’s ravaged by this virus. ‘He is such a gentle soul.’

  ‘He was my favourite. I shouldn’t say it, all my boys are wonderful. But he was my favourite. Never a problem.’ The night was like a celebration of John, our lover, our son, our friend.

  Later, as we drifted off to sleep, the kind of shallow sleep where your head is filled with your worries, John groaned loudly. ‘John, will you shut up, we’re trying to sleep,’ Lois joked. We all laughed.

  This night was special for me because it re-established my friendship with his mother, a relationship that had been destroyed by the carry-on thirteen years before.

  Chapter TWELVE

  Wish You Were Here

  It was morning now, Australia Day 1992. Lois had gone home and Beth and I sat with our heads on each other’s shoulders. Beth suddenly laughed. ‘She’s fabulous, a very funny woman. And much stronger than she appears.’

  Pepe appeared in the doorway, carrying a wicker basket with a baguette sticking out of it. ‘Breakfast. Bread and cheese and real coffee.’ John moaned. She caught sight of him and sadness washed across her face. She stroked his head gently.

  Beth and I left her with him. In the corridor we opened the basket, revealing pâté, two chunks of cheese and a coffee plunger.

  Jackie and Juliet arrived, followed by Tom and Laura, James, Prue, and our old friend David Bonney. There were kisses and hugs all round. Daryl came in with a box of croissants from the restaurant where he was working.

  ‘Can we go in now?’ asked James. ‘I’ve got to leave in half an hour to get my plane.’ He seemed close to tears. ‘I wish I could stay.’

  ‘I’ll call you tonight.’ He went in and a few minutes later Pepe emerged, eyes swollen with tears. Prue put her arms around her. Laura served coffee.

  I put my head round the door to see if James wanted coffee. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, holding his head.

  A lot of tears were shed for John that day. I hope he knows how much we all love him. The photo albums created a good opportunity for us to share. Jackie pointed to a photo of me with dreadlocks. ‘When did you have that done?’

  ‘Or more importantly, why?’ laughed Tom.

  As the morning progressed, John’s breathing became more laboured. The nurses were coming in every hour to turn him, hoping to stop pressure sores. Why are they bothering? Wouldn’t it be better to leave him asleep?

  Every now and then he would stop breathing. ‘Why’s he doing that?’ I asked a nurse.

  ‘It’s chain-stoking. It means he’s probably about to die.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’ She shook her head.

  The resident came in and stood looking at John’s rhythmic groaning and occasional hiatus.

  Lois arrived, followed by Bob – like a queen and her manservant. ‘Peace at last,’ she sighed. She sat by John stroking his head. ‘My boy.’ She pulled out a little floral hankie and wiped away her tears delicately. Bob sat on the other side.

  A good-looking man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair came in. He greeted Lois and Bob. ‘You must be Tim,’ he said to me. ‘I’m Peter Wood, the pastoral-care worker here.’ We shook hands. ‘Bob and Lois have requested the last rites for John.’

  He pulled out a scapular, a book of Catholic ritual and a small bottle of oil. He made the sign of the cross on John’s forehead with the oil.

  ‘In the name of God the almighty Father who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God who suffered for you, in the name of the Holy Spirit who was poured out upon you, go forth faithful Christian. May you live in peace this day. May your home be with God in Zion, with Mary the Virgin Mother of God, with Joseph and all the angels and saints. My brother
in faith, I entrust you to God who created you.’ This is really happening. But it all seems so unreal, like watching a movie.

  I vagued out. I didn’t hear the rest of it. This time tomorrow he’ll be dead. No more cuddle bunnies. No more ‘Timba’. But I’m not feeling anything. I just feel numb.

  Father Wood asked if we could have a word in the garden. ‘I believe things between you and the family are pretty tense at the moment, particularly with Bob.’

  ‘He treats me like I’m not there. It’s like he’s trying to reclaim John, save him from the dirty poofter who corrupted him. All this stuff about not mentioning ‘gay’ or AIDS at the funeral.’

  ‘I want you to know that I will try my best to include you in the funeral. I’ll talk about you as his friend. Are you happy about that?’

  ‘He’s my husband, we’ve been together fifteen years.’

  ‘I understand, but you must understand there’ll be nothing gained by alienating his parents.’

  A nurse called me in. Father Wood patted my back and quietly wished me good luck. I went in, feeling the blind fear of a schoolboy about to get the strap.

  Bob and Lois were holding John’s hands. Beth and Peter were at his feet. Where am I supposed to sit?

  I slid in between Bob and the wall and sat at John’s head, lightly stroking his hair. Bob pushed in front of me and kissed John’s forehead without so much as an ‘excuse me’.

  John’s groans had become almost whispers. Every time he stopped breathing we all sat upright holding our breath. ‘John, you’re tricking us,’ Lois said.

  This went on for some time, his breathing becoming shallower, quieter. He began blowing saliva bubbles. His mouth filled with saliva which started to run down his chin. Bob grabbed a tissue and started to wipe it. There was the sweet smell of faeces in the air. Not a lot of dignity in death, eh?

  John stopped breathing.

  He was dead.

  I walked out along the colonnade. The sun was shining. Such a beautiful day.

  Then I was hit by grief. The tears came and kept coming. Snot ran out of my nose as though it was being wrung out of me. I wish you were here to help me get through this. I’m not going to see you again, am I?