Unlocking Secrets

by Kathe Crawford

  Larry also developed a love of fishing and would get up at five in the morning to go out on the water, sometimes with my dad. I’m sure it was meditative and peaceful for both of them.

  But despite my insistence that he stay away from them, Larry was still occasionally in contact with the junkies he had known. Many of his old friends wanted him to hire them so they could work and make money too. “We’ve been friends for years,” they’d say. “Come on, help us out. We need a break like you had to get clean. Who’s going to help us?” They laid guilt trips on him, and he got sucked in a couple of times. But predictably, every time he tried to hire any of them, it was a nightmare. And every time one of those people came around, my fears came right back up to the surface like bile.

  “Larry, you can’t hire these people or be around them. I know you want to help them, but you’ve got to think of yourself and of us now.” He understood that hiring them would be a slippery slope to destruction, so he stopped doing it. I know it took a lot of strength on his part to say no to his friends, and I was proud of him for it. By refusing them, he showed me how much he wanted our life together to work out.

  Yet, even while Larry stayed clean, some habits were hard to break. He continued to drink beer and smoke cigarettes. He was the kind of guy who could come home from work, play with Little Larry, and finish a six-pack without becoming visibly drunk. Of course, it bothered me and kept our relationship always on the edge. I knew it wouldn’t take much for him to start using drugs again. Then, all would be lost.

  Nevertheless, I was afraid to tell him what I was feeling. Would my complaints be exactly what put him over the edge? So I kept my worries to myself for a long time—they were a knot of fear buried inside me.

  One minute, I’d allow myself to be open to the happiness of being with the husband and child I loved so deeply. The next moment, I’d be scared to death about what might happen next. It was like standing on a cliff, just praying that Larry wouldn’t slip off the side and pull Little Larry and me along with him, bouncing off the rocks.

  I would be in hell again if Larry left, but I was already in a sort of hell with him at home, because I didn’t know if or when the bottom would drop out of his sobriety. Would he go out to use again one night, overdose, get killed, or never come back? I felt I had no control over my life, but I held on tight, trying to control as much of it as I could.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MAKING OF THE ULTIMATE SECRET

  By 1987, Little Larry was four years old, and Larry had been clean for a year and a half. It was something of a miracle, and I could almost tell myself that our lives were falling into place. Almost.

  I was reluctant to take a chance or plan ahead, but there were two urges I couldn’t resist—my commitment to my son to provide him with a normal life, which meant a house complete with a backyard, and a strong yearning for another baby. Both were huge financial risks, and having another child was probably downright reckless and selfish. But when you’re young and your heart wants something so much, you convince yourself the risks aren’t as great as you think. You take a deep breath and tell yourself you deserve it.

  So I found a house that we could afford (barely) in a safe, working-class neighborhood in northern New Jersey, less than an hour outside of New York City.

  My parents were doing better financially, so they surprised me by generously agreeing to loan us money for the down payment. There was no time for us to save enough money, and I felt I couldn’t wait any longer.

  For us, there would be no more crummy little apartments where the heat was shut off in the middle of the night. I was almost 30, and I was determined to have something we could call our own.

  That was me. I would set my strategy, pull all of my resources together, and focus my efforts. I was the visionary of the family who could make lemonade from lemons. The doer who brought the glue.

  I loved our neighborhood and our one-lane road right from the start. It had charm and character. It symbolized, for me, just the kind of stability and peace I’d wanted for as long as I could remember. And now maybe—just maybe—I had it. A place we could call home in a quaint little 1930s-era ranch house on a street called Pocahontas Path.

  The house was pale yellow with baby-blue shutters. It wasn’t quite 1,500 square feet, and it had faded aluminum siding. There was no garage. But it was a fixer-upper with lots of potential, so I bought it before I showed it to Larry.

  Then, after getting over a heartbreaking failed pregnancy, I managed to become pregnant again. It seemed as though we’d just moved into the house when our second son, Brian, was born in 1988.

  There was no question that my sons took up the most real estate in my heart. As scary as it was to be a mom, it was the biggest blessing for me in the midst of all the worry about my husband.

  We certainly didn’t have a perfect life, but it felt like we were on the upswing. I couldn’t help but hope that we could finally have the kind of normal life I’d always dreamed of. It was right there within my grasp. I could taste it!

  Larry wasn’t using drugs, and he worked hard in a profession that gave him a lot of satisfaction. And I had my two beautiful boys. We were growing roots, and I was about as settled as I’d ever felt in my life. I finally owned a piece of the American dream, and if I pushed the fear down far enough, I could just about believe that I was a princess living in her happily-ever-after moment.

  But we still had the down payment to pay back to my parents, the mortgage to pay off, and two little kids to care for. That’s why I made sure we both applied for life insurance. Just in case. Because you never know.

  Our last normal day was after nearly two years in our new house. Larry was at work, and Little Larry was at kindergarten. I was home alone, holding Brian in my arms. The phone rang, and I rushed into our dated country-style kitchen to answer the call. As I ran into the room, I pictured how it would look after we renovated it. There’s plenty of time for that, I thought.

  It was our insurance agent. “Larry’s life insurance policy has been denied,” he said.

  My heart immediately sank. I instantly felt in my bones that our happy little life on Pocahontas Path was in jeopardy.

  “Why?” My throat tightened as I braced myself for his answer.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Legally, they can’t release information like that to me, but in my experience, with someone Larry’s age, the reason is usually medical. The only person who can give you the results of your blood test is a doctor, so you’ll need to get to one right away.”

  We didn’t have a family doctor, so I spent the next few days trying to locate one who would see us quickly. Larry didn’t seem to be worried, but that was Larry. Despite everything he’d been through, he could stay relaxed and laid back. I used to think it was his strength, but I came to understand that it was his coping mechanism—the powerful denial capabilities of an addict.

  I, on the other hand, was the opposite of laid back. My worst fears immediately took over. Every day that I didn’t know why he’d been denied life insurance, my nerves frayed a little more. I needed an answer to ease the chaotic swirl of fearful thoughts in my mind.

  When we finally got to the doctor’s office, the doctor wasn’t very friendly. Actually, that’s an understatement. He barely looked at us as we sat down across from him. Instead, he focused on Larry’s file. There were no pleasantries, no exam, and no hint of the Hippocratic oath. He just read us the results of Larry’s battery of tests without the decency of even trying to hide his lack of compassion.

  “Your blood work shows that you have AIDS,” he said. “There’s really nothing we can do for you. There’s no cure, and there’s no treatment. The best advice I can give you is, if you have kids, go home and hold them tight. Keep your family and friends close, and get your life in order because you’re going to die.”

  We sat there speechless. Larry hunched over and dropped his face into his hands.

  I looked at my husband. I looked at the doctor. Tim
e seemed to stop. What had he said?

  I crumpled over into my lap.

  When I looked at Larry again, I saw that his laid-back persona had been destroyed. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for him to hear such a thing, and I was suddenly aware of the fragility of his body. He would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same. And oh, dear God, our beautiful little boys!

  The doctor wasn’t remotely interested in comforting us or answering any questions. Before we had a chance to fathom what we’d just been told, we were ushered out of his office.

  Moving in slow motion, we made our way back to the parking lot and climbed inside our old Volvo. We sat there stunned, unable to make eye contact as we tried to absorb the news. My heart felt like it was exploding, and I wanted to roll down the window and throw up. AIDS? Larry was going to die?

  But wait! Did I have AIDS too? Was I going to die? Would our sons be orphans? Who would take care of them? My mind couldn’t make sense of it.

  After a few moments of sitting in the car, the harsh reality hit Larry, and he finally broke down. His shoulders heaved, and waterfalls of tears poured from his eyes. The image of this man I loved so deeply trying to come to terms with a death sentence will forever stay imprinted on my heart.

  We were in free fall, and like Humpty Dumpty, we wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together again. We sat there and cried together for the life we’d thought we would have. A life that, with this news, was already dead.

  I loved him so much, but I also hated him in that moment. Yes, Larry was going to die, and that was awful. But he was also a junkie—a criminal. A selfish and careless man who had destroyed our lives with dirty heroin needles.

  Maybe the smartest thing I could have done in that moment was to run! Run as fast as I could to protect myself and my boys. Who would have blamed me for leaving? I had my kids to think about and protect, after all.

  But at the same time, I couldn’t think of leaving him. Who would take care of him and love him as I could? If I left, he’d surely die on the streets as just another junkie. He was my husband and the father of my children. So no, I’d never leave him—not ever.

  As the tears streamed down my face, I looked at this terrified man, and our eyes finally met, though no words passed between us.

  Then, in one split second, we both had the same realization that if I’d gotten AIDS from Larry, our new baby could have contracted it from me! And Little Larry could have contracted it too! The thought was unbearable, so we just held each other tight.

  “We’ll figure this out together,” I told him. “We’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t let you die! That doctor was such a bastard. How dare he tell us there’s nothing we can do. Of course there is, and together, we’ll find the answers. I promise you, Larry!”

  I wished we could have more time to talk, to comfort one another, and to hold each other. But we had to get back home to the kids. My mother was watching them and would expect us soon.

  As I started the car, Larry said one last thing to me. “Until we figure this out, please don’t tell anyone.”

  And like the good little secret-keeper I’d grown to be, I said, “Of course not. I’ll never tell anyone. I would never do that to you or to us.”

  By 1987, Rock Hudson had already died of AIDS, and the medical profession was frantically trying to understand the disease. Most doctors still knew very little about it. Case in point: the doctor we saw had told us that Larry had AIDS when he really should have said that Larry was HIV-positive. The medical community didn’t yet understand even the stages of infection with the virus.

  Most people already had full-blown AIDS by the time they were diagnosed, so they were dead within a year. The streets outside of St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York’s Greenwich Village were lined with the sick and dying. It was ground zero.

  Sadly, a lack of medical understanding wasn’t the worst experience we were getting ready to face. We’d seen enough news coverage to know that many people thought of HIV/AIDS as a plague in people they deemed the “outcasts” of society—homosexuals, drug addicts, and derelicts.

  Even in cases of innocent infected children, fear and prejudice ran rampant. There had been big headlines about Ryan White, a 13-year-old boy who had been forced out of school because he had HIV. I saw him on Oprah’s TV show, talking about how he had contracted the virus from a blood transfusion given as treatment for his hemophilia. Donated blood wasn’t tested for HIV back then, and it clearly wasn’t his fault that he’d been infected. He was just a kid who wanted to live as normally as possible after his diagnosis. Doctors were certain it was safe for him to be around other students, but people were still afraid to trust doctors’ assurances that the disease couldn’t be contracted through casual contact. They didn’t want to touch people with HIV or even be in the same room with them. So parents protested and demanded that Ryan leave.

  It was terrifying. Brian was only three months old! If sweet, young Ryan White had become alienated and an outcast because of his disease, imagine what people in our small community would think of Larry, of me, and of our kids. The doctor hadn’t even been able to muster an ounce of empathy, so how could we expect it from anyone else?

  We knew that the first thing people would want to know was “How did he get it?” And that question would open up another box of secrets that would have made Pandora gasp. I was so accustomed to covering for my husband, and what could be more intimate or private than a diagnosis of AIDS?

  So my promise to him flowed right out of my mouth. There was no need to take the time to make a “decision” or wonder about consequences. Keeping secrets was how I’d been taught to live, and I never thought to question it. As far as I was concerned, I was a lion protecting her cubs.

  After Larry’s diagnosis, it took every ounce of strength we had to make our daily lives look as though nothing had changed. But behind closed doors, our lives were turned upside down, and we didn’t know what else to do but continue with our usual routines.

  Those routines were just about the only comfort we could find. Plus, sticking to our day-to-day responsibilities allowed us to deny the truth and keep up the pretense with the boys and our families, friends, co-workers, and neighbors. We had to perform the roles of people who had it all together, and staying busy allowed us to stay enough ahead of our terror to function.

  I was in shock, drowning in pain and filled with uncertainty. I cried constantly when no one was around, but I wouldn’t allow Larry or the boys to see me break down.

  I would drop my gaze when Larry walked through the door after work, and I fought back the tears when I watched him playing with our sons. In my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help but see myself without Larry not far in the future. It was unbearable. I missed him already, even though he was still there. Everything I did felt so final.

  But my main concern during the first few days was finding out if my boys were going to be okay. I had to get them to the pediatrician right away, I had to get myself tested, and I had to find a doctor for Larry who would actually treat him rather than just send him home with a death sentence. So while Larry was at work during the day, it fell to me to take care of these tasks. On the phone to doctors and clinics, I struggled to say, “My husband has been diagnosed with AIDS. Can you help me?” And every day, I’d hear the same answer on the other end of the line: “I’m sorry, but there’s no cure. No hope.”

  Of course, in order to get advice about the kids, I had to disclose our secret to our pediatrician. He was stunned. He told me he’d seen some AIDS babies whose mothers were addicts. He said the babies were being abandoned by their mothers, and no one would adopt them.

  But luckily, he felt that Brian showed no signs of being infected, and that he was too young to be tested. He also thought it was best to avoid testing Little Larry unless we had real evidence that he’d been infected.

  “Look, once someone is diagnosed with HIV, it goes on the record forever,” the doctor told me. “Brian and Little Larry w
ould be flagged in just about everything, and so would you.” Larry’s life insurance policy denial was a case in point.

  “Get yourself tested at a clinic,” the pediatrician went on. “They’ll identify you by a number and keep you anonymous. If you come back negative, the chances are that Brian doesn’t have it, either.”

  In those days, it took two to three weeks to get your results. To say I was terrified during that time is a ridiculous understatement. It was an unfathomable amount of fear. I would sit nursing Brian, not even knowing if I should be. The pediatrician had said it should be fine, but I still worried that I could be infecting him. The loving act of giving my baby a healthy start turned into anguish and worry.

  My mind raced with worst-case scenarios. How long would Larry live? Would he suffer? How long would my boys have a father? Would they be traumatized by what they saw their father endure? What would our lives be like after Larry died? What would happen to the boys if I had HIV too? Was my sweet baby boy going to die? If I had contracted it and passed it on to Brian, what would happen to Little Larry? Would he be the sole survivor of our family? Or could Little Larry have contracted it somehow from his dad by drinking from a contaminated cup?

  Then there were the financial worries. How would the boys and I survive without a life insurance policy on Larry? What if we couldn’t get medical insurance for him once my COBRA coverage ran out in a few months? How was I going to pay our mortgage without Larry’s income? How would I pay for the medical bills, day care, sneakers, food, and college tuition?

  I wanted to call someone—anyone—and talk about it, but I wouldn’t break my promise to Larry. What if the person I chose to tell turned away from us? What if that person spread the secret to others? I just couldn’t risk it.

  And so it was that my husband was infected with a deadly virus, and I was infected with another secret.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE BURDEN OF SECRET-KEEPING