After a few days, Larry was discharged from the hospital, and Dr. Marton suggested that we schedule surgery to remove the spleen tumor soon.
Larry’s weight loss became even more pronounced following his hospital stay. He began to look utterly emaciated. We’d go to the boys’ ball games and people would tease him—“Hey, there, Larry, you’re getting awful skinny. Are you okay, man?” He hated how he looked and tried to cover it up by wearing his winter coat. He had to admit to himself that he was beginning to look like Tom Hanks’s character in Philadelphia after all.
Even though he still didn’t officially have AIDS or any lesions on his body, it became harder and harder to pretend, even with strangers, that Larry was a healthy person.
As Christmas approached, my mother convinced us that we should go away for the weekend while she watched the kids for us. We went to New Hope, Pennsylvania, and stayed at a bed-and-breakfast. We were so emotionally drained by this time that there was little for us to talk about. Without the boys around as a distraction, we were confronted with one another and the reality that this would be our last Christmas together. As much as we wanted to make the time together count, the energy between us was tense.
We walked around the village and bought Christmas ornaments for the boys. But Larry was understandably despondent, and I felt rejected. By the time we got back to our room, years of pent-up anger and fear poured out of me. I knew the end was coming, and I wanted him to know that I was petrified to be without him. I wanted him to protect me from the pain just once before he died.
“Look what you did to our lives!” I blurted out. “I’m not even forty, and I’ve been through hell and back! And now, what? What’s going to happen to me and the boys?”
“I know,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
As I continued my rant, Larry shut down. But I couldn’t stop. I was overcome with grief, and I wanted him to admit how much he’d impacted my life and his sons’ lives.
But he didn’t say a word. He just sat there and took it.
When I was spent, I felt shocked and ashamed of myself. How could I be so selfish? I thought. Did I really have to make him feel all of this?
I started to sob. “I never should have said all of those horrible things. I’m so sorry.”
“I never realized that I hurt you so bad,” he said.
In that moment, I became aware of the full extent of Larry’s denial. How could he not have known how deeply I was hurting? But I also became aware of just how much armor I’d been wearing and how dangerous it was to hide your emotions to such a degree. If I’d known how to give my feelings a healthy outlet, I probably wouldn’t have had such an outburst.
The next morning, I realized that we were both finally surrendering to reality and saying good-bye to each other. As painful as it was, I believe it was necessary for us.
With the pent-up anger released, we could be together in a different way as our family celebrated Christmas. We knew it would be our last together as a family, so, bittersweet as it was, we were determined to make it the best Christmas our children had ever had. He bought me a beautiful ring as his final gift to me, and we got the boys the best gifts we could think of.
Early in 1996, we took the boys to a therapist named Pat to help us begin the process of telling them. Larry and I had started seeing her for couples therapy a few months earlier, but we hadn’t had time to make much progress. She had only seen the boys three or four times when I planned a trip to Florida to see if we could move there.
The medications that Larry had to take made him so sensitive to cold that New Jersey winters were becoming intolerable. Since Florida was part of my sales territory, I had hatched a plan that maybe I could get transferred there, where the warm weather would be easier on Larry. We’d be close to his parents, who could help out when his illness became more than I could handle.
“I’m worried about you working so hard. I think you’re going to have to stop soon,” I told him. “I’ve been carrying it all for a long time, but it’s going to become more than I can do without help. My parents aren’t going to be able to do it, but maybe your mom would.”
So on this trip, I thought I would talk to my boss in Florida about relocating and pay Larry’s parents a visit to ask for help.
As always on the night before I traveled, we went over the schedule and long to-do list that I was leaving for Larry and the boys. As we were driving home from a trade show at the Javits Center, I asked him about his day to gauge whether he was prepared, and that’s when my cross-examination began.
“What did you do today? Did you take your medicine? Did you talk to the doctor?”
He just wanted me to leave him alone. In the back of my mind, I was aware that the kids were in the back seat, probably listening to everything we said and wondering why their dad needed a doctor, but I just couldn’t let it go. I fired questions at him not to bug him, but to reassure myself that he’d take proper care of the boys, as well as himself. Rather than leaving them alone with him, I’d have preferred to have my parents or Debbie come over to help, but I knew my husband well enough to know that he would send them home, insisting that he could handle it.
As a result of my needling, there was a lot of tension in the air when Larry and I went to bed. The next morning, there was little conversation between us before I left for the airport.
Once I arrived in Florida, I spent the day working and met his parents for dinner. “I think Larry’s getting sick,” I blurted out over the entrées. They had only known about his HIV status for about three months, and we still hadn’t told them about the lymphoma. As far as they knew, he just had a benign tumor in his spleen.
When I saw the look of panic in his mother’s eyes, I backtracked a bit. I spent the rest of the meal trying to walk a fine line between asking for their help and reassuring them that everything would be okay (even though I was really the one who needed reassuring).
I was spending the night at their house, and I called home to check in before going to bed. Little Larry answered the phone.
“How are things going, sweetheart?” I asked.
“Something’s wrong with Daddy,” he replied. I could tell by his voice that he was terrified.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice upbeat so my son wouldn’t become even more worried.
“It’s like he keeps falling asleep and then waking up, and then falling asleep again.”
I started to panic, thinking, Drugs? Alcohol? Has Larry relapsed? Dr. Marton had gotten Larry into some clinical trials over the years that had required travel into Manhattan for blood work. I’d always worried that he’d drive up to Harlem and get high. Would he have gotten high while alone with the kids?
I tried to get more information out of my son without alarming him, but he started to cry. I didn’t want to press him and traumatize him further.
“Call Aunt Kris and ask her to come over right away. Then tell her to call me, okay?”
My sister lived just one town over, and by this time, she knew about Larry’s diagnosis. She was two months pregnant, so I hated to bother her. But I couldn’t leave the kids to handle the situation on their own.
Before Kris arrived, Larry passed out and fell on the floor. Both of my little boys hunched over their father. They were hysterical, trying anything they could think of to awaken their dad. “Do this!” Brian said. “Try this!” Then, just moments before Kris got there, Larry came out of it. Just like that.
She called me and said, “He’s absolutely fine,” and handed Larry the phone.
“I don’t know what happened, but I’m just going to go to bed.” He sounded groggy, but mostly like himself.
“Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“No, I just want to get a good night’s sleep.”
“Okay, but call Dr. Marton in the morning. I’ll be home soon.”
I suppose I should have tried to make him go to the hospital, but I knew I wouldn’t wi
n that argument. Thank God that Kris and her husband, David, were willing to stay the night to make sure everything was all right. Kris calmed Brian and Larry down, made sure their homework was done, and got them safely into bed.
The next morning, Kris helped the boys get ready for school. But when they checked on Larry, he was unresponsive. It was Valentine’s Day—February 14, 1996.
At about 6:30 A.M., David called me in Florida.
“Kathe, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Larry’s dead,” he said. As soon as I heard the words, I fell to the floor and started screaming unlike any screaming I’d ever uttered before. The sound woke up Larry’s parents, who came running.
“No! No! No!” I shouted repeatedly.
How could he die without me there? I thought. I never should have left. I knew better. I could feel it.
Kris had called 911, and when the police arrived, they wanted to talk to me on the phone. “Was he sick? Was something wrong with him? Did you know this was coming?” I could feel the anxiety welling up inside me. They needed to know, especially those who would be handling Larry’s body.
“I have to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone. Promise me!” The officer didn’t respond, so I repeated it. “Promise me!” I pleaded with him.
“Okay,” he said.
I took a deep breath and let it out. “He’s HIV-positive.” I could only hope to God that they would keep our secret.
After I got off the phone, I focused on getting home as fast as possible. I booked the first flight back, which turned out to be the last one available before a big winter storm grounded all planes headed for the Northeast.
As I sat wedged into my seat on the plane, my mind was spinning in all directions. My worst nightmare had just happened. It had actually happened. And my last moments with Larry had been tense. I was grateful that we’d had such a wonderful Christmas after our emotional time in New Hope. I was comforted by the knowledge that Larry did know how much I loved him.
But I chastised myself. You never should have left. You knew he wasn’t himself. You didn’t trust your instincts.
Then I fought with myself further. But I had to go. I had to try to get us set up in Florida, where we’d have help. Oh, God. Why’d it have to happen while I was away? My poor little boys. Why now?
I tried to reckon with the truth. Larry’s gone. I can’t believe he’s actually gone. No matter how much you know a death is coming, you can never be prepared for it.
And then I worried about what was going to happen next. Would the police keep our secret? How was I going to plan a service? I’d heard funeral homes didn’t want to take people with HIV, so I thought that maybe I shouldn’t tell them. No, no, I would have to tell them, I knew.
But what would I tell our friends, Larry’s clients, everyone? They were going to ask questions. They’d want to know why. What was I going to say? If people knew, would they shun us? Would they be afraid the rest of us were infected and turn away? I felt certain that there would be people in our lives who would do exactly that. I couldn’t bear the thought of my sons enduring such judgment at the same time that they were dealing with the loss of their father.
Worst of all, how was I going to tell them about their dad? I had to get to my boys. I had to hold them. They needed me, and I needed them. How would I go about telling them something so horrible? And how would I answer when they asked, “Why did Daddy die?” Little Larry was only 12, and Brian was just 7.
I’d just lost the love of my life, but there was no time to process my grief or worry about myself. And through it all, I still had this secret to protect from all but a handful of people.
It was the longest plane ride of my life.
I don’t even recall how I got home from the airport. When I arrived, the kids were still at school, but the house was filled with people from the neighborhood, some of whom I didn’t know very well at all. They had lovingly brought food and were sitting in the living room and at the kitchen table. As I suspected, they wanted to know how Larry had died. All I wanted to do was collapse, not answer questions.
While I knew everyone had the best intentions, their presence felt like such an intrusion. I was entering my home, where my husband had died just hours before. Within a very short time, I would have to tell my kids that their father was dead. The last thing I wanted to see were unfamiliar faces at my kitchen table. The only people I wanted around were family members and my absolute best friends.
I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my house!” But I couldn’t say such a thing to well-meaning people. I felt I just had to swallow and endure my feelings.
Debbie looked at me and could see from my expression how I felt. She did what she could to shield me from questions and encouraged people to go.
Little Larry arrived home from school less than an hour after I got home. I was still far from prepared to tell the boys. Of course, the first thing my eldest son wanted to know was if his dad was okay. I think on some level, he already knew. We went upstairs to my bedroom, and I told him that his father was gone. He dissolved into tears, and I held him tight as we cried together.
Since Little Larry had ended up parenting his dad more than the other way around, their relationship had been complicated. The two of them had butted heads when my son chided his father for drinking too much or not putting Brian to bed early enough. Luckily, they had drawn closer as they discovered their mutual affection for music. That was a blessing amidst the pandemonium of our household, and I’m grateful Little Larry found a special way to connect with his dad.
Brian’s relationship with his father was different. He simply loved his father. When he came home soon after his brother that day, the news of Larry’s death overtook him. He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. His body trembled, and he couldn’t speak. He cried silently, as if the tears were bleeding from him.
He held on to me like that, not letting go. I could feel a tangible shift in his body as I think the reality of his father’s death truly set in. My innocent little boy was gone forever, and he withdrew into himself. The three of us lay in bed, holding on to each other for a long time.
It was heart-wrenching to know that there was little I could do to protect my sons from the worst pain of life. That day, we all lost parts of ourselves and entered into a black hole of grief.
Later, as I tried to sleep, I’m certain Larry’s spirit came to me. I woke up in the middle of the night, and the room was ice-cold. There was no doubt in my mind that it was him. Yet I was too petrified to open my eyes and look. What would I do if I actually saw his spirit there?
He never came to me again after that, and I worried that he’d felt rejected because I wouldn’t open my eyes that evening. But I couldn’t bear saying good-bye.
The next day, after a sleepless night, Larry’s doctor’s office called with the results of a brain scan they’d conducted on him a few days earlier. “Mrs. Crawford, you need to get your husband to the hospital immediately. We found cancer in his brain. He could die at any moment.”
“Well, you’re too late. He died at home yesterday morning,” I told the nurse matter-of-factly. I was numb by this point.
“Oh, Mrs. Crawford, I’m so sorry.”
To keep my sanity and strength during the years after Larry’s diagnosis, I had often told myself that life would get easier in some ways after he was gone. It was a coping mechanism, I guess. I knew I would miss him beyond fathoming, but at least there would be no more waiting for the bomb to go off. No more doctor’s appointments or medications in the breadbox. No more nagging him to take care of himself. No more stories to tell about why he’d been in the hospital or why we couldn’t make plans. I’d thought that some of that heaviness would lift. But I was so wrong. Living without Larry proved to be even harder.
CHAPTER 8
LIVING WITHOUT LARRY
“Your heart is like the bottom of an old shipwreck, encrusted in a protective shell of barnacles. This shell shields you from the pain and suffer
ing you’ve experienced. It’s been your way of coping all of these years,” my meditation and spiritual teacher, Ramananda John E. Welshons, told me a few years ago, long after Larry’s death.
At first, I resisted this characterization of my heart. But then I realized its truth and could easily visualize my overburdened heart, each barnacle representing my grief and my secrets.
In armoring my heart against the possibility of pain, I had also prevented myself from feeling joy and accepting love from myself or anyone else. That armor of barnacles kept me stuck. I thought back to the many times in my life when I had felt that I was physically dragging the barnacles around with me. At times, that weight had been more than I could carry.
To a large degree, during our last years together, my love for my husband had been strangled by those barnacles around my heart. It had been my way of protecting myself from the full onslaught of losing the love of my life.
But once he was gone, I couldn’t hide from that loss anymore. I was painfully aware of how deeply I had loved the man regardless of his faults and what he’d put us through. Losing him hurt so much more than I had ever imagined.
When Larry died, the barnacles didn’t go with him. The weight felt even heavier. And I was simply broken.
I had faced so many challenges when he was alive, but suddenly, I had a whole new set of challenges. I was truly on my own, and I still felt that I had to safeguard his secret, both to protect his memory and to protect my sons.
I had been fortunate to find a funeral director who was exceedingly kind about Larry’s HIV status. There was a big snowstorm the day of the funeral, and the boys, my dad, and my brother were in the car with me as I drove to the funeral home. On our way, the R.E.M. song “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” came on the radio. Little Larry heard it first—“Listen, listen!”
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