Friends Gather in Remembrance, Then Celebrate Life

My husband and I were invited to a social gathering on a recent Sunday at the home of a couple who live in Mission Viejo.

I call it a social gathering because no one was there on business or on account of any other obligation, but as we ambled through the house, out into the back yard, we felt weighted by a faint, amorphous solemnity hanging in the air.

We pushed it aside at first, chatting with the other guests amiably, politely, drinks in hand, talking about the delicious chicken wings, the artichoke hearts and the jalapeno peppers in the Cheddar cheese.

But then an uncaged emotion, in that group over by the swimming pool, or in another huddled in the kitchen, would break to the surface. Eyes would well with tears, and then an arm would reach across to offer comfort.

For most of the guests, the time for body-shaking sobs has passed. Their cries are slower, more measured these days. But months, and in most cases years, after AIDS has snatched away their children and their friends, the hollow, jagged pain of loss slices just as deep.

“You know, I feel as bad today as I did two years ago,” says the hostess, a bit of surprise in her voice, to a friend. “But I talked to another woman the other day who lost her son eight years ago, and she said that this year, for the first time, she is looking forward to the holidays. So . . . I guess there is hope.”

I’ve decided not to name the people at this gathering because it was a very private affair and because I believe the names are really just incidental to this story of shared grief, mixed with anger, of those who have lost someone to AIDS.

Many people, I’m aware, are tired of hearing about AIDS these days. They know whom it strikes, primarily, and they are glad it is not them. Some have gone so far as to openly suggest that those who suffer from AIDS deserve as much; others have thought it.

These guests in Mission Viejo may at one time have thought such things themselves. They were, for the most part, middle-class parents, on the straight and narrow, not ones to encourage their children to explore homosexuality.

But when AIDS struck their own children, none of that mattered. Had it been cancer, or heart disease, leukemia, or any of a host of other cruel diseases, their response would have been the same. Because it was AIDS, however, it had to be braver.

I was thinking about this as all of us, maybe a total of 35 people, assembled in the living room for the formal part of this gathering, the reading of a few verses of poetry and the lighting of candles.

I stood, leaning against a wall, scanning the faces of those around me. We had come from down the street, from Leisure World, Laguna Beach, Orange, Los Angeles, San Diego and scattered places in between. I suppose we could have been members of the same religious organization, all of us so different in appearence, yet connected, slightly conspiratorially, by grief.

I include myself in this group although neither my husband nor I have a brother, or sister, son or daughter who has died of AIDS. But I venture to say that all of us gathered in that room felt as if we had.

One man, just about ready to retire from the telephone company, stepped forward to light a candle in memory of his son. He explained to some of the other guests that he hadn’t meant to seem rude a moment ago when he abruptly left a group gathered in the kitchen.

It’s just that when someone started telling a story about singer Sophie Tucker, who had been a favorite of his son’s, he felt his composure crumbling. It was failing him again now.

Another man lighted a candle in memory of his 12-year-old daughter, another in memory of his brother and yet another to remember a man who had seemed like his own son. One elderly woman, whose son died just four months ago, said her grief had choked off her words.

After all the candles had been lighted--there were seven--the hostess reminded everyone that more food was being served upstairs and so much dessert that we would probably have to take some home with us.

But it was a while before most of the guests could stir. We dabbed at our eyes, ran fingers through our hair. Many people hugged each other.

Then, of course, we pulled ourselves together. The woman who had been too distraught to talk about her son reminded us that we were here to celebrate life. The gathering, now more of a party, went on.

But after my husband and I had left for home, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much more this gathering had really been. A diverse group of people had felt safe enough to share their grief over the cruelty of AIDS.

The pain of losing someone you love, a daughter, a son, a lover, a friend, is always the same. In the end, it doesn’t matter how they died.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.