Community Essay : ‘He Made Excuses and We Didn’t Ask’ : Because of the stigma of AIDS, he never let his friends know how bad his condition was until it was too late.

My friend has died of AIDS. I am heartbroken. Because of the stigma this disease carries with it, he never let anyone know how grave his condition was until it was too late for me and his other friends to tell him how much we really cared. And now I must live the rest of my life thinking of the words I left unsaid.

I remember so many things about Art: his early morning coffee chats, his penchant for talking too loud, his love of food and cooking, and his love for betting on football, basketball, or baseball. As his father said, “Art’s favorite three words were ‘I’ll bet you.’ ”

His real love was football, though he never had a favorite team. His team of the week was the one he thought was going to win. When he lost, he was quiet for a while, but then moved right on to the next game.

I also remember his hatred for Friday the 13th. He would always let us know the day before that he would not be in on that Friday. He said he fed his dogs and locked the doors and didn’t leave the house until the next day. Over the three years I knew Art we never saw him on Friday the 13th. The teasing he endured because of that superstition.

I work as a bartender at a place that opens at 6 a.m. Most mornings when those doors opened, there stood Art with the newspaper. The first question out of his mouth was “What’s for dinner?” Only when he quit asking that question in the last month did I realize that something was wrong.

The signs were always there, but he made excuses and as friends we didn’t ask. Looking back I don’t know if we were respecting his wish for privacy or were afraid to hear the truth. When I first met Art he played pool every morning. Nine months before he died he found a new pleasure: darts. He knew nothing of darts and it showed. Still, he played everyday with anyone who would play with him until he could stand proud with the best players in the house.

One day he quit playing darts, quit being loud, quit asking “What’s for dinner” or “Do you wanna bet?” Finally, he couldn’t form his words. Outwardly we kept up the pretense that he would be fine. Inwardly, I knew that he had used up all his resistance toward this deadly virus.

Melinda, a friend of Art’s, and I went to see Art at the V.A. Hospital on Thursday, May 12. He had taken a turn for the worse since I had last seen him on May 3. I felt like we said our goodbys to him and Melinda was adamant that he could hear what we were saying. When we left, I think we were both at peace.

The next day we at the bar remembered Art and his hatred of Friday the 13th. How many of his friends mentioned this. I met Art’s dad and Tony, his companion, for the first time, when I took over a meal I had made. The last time I saw Tony was when he was heading for the hospital to see Art. Tony was in a great mood as his calls had paid off and they would be able to make Art’s wish of dying at home come true.

But Art’s wish never came true. He died at 8:52 p.m. Friday, May 13.