So my uncle back in the mid 70s came out as gay in his 40s. Fast forward to ‘86 (I’m 11 yo now) and my memory recalls seeing him show up at our house in MD with full gorgeous hair (mullets were the rage) but a wild bump with bandage on his neck (lymphoma cancer).

Later that evening, my parents tell me Uncle Eric contracted HIV and he was moving in with us so my mom could take care of him.

He went downhill so fast - lost all his hair to chemo, lost a bunch of weight, and eventually AIDS got the best of him. Never once did he complain or moan: just always kindness and gratitude. I’m crying now. Such a gentle soul that didn’t deserve the cruelty of what terminal illness does to a person.

My last memory of him alive was a few months later him being taken by ambulance in the middle of the night on a gurney. I never got to see him in hospital and after that he passed a few days later.

During the time he lived with us, my mom bought bleach by the case loads. She knew it was one of few cheap cleaning products that she could use (now seeing this with my middle-aged perspective) to feel psychologically safe with a virus at the time we knew not much about…so little that I was told to never tell neighbors or friends or even certain family members that my uncle had contracted HIV because we feared people would ostracize us.

So to this day, bleach means it was my parents way of coping with success the unknowns of what was scary.

You’ll always be my fav, Uncle E ❤️