Remembering a Friend

Twenty five years ago a talented violinist (first chair AZ Symphony 2 years in a row), talk-like-a-duck, and dear friend died of AIDS. We were friends for 10 years when he died, but he disappeared after his diagnosis in 1983.  This was Reagan's time and the "A" word was not spoken until his friend Rock Hudson finally admitted his illness.

Evan wasn't yet 31 when he passed away. I can only imagine what he endured as he approached the end. There was stigma, and AZT (foul as it was) was not yet available. I am grateful that his family didn't abandon him.

I became a primary care-giver a year later and spent almost a year in nightmarish red tape tinged with hate and disgust for the one I was caring for. I learned much that I wish I didn't have to learn - about the stupidity, arrogance, and fear of medical establishment, hospital staff and the public in general - but used the knowledge I had been given to break through some of the madness and see that PWAs (people with AIDS, as they were known then) were treated with dignity and respect. My patient friend and I missed the first Quilt display in 1987 because he was preparing for his death.

I miss Evan's humor, silliness, duck talk (which he used frequently to break the tension during difficult rehearsals) and his love of musical history. Most of all, I miss his warm hugs and big smiles. I lost many pictures in the settlement 4 years ago, but I may still find a few images of Evan in the slides I have yet to view.

Above is Evan's panel in the Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt.(Click to embiggen, it's a duck walking on the strings of a violin) I was working with set-up crew laying out the pathways to every collection of panels in the display.  Photo was taken the next day when I was part of emotional support crew stationed at the intersection of 4 panel groups.

Measuring pathways for panel group placement, DC 1989.

Seeing Evan's panel for the first time just blew me away. Here I was supposedly offering emotional support to others and I was crying like a baby.  Fortunately, others came to offer comfort to me, as well.  It was a draining weekend and I don't remember much other than the time with the quilt and visitors.

On that Sunday evening in October of 89, after the panels had been folded and stored, I walked the ellipse where only those black nylon walkways remained as witness to what had happened there for 3 days. The air was crisp and the wind seemed to bring the voices of those who had visited and of those who had passed, back to life. I sat on the ground and had another good cry - it was the only way to release the stress and move on.

Evan, you live still in my heart, and I am sure in the hearts of many others who love you. And so, as long as we live, I believe you have life.

I love you, my friend.
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