The Normal Heart

Originally written May 13, 2008 following a benefit reading of Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart: So, sure, I hang out in the theater community and there are plenty of reasons why the AIDS quilt and its memories and hopes for survivorship are near and dear to my heart. Last night’s reading was held at The Names Project, where the panels of The Quilt are housed. The reading was done under a tent and instead of tent walls, we were surrounded by quilt panels. Ticketholders had requested panels of their friends/family, plus other random quilt panels. They’re really powerful, if you’ve never seen them in person. A sad but cool statistic: there are so many panels now, there is nowhere on earth that they could again lie flat side-by-side as they did on the Washington Mall over a decade ago.

I still know several people living with AIDS, in various states of health, under various forms of treatment. I have had many friends - and family - die over the years and last night there was one in particular on my mind.

I met Barry in autumn of 1997 when he was both in and musical director of a show I assistant-stage managed. We had an elaborate set, lots of levels, one of the staircases high above the stage near the steel beams of the building. Barry clocked himself on one during a dress rehearsal and caught a sharp edge. We were in the middle of a number and I was the only one who saw him hit and go down. I went running upstairs. He was conscious, and immediately told me to back off. I was like, “Dude, you're bleeding.” He kept insisting that I back off and not come back unless I found rubber gloves. All at once I was like, “OH.” I found gloves + an ice pack and came back. I sat there cradling him with the ice pack to his head and he kept saying over and over and over, “please don’t...please don’t...” I didn’t think the cut was very deep, but I wanted him to go to the emergency room. Rehearsal was about done, and our lead actress took him. They were good friends and she knew what was up. Barry taught high school drama so had insurance and all, and thankfully didn’t need stitches. Just a slight concussion, so incredibly lucky.

We worked together twice more -- in spring 2000 and fall 2001. By the time fall of 2001 rolled around, it was becoming clear that Barry wasn’t well. I remember distinctly sitting out behind the theater late one night over cigarettes & beers talking with my friend Brit that this might be Barry’s last show.

In fall of 2002, we began rehearsals for another musical. Music rehearsals preceded acting rehearsals, at Barry’s home. He asked me, as his stage manager, to come a full hour earlier than the actors, so I did. He sat me down and explained that he was going to do his darndest, but needed my help. He was physically very weak and his memory was going -- fast. He wanted to tell everyone personally what was going on -- he had no choice anymore, and if I’d be his eyes & ears and memory...well, of course I could do that. I’m that anyway in any production, whether my director/music director is 100% healthy or not. I learned his medication schedule, doctors numbers, eating habits, warning signs...I kept him hydrated and fed...it was a grueling rehearsal process for him, and not three weeks in, he couldn’t take it anymore. We had to replace him with another music director and Barry went to the hospital. Most of our cast & crew didn’t get a lot of sleep for the remainder of rehearsal, because when we weren’t rehearsing, we were taking turns at the hospital. We had to follow universal precautions: booties, gowns, long gloves, masks, caps, goggles...we looked like astronauts.

I’ve never seen anything so awful up close. Morphine kept him out of pain, for the most part, but he was writhing almost constantly and making the most gutteral noises...not a lot of coherent english, but sometimes he’d have moments of clarity. He was gaunt, covered in lesions and attached to dozens of tubes, also restrained to the bed, because what strength he had manifested itself in great surges and stretches. You just wanted to touch him, rub his leg or his arm, and get him to calm down...but we weren't allowed to. By that time his brain was pretty much shot, and the constant stroking motion, we were told, registered badly instead of soothingly. So, to touch him at all meant a firm grip, and don’t move. Letting him know you were there was OK, but all you could do was hold on.

The doctors and nurses were kind enough to allow us 24/7 visitation, family or not. His family did come, thankfully -- a lot of people are abandoned when this disease arrives. There are a lot of hours in a day, so there were hours at a time sometimes when we’d just be there in groups of two or three, but often times solo for an hour or so. I had plenty of conversations with him (with myself, really, but out loud) and plenty of time for me to tell him -- and I did -- how absolutely furious I was. The disease is 100% preventable. It’s not like you go out and ask for it, but damn it, why in god’s name didn't he protect himself. Who knows when he got it or how he got it or who from...it could have been dormant for years, so maybe he contracted it before we knew to protect ourselves. It’s an awful feeling, feeling so damned sorry and so damned angry all at the same time. You poor, poor man...you rat bastard.

I got the call the morning of our tech rehearsal (the weekend before opening) that Barry died. One of the hardest bits of news to tell a group of people, let me tell you. We didn’t get a lot of work done that day -- and even thought about postponing the show to give everyone time to grieve, but we got through it. We dedicated the show to him. His memorial was amazingly bright...all his friends sang and several people spoke, lots of people from out of town he had worked with over the years, and some of his students were there...it was pretty great.

A quilt panel was made last night to commemorate the evening, and anyone could sign it. I don’t know if he already has a panel of his own -- I can’t imagine some of his closer friends didn’t make one -- but I signed a memorial to him, lit a candle, and felt a little better. He’s surely happier now than he was those last few weeks. He’s singing for sure, wherever he may be.