My dad told me he had AIDS when I was 11. I became his caregiver.
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- Tamesha Morris's dad told her he had AIDS in October 1989, when she was 11.
- She and her older sister cared for their dad every day after school for nearly two months.
- She wishes a stable and trustworthy family member or friend had stepped in to help.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Tamesha Morris. It has been edited for length and clarity.
In 1983, my dad got full custody of me and my sister. It was just the three of us — we never saw our mom after the divorce.
I loved my dad so much. He was funny and loved to sing. My sister and I used to pretend we were his backup singers. His favorite colors were gray, black, and white. He wore a lot of matching shirts and short outfits. He could cook — he kept a bulletin board in the kitchen that outlined the meals we'd have each day.
In 1989, he chose Colorado to retire and the three of us settled in a spacious home in the suburbs. I was the first to notice the big container on the counter filled with different colored pills. Dad would get up every day and take a mountain of those pills. One day, I cornered him and asked if he was sick, and he said he would tell us when the time was right.
On October 31, 1989, he sat us down and told us he had AIDS. He said he got it while stationed in Germany shooting heroin with a buddy.
He was dying and had taken the necessary steps to protect us. We would inherit his entire estate, plus individual trust funds, the house, car, stocks, and Army and Social Security benefits. We just wouldn't have him. He apologized for having to leave us.
His health deteriorated quickly
I was really confused, and I didn't understand what AIDS was, nor did I realize the impact his death would have on my life.
After he told us, his health went downhill fast. It was almost as if he lost the will to live like he was waiting to tell us so that he could die. He lost 50 pounds, his memory, and the ability to feed and bathe himself.
A younger sister of his came to live with us with the intention of taking care of him, my sister, and myself. Although she sat with him while we were in school, the moment we arrived home, she was out the door, leaving my sister and me as his sole caregivers. I remember changing his diapers, bathing, and feeding him. But mostly, I remember sitting with him and keeping him company.
We would occasionally overhear my dad and aunt arguing. He was saying we shouldn't be taking care of him — that she should be doing that or that they should hire someone to come in. But he didn't have any power at that point.
He was taken to the hospital on Christmas Day
The weeks between him telling us he had AIDS and his death were a bit of a blur. I can't remember a lot of details, but I remember two moments vividly.
Dad would always hold a towel up to his private area as we bathed him, and one evening, as we did so, it fell. I'll never forget the defeated, soul-crushing look on his face. He was horrified despite me and my sister quickly looking away.
The last time I saw my dad was on Christmas Day, 1989. We opened our gifts — hundreds of them, as he happily watched. Later that evening, he lapsed into a coma. We called 911, who dispatched an ambulance, and after they loaded him onto the stretcher, they bent down and washed their hands in the snow — as if to "remove" the AIDS. I am still haunted by it.
I never saw my dad again after that day. He died December 27th, one day before his 34th birthday.
My aunt must have told my school because, upon my return, I was presented with a life-size sympathy card that the entire school had signed.
The immediate years after my father's death were terrible. The money he'd worked so hard for was mismanaged. By 17, I was flat broke, the house was foreclosed on, and the stocks were sold. Since then, there have been times I've been hungry, homeless, and hopeless.
I can't think of anything that would have made those years after my dad's death more tolerable. He was the only parent I knew, and he was suddenly gone. Nothing would have softened that blow, but maybe if there had been a safe adult to care for my sister and me, things would have turned out differently.
When I shared my story on social media, I was struck by how many other people have also experienced the loss of a parent due to AIDS. For the first time, I've found a community of people who know exactly what it was like.