STORIES

I’m Rick Watts, a member of the West Hollywood Disabilities Advisory Board, and I’m reading Michael Martin’s story about his late partner, Richard.
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Richard Lawrence Reed (February 28, 1956 – November 11, 1995) was a beautiful soul, a kind man and my first partner. We met serendipitously. It was August 1984, and I was supposed to be meeting a co-worker, but the plans fell through, and I decided to go to another local bar.

As my favorite song of the moment — “My Heart’s Divided” by Shannon — started playing, I boldly walked up to a man near the dance floor and asked him if he would dance with me. He agreed, and we became inseparable from that moment on for over 11 years.

I had just turned 19 and was smitten with this lovely man nine years my senior. Like most relationships, ours evolved and deepened after the initial stages of attraction, sex and lust. We become true lovers and friends and began to build a life for ourselves. Neither of us were rich or highly educated, but we were employed and did alright.

Well, within a short period of time, Rick started saying he didn’t feel quite right. It was never anything serious — a cold or a flu — and he would recuperate quickly. At the same time, we were just beginning to hear about the new mysterious “gay illness,” and he decided he wanted to get tested. We tested together sometime in mid-1985, and Rick tested positive and I tested negative.

Our relationship was still in its infancy and there seemed no way it could be true, but it was. Rick learned what information was available and soon had a specialist doctor — the only one in the area.

There was never any question in my mind about leaving the man I loved because of a test result or its ramifications. At that moment, Rick was healthy and we were happy. Love doesn’t end based on a test result.

For a while Rick’s health was fine and he was simply monitored. We proceeded with life as normal, with the exception of keeping his status a secret. Times were different then, and there was so much misunderstanding, stigma and ignorance.

Slowly, Rick’s health deteriorated but not in the usual manner associated with AIDS. He never contracted pneumonia or Kaposi’s sarcoma. It began with thrush and a gradual decline in his T-cell counts. There was only one medication available — AZT — and Rick was put on it, but its side effects only made him feel worse.

Rick also decided to tell his parents about his status and illness. He was close to them and things were becoming more evident. I, however, told no one — not my family, co-workers, supervisors or friends. Gradually, due to the stigma surrounding the disease and our own fear, we withdrew from friends we knew would never understand or accept it. Outside of a few close friends, we were isolated, but we made our life as pleasant and normal as we could.

Well, Rick deteriorated both physically and mentally. It was gradual, painful and unstoppable. In early 1995 on what was to be our last trip together, Rick became rapidly disoriented and argumentative. There had been signs of dementia prior to this, but this was a sudden onslaught. I cut the vacation short, and we headed home. Rick was hospitalized upon our return and given what treatments were available, but they helped very little. He was exhausted, his spirit was depleted, and he was tired of fighting. We returned home and the hospice took over. He gave up on living, but never on us.

Rick died in my arms around 5:00 a.m. on November 11, 1995.

Later, I would find notes Rick wrote to me when he knew the dementia was taking hold and he might not be able to say what he wanted to say. He made a scrapbook of memories of us filled with love notes, cards, an odd memento, or just a written note of special moments of our life and love. He left me a book of writings, drawings, stories and poems he had worked on over the years.

Although my world was forever changed and my heart ripped apart, the most important thing he left me was a feeling of love.  Never-ending love.