Some turmoil is nesting within the calmness of the Open Salon community. Do you sense it? Do you read it? Do you avoid it? What’s this disruptive commotion that I write of? It’s insensitivity, a virus that’s invading the decency of all who aspire, inspire, and write within broadband’s universe. Why does the ignorance of a small few cause such a disruption to what is good?

We bloggers are a unique breed; we expose our feelings through a veil of anonymity in the hopes that some one will read and connect to those thoughts—emotions framed within essays, short fiction, opinions and visual media: photographs and video. Agreement sometimes takes a backseat to discourse; civility, again for a small few of those who either blog or are just readers, sometimes surrenders to rudeness. But common decency should never concede to vulgarity, threats, or behavior that chases away a resident of the Open Salon community. How sad…

Life experience is a wise teacher. Memory is its textbook. So I will read from mine in hopes that I don’t pontificate—just educate.

Her name was Sandra. She was a genetic mixture of African-American, White, and Native American. She was a single mom who supported her two children by stripping, hooking, and selling drugs—when she wasn’t herself using. But Sandra came into my life not as a mother, stripper, hooker or drug addict; she came as the first diagnosed HIV patient to be admitted to Cedarcrest Hospital—the psychiatric hospital where I worked. She was in her mid-twenties; the year was 1987.

Panic doesn’t describe the chaos that became Sandra. Before her committal, in-services were held, seminars attended, fears expressed to union reps and undeniable prejudice permeated planned treatment. In 1987, Sandra had AIDS, not HIV, and her ability to contaminate and spread death through casual contact was the paramount concern. Sandra belonged in a hospital that dealt with contagious diseases, not a psychiatric facility still haunted by the specter of tuberculosis. We healthcare professionals were irrational in our fears. Shaking Sandra’s hand, touching her skin via restraint, breathing her words, having her sweat touch us, a needle prick us, that’s all it took to invoke the demon of contamination. The spread of her AIDS (still HIV) turned us into HAZMAT workers; pioneers in dealing with confusion. Blood, spit, open wounds and unprotected contact were things to fear.

Medical gloves became the norm—some workers resorted to wearing industrial gloves one would use if touching corrosive material. Gowning-up meant protecting your clothing with a paper costume that would keep AIDS from contaminating your loved ones once your shift ended and you went home. My God, we were stupid, for fear was our leader—ignorance our ethics.

One must be aware that three years before Sandra’s arrival, hepatitis B reared its ugly head in the healthcare community. Three painful inoculations were required to stave of being infected by those who would bite, spit or throw other body fluids at us. Sandra, though not combative, could eventually become so—all available literature suggested a quick decline, emotionally and cognitively. Sandra was a walking time bomb.

One evening, I was assigned to watch Sandra, not talk to her, not counsel her, but watch to make sure she didn’t mingle with the other patients. Our unit was co-ed; Sandra was attractive and flirtatious. Her AIDS diagnosis was confidential. Sex happens within the confines of a locked unit.

Sandra’s treatment plan consisted of one thing—preparing her for discharge. She wasn’t psychotic, she understood her preconceived death sentence and wanted closure for her children. That if anything caused her anxiety. If she was suffering from heroin and cocaine withdrawal, she didn’t show it, either through chaotic vital signs or sickness. She just sat across the room from me eating a Milk Way Bar, silent but observant to other patient activity. She smiled at me; I nodded and moved closer asking if she needed anything. She smiled again, said “no,” and broke off a piece of her Milky Way Bar—her bite mark visible on the end of her offering. Without thinking, I took it, chewed and swallowed it. She laughed. Then I realized I broke with protocol; my sweet tooth ignored irrational fear and prejudice—for that’s what we healthcare providers were: phobic idiots intent on prejudging and inflicting our ignorance onto Sandra. We became the disease. We became intolerance.

I’d like to say Sandra’s story has a happy conclusion, but it doesn’t. Numerous admissions and discharges followed. Her children were taken from her and placed in foster care. She was raped and molested—sexually by a degenerate coworker, spiritually by a healthcare system that deemed her sub-human. The last time I spoke with her was in 1999, three months before my retirement. Her HIV had transitioned to AIDS; her frailty was exasperated by onset dementia—she was dying.  Her last words to me were, “thank you.”  I don’t know if she was lucid, but I like to think she was thanking me for eating a piece of her candy bar. How I love to think that.

Sandra taught me much about myself. My coworkers who aided in her treatment also learned from her. During the 1990’s, many HIV patients were admitted to Cedarcrest; tolerance and understanding became part of their treatment. Two coworkers died from that hideous disease. Why…?

Yes, tolerance can be learned. Kindness can be applied. The virus I call “insensitivity” can be controlled, if not eliminated. Continue posting and reading the brilliant writing that Open Salon offers you. Learn from it—enjoy it. Let it become a piece of your life… perhaps a taste of a bitten Milky Way Bar. Sandra would approve.