“Change is unavoidable. It’s what you do about it that makes or breaks you.” - D
The first number I called was one I hadn’t used in years, but still knew by heart. It belonged to Professor Manuel Acosta, an actor turned teacher who taught Shakespeare to unsuspecting undergrads at my former university. He was known for reading whole sections of the plays aloud in a deep, resonant voice that made his students swoon. Every semester several young women (myself included) had their hopes dashed when his TA broke the news that he was gay. Fortunately, the professor had excellent boundaries and a great sense of humor. When I asked him to become my faculty advisor, after blushingly confessing I once had a crush on him, he just laughed. “It’s natural to be attracted to someone as handsome as me,” he said, stroking his salt and pepper beard and winking.
“Oh it wasn’t your looks,” I said, playing along. “It was your voice. The way you read Shakepeare aloud was positively orgasmic.”
“Ha ha ha!” he belly laughed. “I’d be honored to be your advisor. But please, call me Manuel.”
When Manuel learned about my passion for photographing and writing about the natural world, he suggested I take one of D’s courses to meet my undergraduate science requirement. “Ugh, life sciences,” I groaned. “I want to experience nature not memorize facts and figures for tests.”
“Oh, that’s not D. Trust me,” Manuel said. “He’s been my best friend for years and he’s all about hands-on field work. Just go talk to him.”
Now, when Manuel picked up the phone, answering with his familiar, “Hola,” it was all I could do not to start crying again.
“It’s me,” I said around the lump in my throat.
“Thought it might be,” he said. “I’ve been expecting your call.”
“So you know?”
“Everyone knows,” he said. “Haven’t you read the papers?”
“No. I’ve been…out of touch.”
“It’s quite a shock, I know,” he said gently.
“I mean I knew he was feeling bad again,” I stammered. “But I thought the new drugs would help.”
“He was exhausted,” Manuel said. “And with Richard gone, he’d had enough.”
“Yes, I know,” I whispered, letting silence fall between us.
“Did you get the package?” Manuel asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you decided what to do?”
“Yes, no, actually I’m not sure.”
Manual laughed. “Typical Madison. Undecided til the last moment, then all in.”
“So you think I should accept?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. This is between you and D. What’re you thinking?”
“That you’re acting like my faculty advisor again.”
“Whatever helps,” Manuel said, his voice warm and encouraging. “So tell me.”
“It would be a huge change. I’m not sure I’m up for it now that he’s, you know, gone.”
“Are you talking about the HIV/AIDS project?”
“Yes. His story was the centerpiece.”
“It still is,” Manuel said gently. “You just know how the story ends now.”
“How will I do this without him?”
“By living, Madison. Celebrate his life by living yours.”
“Jesus, Manuel,” I said, laughing through my tears, “you sound like a freakin self-help manual. Do you think you could be anymore cliché?”
“I try,” Manuel chuckled. “But seriously, he trusted you with his legacy. What are you going to do with it?”
“I hear you,” I replied, knowing he didn’t expect an immediate answer.
“There’s just one more thing. D asked me to put you in touch with someone when you decided. So let me know.”
“Will do,” I promised. “Thanks for being there.”
“Always. Call anytime,” Manuel said, then broke the connection.
The second number I called belonged to my sponsor Pat. After listening patiently to all that was going on she said, “Get to a meeting.”
“I don’t need a meeting,” I protested. I’d been sober for several years now (inspired in part by D’s example) and rarely attended meetings anymore.
“Don’t bullshit me, Madison,” Pat said in her no nonsense, smoker’s voice. “You need support from people who know you - who know what it’s like to be triggered by shit like this.”
“Yes, okay you’re right,” I agreed.
“Do you need help finding a meeting?”
“No, I have the schedule here,” I said. “Thanks.”
Thirty-eight minutes later, I walked through the double doors of the local community center where I found a nearly full AA meeting about to start. I got some coffee and a stale Toll House cookie, took a seat in the back of the room, and nodded to the tattooed man beside me.
As I recited my version of the serenity prayer and listened to others share their stories, I started to feel like myself again. Beneath the sadness, shock, and overwhelm I was still me - still committed to my sobriety, still committed to the project D and I had started. If that meant accepting an unexpected gift and accompanying anxiety, then so be it.
I left the meeting knowing exactly what my next step would be.
Copyright 2023 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
Former Posts
NOTE: This is Part II of the story of a man who lived with HIV and the young woman fighting to preserve his legacy. To read Part I, visit: Key to a Kingdom
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Excellent writing. The story seamlessly flowed along.
Jena, this is your personal story, correct?