And the Band Played On: Politics, People, and the AIDS Epidemic, 20th-Anniversary Edition by Randy Shilts Page A
Authors: Randy Shilts
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grown increasingly crowded with bars for the burgeoning numbers of leathermen like Ken Home. By 1980, it was a regular industry.
Life is a disappointment, Ken was thinking as he walked into San Francisco’s largest medical office building on the morning of November 25, 1980. It was an ironic thought for a man who was taking his first steps toward finally becoming someone that people would write about.
“My life is falling apart,” Ken Home told Dr. James Groundwater.
Groundwater was a dermatologist, involved in a course of work that did not lend itself to such dramatic confessionals. But the forty-three-year-old physician had the fatherly manner of someone to whom you’d spill your guts, and as Ken anxiously took off his shirt, the doctor heard his story.
For two years, he’d been feeling tired and always a little sick to his stomach. There was also this diarrhea, off and on, since 1978. It was horrible. And then, last month, Ken said, came these funny bumps.
Groundwater examined the bluish-purple spots. One was on Ken’s left thigh, the other was near his right nipple.
“What’s happening to me?” Ken pleaded.
He was angry that years of visiting doctors had not made him one bit better, or even told him what was wrong.
Groundwater was surprised at the size of Ken’s lymph nodes. They certainly had something to do with those spots.
Ken continued his story as the doctor examined him: His bosses had been making unrealistic demands, so he went on disability this month. He had also started seeing a shrink; he’d do anything to get his life back together.
Groundwater pondered what could be wrong with the thirty-seven-year-old patient. It could be lymphoma, which would explain the swollen nodes but not the spots. Groundwater drew some blood and cut off a sliver of the lesion for a biopsy. They’d figure this out.
Thanksgiving Day, November 27
O RANGE C OUNTY , C ALIFORNIA
Canadian winters were so tedious that Gaetan Dugas was overjoyed at the invitation to spend Thanksgiving weekend in southern California. The new object of Gaetan’s affections, a hairdresser, was equally thrilled at the catch. Normally, the hairdresser was content to cruise the Boom-Boom Room in Laguna Beach. His trip to the 8709 Club in West Hollywood had been only his second or third time at a bathhouse, and he’d hooked this gorgeous airline steward who was coming back for seconds, maybe even thirds. What a wonderful weekend they’d have. The baths weren’t so bad after all, he thought.
Gaetan briefly examined himself in the mirror. Yes, a few more spots had had the temerity to appear on his face. The doctors said there was no treatment, but that didn’t matter. He felt fine, and pushing back his sandy hair just so, he smiled at the thought: “I’m still the prettiest one.”
December 5
S AN F RANCISCO
Desperation haunted Ken Home’s sunken eyes as he slowly pulled off his shirt to show Dr. Groundwater the two new purple spots on his chest. No, not another biopsy, he told the doctor fiercely. He wanted some answers.
The blood test assay that had come in from the lab was also disconcerting. Something was wrong with Ken’s white blood cells. Even more startling was the lack of reaction to a series of routine skin tests Groundwater had given the BART station manager during his last exam. The tests, little pricks with needles infected with benign germs, normally swell up to hard red bumps. This means the immune system is manufacturing the antibodies to fight the germs. No bumps on Ken. The immune system had just ignored the needle pricks.
Ken repeated his complaints of nausea, fatigue, and diarrhea, leaving the dermatologist mystified. The man sounded sick, very sick, but from a lab point of view, there wasn’t really that much wrong with him. Blood tests are off all the time, and sometimes the skin tests don’t take—but such immune fluctuations don’t leave you so incapacitated. All Groundwater could do was order more
Life is a disappointment, Ken was thinking as he walked into San Francisco’s largest medical office building on the morning of November 25, 1980. It was an ironic thought for a man who was taking his first steps toward finally becoming someone that people would write about.
“My life is falling apart,” Ken Home told Dr. James Groundwater.
Groundwater was a dermatologist, involved in a course of work that did not lend itself to such dramatic confessionals. But the forty-three-year-old physician had the fatherly manner of someone to whom you’d spill your guts, and as Ken anxiously took off his shirt, the doctor heard his story.
For two years, he’d been feeling tired and always a little sick to his stomach. There was also this diarrhea, off and on, since 1978. It was horrible. And then, last month, Ken said, came these funny bumps.
Groundwater examined the bluish-purple spots. One was on Ken’s left thigh, the other was near his right nipple.
“What’s happening to me?” Ken pleaded.
He was angry that years of visiting doctors had not made him one bit better, or even told him what was wrong.
Groundwater was surprised at the size of Ken’s lymph nodes. They certainly had something to do with those spots.
Ken continued his story as the doctor examined him: His bosses had been making unrealistic demands, so he went on disability this month. He had also started seeing a shrink; he’d do anything to get his life back together.
Groundwater pondered what could be wrong with the thirty-seven-year-old patient. It could be lymphoma, which would explain the swollen nodes but not the spots. Groundwater drew some blood and cut off a sliver of the lesion for a biopsy. They’d figure this out.
Thanksgiving Day, November 27
O RANGE C OUNTY , C ALIFORNIA
Canadian winters were so tedious that Gaetan Dugas was overjoyed at the invitation to spend Thanksgiving weekend in southern California. The new object of Gaetan’s affections, a hairdresser, was equally thrilled at the catch. Normally, the hairdresser was content to cruise the Boom-Boom Room in Laguna Beach. His trip to the 8709 Club in West Hollywood had been only his second or third time at a bathhouse, and he’d hooked this gorgeous airline steward who was coming back for seconds, maybe even thirds. What a wonderful weekend they’d have. The baths weren’t so bad after all, he thought.
Gaetan briefly examined himself in the mirror. Yes, a few more spots had had the temerity to appear on his face. The doctors said there was no treatment, but that didn’t matter. He felt fine, and pushing back his sandy hair just so, he smiled at the thought: “I’m still the prettiest one.”
December 5
S AN F RANCISCO
Desperation haunted Ken Home’s sunken eyes as he slowly pulled off his shirt to show Dr. Groundwater the two new purple spots on his chest. No, not another biopsy, he told the doctor fiercely. He wanted some answers.
The blood test assay that had come in from the lab was also disconcerting. Something was wrong with Ken’s white blood cells. Even more startling was the lack of reaction to a series of routine skin tests Groundwater had given the BART station manager during his last exam. The tests, little pricks with needles infected with benign germs, normally swell up to hard red bumps. This means the immune system is manufacturing the antibodies to fight the germs. No bumps on Ken. The immune system had just ignored the needle pricks.
Ken repeated his complaints of nausea, fatigue, and diarrhea, leaving the dermatologist mystified. The man sounded sick, very sick, but from a lab point of view, there wasn’t really that much wrong with him. Blood tests are off all the time, and sometimes the skin tests don’t take—but such immune fluctuations don’t leave you so incapacitated. All Groundwater could do was order more
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