Ryan White - My Own Story by Ryan & Cunningham White Page B
Authors: Ryan & Cunningham White
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grew to two inches.
Other people tried to help me get well. Because many gay men get AIDS, some of them had organized groups in New York and San Francisco that kept track of new drugs that were just being tested, and weren’t available yet. Or they found out about treatments that seemed to work that many doctors weren’t aware of. Some people from these groups started calling Mom to give her free advice and information, and suggest questions to ask Dr. Kleiman.
Dr. Kleiman seemed to be keeping me alive, though. When we could, we tried to pass the help we got along. I got a few calls from another teenage hemophiliac with AIDS. His name was Mark, he was thirteen like me, and he lived in Swansea, Massachusetts. Mom talked to his mom too, and told her about my gamma globulin therapy, which she hadn’t heard about.
Mark and I compared our collections. He had some G.I. Joe figures, but mainly he was into baseball cards. He had every one that had come out since 1979. I was amazed that before Mark had been diagnosed with AIDS the summer before, he had been a star Little League player—a shortstop and a pitcher, no less. For a hemophiliac to play those two positions, where you might get hit by a ball at any time, is a big achievement.
“Man, you must really know how to play ball,” I told him. What’s more, Mark’s school had let him come back in September without any fuss. They had even kept his last name a secret, so no one could bother him.
“Sounds like your school doesn’t want to be another Western,” I said. But all his life Mark had wanted to be famous. He wished he could go on TV and give interviews, the way I had.
“Are you nuts?” I exclaimed. “You don’t know how lucky you are. If you’re famous, how do you know whether people like you for yourself? Besides, once they know your name, you never get left alone.”
I told Mark about one photographer who kept calling and calling our house, saying, “You don’t understand! This is for the cover of Newsweek!”
I told him, “I understand, and I don’t care!” So he tried showing up at our house unannounced, knocking on our door, looking in our windows, trying to take me by surprise. I would run across the street to Blair’s house and hide in the garage. His mom had to tell me when the coast was clear, and I could run home again.
Mark seemed even more impressed that this obnoxious photographer had been after me. Just goes to show you—the grass is always greener. I began to notice that the farther away from us people lived, the more they thought we were great and supported what we were doing. Closer to home, it was another story.
On one trip to the hospital Mom and I stopped off at a diner in Indianapolis. The owner recognized us. We asked for glasses of water. He wouldn’t let us have any; he gave us cans of Coke instead. As soon as we had finished eating, he had our waitress throw away all our glasses and dishes. “Let’s come back every week,” I suggested. “Pretty soon they won’t have any dishes left.”
While I was in Riley again, Mom brought in my favorite posters for my room. I had to have the one of Alyssa Milano! Mom and I watched TV together and kept up with the news. You know what people used to say in the sixties—“The whole world is watching.” The whole world was sure watching Kokomo then. Some parents in Queens, New York, were keeping Kokomo company by marching up and down outside a school because their board had let a kid with AIDS in, but wouldn’t say who it was. The protestors had some pretty silly signs, like “Enter at Your Own Risk” and “Good Grades, Not AIDS.”
Mom said that when she thought about that bus trip back from Chicago, and how she’d worried that my blood might have gotten into a cut on her hand, she could feel for the parents in Queens and Kokomo.
Next we watched a meeting of parents in Kokomo, asking a doctor questions about me and AIDS. One father stood up and demanded, “Can you give me
Other people tried to help me get well. Because many gay men get AIDS, some of them had organized groups in New York and San Francisco that kept track of new drugs that were just being tested, and weren’t available yet. Or they found out about treatments that seemed to work that many doctors weren’t aware of. Some people from these groups started calling Mom to give her free advice and information, and suggest questions to ask Dr. Kleiman.
Dr. Kleiman seemed to be keeping me alive, though. When we could, we tried to pass the help we got along. I got a few calls from another teenage hemophiliac with AIDS. His name was Mark, he was thirteen like me, and he lived in Swansea, Massachusetts. Mom talked to his mom too, and told her about my gamma globulin therapy, which she hadn’t heard about.
Mark and I compared our collections. He had some G.I. Joe figures, but mainly he was into baseball cards. He had every one that had come out since 1979. I was amazed that before Mark had been diagnosed with AIDS the summer before, he had been a star Little League player—a shortstop and a pitcher, no less. For a hemophiliac to play those two positions, where you might get hit by a ball at any time, is a big achievement.
“Man, you must really know how to play ball,” I told him. What’s more, Mark’s school had let him come back in September without any fuss. They had even kept his last name a secret, so no one could bother him.
“Sounds like your school doesn’t want to be another Western,” I said. But all his life Mark had wanted to be famous. He wished he could go on TV and give interviews, the way I had.
“Are you nuts?” I exclaimed. “You don’t know how lucky you are. If you’re famous, how do you know whether people like you for yourself? Besides, once they know your name, you never get left alone.”
I told Mark about one photographer who kept calling and calling our house, saying, “You don’t understand! This is for the cover of Newsweek!”
I told him, “I understand, and I don’t care!” So he tried showing up at our house unannounced, knocking on our door, looking in our windows, trying to take me by surprise. I would run across the street to Blair’s house and hide in the garage. His mom had to tell me when the coast was clear, and I could run home again.
Mark seemed even more impressed that this obnoxious photographer had been after me. Just goes to show you—the grass is always greener. I began to notice that the farther away from us people lived, the more they thought we were great and supported what we were doing. Closer to home, it was another story.
On one trip to the hospital Mom and I stopped off at a diner in Indianapolis. The owner recognized us. We asked for glasses of water. He wouldn’t let us have any; he gave us cans of Coke instead. As soon as we had finished eating, he had our waitress throw away all our glasses and dishes. “Let’s come back every week,” I suggested. “Pretty soon they won’t have any dishes left.”
While I was in Riley again, Mom brought in my favorite posters for my room. I had to have the one of Alyssa Milano! Mom and I watched TV together and kept up with the news. You know what people used to say in the sixties—“The whole world is watching.” The whole world was sure watching Kokomo then. Some parents in Queens, New York, were keeping Kokomo company by marching up and down outside a school because their board had let a kid with AIDS in, but wouldn’t say who it was. The protestors had some pretty silly signs, like “Enter at Your Own Risk” and “Good Grades, Not AIDS.”
Mom said that when she thought about that bus trip back from Chicago, and how she’d worried that my blood might have gotten into a cut on her hand, she could feel for the parents in Queens and Kokomo.
Next we watched a meeting of parents in Kokomo, asking a doctor questions about me and AIDS. One father stood up and demanded, “Can you give me
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