LIFE SENTENCE—Maisonneuve Magazine



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TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO, Tez Anderson left his apartment in the Castro, walked four blocks to a local clinic and was told he had HIV.

“Going up the hill back home, I remember how vivid the colour of the sky was, how bright the sun was, how green the fennel on the steps to my staircase was … It felt like the world was electrically charged,” says Anderson, now fifty-five. “But the funny thing is that I’ve talked to other people about that day, and a lot of them have similar stories. I guess looking back on it, it was just a form of shock.”

In 1986, Anderson was given between nineteen and twenty-four months to live. Around him, friends were dying fast. “It was like living in a war-zone. You would see people on the street who were hearty one day, and then you’d see them looking a little sicker, and then they’d be on a walker, or with someone, or carrying around an oxygen tank. And then they’d disappear.” In his welcome speech at the International Conference on AIDS in 1990, San Francisco Mayor Art Agnos said that by that year, more residents of the city had died from AIDS than San Francisco lost in all major twentieth-century United States military conflicts combined.

life sentencesThe years following his diagnosis put Anderson in a state of suspension. Planning for the future became impossible. He bought a house with a boyfriend but put the house in the other person’s name, figuring it would make things less complicated when he died. He stopped saving money and read books about the dying process. But twenty-four months came and went, and he was still alive. “I adjusted my time span every two years,” he says. “Every couple of years I would go back to the doctor and say ’It’s been two years. I’m not dead yet.’ And they would say, ’Well, probably another two years.’” Anderson’s borrowed time outlasted his relationship. His boyfriend kept the house.

Anderson was still living in limbo in the mid-nineties when protease inhibitors hit the market. Suddenly, survival rates among HIV patients soared. In 1998, the front page headline of the Bay Area Reporter read, “No obits.” The accompanying editorial was titled, “Death takes a holiday.”

Told that he should be happy he wasn’t going to die, Anderson couldn’t believe in the reprieve the drugs granted. Then, in 1999, his partner Gary succumbed to HIV. “Gary was sick for nine months,” Anderson says, “And it was exhausting. It was totally, utterly, mind-numbingly exhausting, especially when it felt like a lot of the community was having a party.”

Anderson felt alone in his darkness, but his experience wasn’t unique. The treatment regimens for those living with HIV were likened, by experts, to being as stressful to coordinate as the schedules of air traffic controllers. “Perhaps,” one patient wrote in Arts & Understanding, a magazine founded in response to the loss of members of the creative community to HIV, “our next problem is not going to be coping with death, but coping with the rest of our lives.” Most physicians reported that an average of 25 percent of their patients weren’t properly taking the very miracle cure they had been wishing for just a year earlier. One group in Dallas reported a non-compliance rate as high as 75 percent. In a study conducted at Stanford University, patients taking the drug Saquinavir—a protease inhibitor—were given their medication in a bottle which contained a computer chip to track every time it was opened. Investigators found, consistently, that patients were returning the prescriptions for refills even though the chip showed that doses were being skipped.

It used to be that people like Anderson died, and died quickly. Now, more than any other time in history, people are surviving life-threatening illnesses. In the 1980s, survivorship programs for those with HIV/AIDS and cancer were non-existent; but as mortality rates diminish, an unexpected demographic emerges, with unique needs. Gripped by psychological, social, economic and physical challenges, those who live through, and with, serious illness face staggering obstacles, and must navigate a system that is not ready for their survival. The narrative of survivorship suggests that those who are lucky enough to live should move on from being sick. But the reality of life after, or with, disease can be much more complicated.

i53_Cover_LOW-570x0From 2006-2008, Anderson had sunk into a severe depression. For a full year, he contemplated killing himself, thinking each day about a way to make it look like an accident. He dreamt of being chased, of being shot at in underground parking lots, of being buried alive.

He was at home one night watching television when a panel of war veterans came on the screen, discussing their experiences with post-traumatic stress disorder. Anderson broke down crying. Something had clicked and he brought it up with his therapist, who encouraged him to pursue it further. As he began to talk to others, he noticed that feelings of isolation, depression and anxiety were common in long-term survivors. Then, the suicides started up.

In quick succession, several long-term HIV survivors took their own lives. In December 2012, one of the activists instrumental in ensuring protease inhibitors were released to mainstream markets, Spencer Cox, stopped taking his medication. The New York Times referred to it as “pill fatigue.” He would be dead by the new year. Jonathan Klein, who ran a travel agency in the Castro and was a leader in international gay and lesbian tourism, had been struggling with depression and housing problems. In April 2013, he threw himself off the Golden Gate Bridge. The community wasn’t just losing its members; it was losing its spokesmen. “When people are killing themselves because they can’t imagine surviving,” says Anderson, “that’s something that is equally perilous, to me, as the virus itself.”

WHEN ANDERSON WAS DIAGNOSED IN 1986, HIV was a death sentence predominantly given to young, gay men; now, in North America, it is a chronic illness that increasingly affects an aging population. In Canada, the number of older people with HIV has doubled in the last twenty years: about one third of people living with HIV in high income countries are fifty or older. By 2036, it is estimated that one in four people with HIV in Canada will be over the age of sixty-five.

HIV ages an aging population faster. Health problems usually associated with senior citizens, like cardiovascular disease, osteoporosis and kidney and brain issues, can appear upwards of twenty years earlier in people with HIV. One study found that older people with HIV have five-fold higher odds of developing memory deficits. It is not uncommon for the brain of a fifty-year-old with HIV to look like that of a healthy person who is fifteen to twenty-five years older. “It’s not going to be a pretty picture,” neuropsychologist Sean Rourke told the Toronto Star. “Most people are alone and suffering with these complications.” People who are in their forties or fifties experiencing the health problems of those in their sixties or seventies present a unique set of challenges when it comes to accessing care. The needs of aging HIV patients make places like Toronto’s Casey House, a specialty HIV/AIDS hospital, incredibly important; patients in traditional care facilities report being stigmatized by both fellow residents and caregivers.

Many older people living with HIV, like Anderson, had never prepared to make it to old age, forgoing financial planning or career preparation because they didn’t think they would live to see a day when it would matter. The pressure of financial instability can add a layer of isolation, further exaggerating the fact that older people with HIV deal with higher rates of depression and loneliness, and are more prone to suicidal tendencies. One survey of 914 HIV-positive older New Yorkers found that two-thirds of respondents were moderately or severely depressed.

“Our traumatic experience with HIV was twenty years of people dying around us, of being sick ourselves, of us planning to die ourselves,” Anderson explains. “I don’t think anyone’s really stopped to think about the toll that it took on those of us who lived through it … It took a lot of us a long time to understand that our story had changed from being dying people to people who were going to live for a long time.”

Survivor syndrome was first documented in 1964, observed in Holocaust survivors who were killing themselves years after the trauma of the Second World War. Anderson saw a parallel between their experiences and the trauma the gay community went through in the eighties and nineties. “We were the pansies, we were the fags, we were looked upon as the weak ones, you know?” Anderson says. “Fuck that! We went to hell and back and we’re still here.” In January 2013, following Spencer Cox’s death, he coined the term AIDS Survivor Syndrome and started a group called Let’s Kick ASS. (“When I first came up with this,” he says ruefully, “I thought ’I can’t call something for a gay group ASS.’”) The group accounts for the only non-wartime documentation of survivor syndrome.

“AIDS, LIKE CANCER, does not allow romanticizing or sentimentalizing,” Susan Sontag wrote in AIDS and Its Metaphors in 1989. “Perhaps because its association with death is too powerful.” The work was a follow-up to a three-part treatise originally published in the New York Review of Books in 1978 and later released as its own collection, Illness as Metaphor. Written at a time when cancer was widely perceived as a disease of suppressed emotions or inhibited passion, Sontag, then a cancer patient, showed how the accusatory metaphors used in medicine not only added greatly to the suffering of patients, but also prevented them from seeking proper treatment sooner. “The very reputation of this illness added to the suffering of those who had it,” she wrote. A decade later, following the outbreak of the HIV/AIDS pandemic, Sontag extended her thesis to the highly stigmatized sickness. “AIDS has helped to divest cancer of much of its aura of shame, of the unspeakable.”

The dangers of allegorizing illness and ascribing personal traits onto the patients who experience it can be extended to the language we use to describe survivors. Terms such as courageous, strong, triumphant and positive have all become part of the cancer survivorship lexicon.

In medical terminology, cancer survivor defines anyone at the point of diagnosis, meaning that you are a survivor until, one day, you are not. In our cultural imagination, a survivor is someone who is better for the journey of their illness; stronger, healthier, with the bad stuff behind them. Very particular language of survivorship—filtered through ideas of bravery, perseverance and fighting—began to emerge in the seventies and eighties, when studies were first being published which argued that positive thinking made a difference on cancer survivorship. These studies have been discredited, but the conversation remains the same.

The 2011 documentary Pink Ribbons Inc. showed how corporations have used increasingly upbeat imagery and language related to breast cancer awareness to sell anything from yogurt to dishwashers to guns. These companies have reinforced the marketable image of a survivor: determined, confident, the disease left beaten in the dust. “There [is] something about the survivorship movement”, says Dr. Madeline Li, a cancer psychiatrist and psychosocial oncologist at Princess Margaret Cancer Centre in Toronto, “that’s all about positivity.” Dr. Li says the mentality invalidates the ordeal that patients have been through. Distressing feelings are a normal part of the recovery process. “And ’survivor,’” she says, “Doesn’t really capture that.”

IN THE EIGHTIES, Canadian hospitals had not developed cancer survivorship programs because survivorship wasn’t part of the disease’s nomenclature. Now, 63 percent of Canadians diagnosed with cancer are expected to survive for five years or more after their diagnosis. One out of forty-one Canadians diagnosed with cancer in the past ten years is still alive today.

Kim Adlard is one of these Canadians. Four years ago, she went in for some routine blood-work with her doctor, and was found to have acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She was hospitalized immediately and told her that her treatment would last anywhere from two-and-a-half to three years.

As she began her treatment, Adlard was financially stable; working as a manager of funds for a community organization, she earned over sixty thousand dollars a year and had health insurance. But her benefits ran out before her treatment was finished. She used up both her vacation and sick time and, even though she was still receiving medical care, was unable to take any more time off work for her health. She had stopped accruing wages, and so she tried to return to her job in a reduced capacity. But, still under the effects of her medication, her productivity suffered. In the spring of 2012, the company was restructured and her position was eliminated.

Even though Adlard was able to negotiate some insurance coverage as part of her severance and sign on to a private plan, her costs soon became overwhelming. As she required more time in treatment, she watched her savings, retirement fund and pension disappear. “Try looking for a job as a cancer patient, you know?” she says. “I was living in fear of losing all of that and then I ended up losing it anyways.” She now lives on less than a thousand dollars a month of disability support.

Dr. Li considers the hidden financial catastrophes of cancer to be just one of many consequences of the health care system’s weaknesses when it comes to dealing with survivors of the disease. It’s especially problematic because being treated for cancer in Canada costs more now than it has in the past. There has been a shift from hospital-based care to ambulatory care, and people must cover the costs of drugs provided outside of a hospital setting. About three-quarters of the new cancer drugs in Canada are taken at home. As a result, one in twelve Canadian families are said to pay drug costs amounting to more than 3 percent of their net household income. Though British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba and Quebec all have some form of comprehensive coverage for eligible cancer drugs taken at home, the remaining provinces and territories—accounting for 46 percent of the population—do not. Instead, they have public drug plans, which you must apply for. Coverage is based on financial stability. This means that patients still incur costs of up to $6,000 a year.

“There are a lot of gaps, even within this incredible system that we are able to access, and those gaps are really devastating,” Adlard says. “When you think of people being sick and poor, you often connect with the States and other countries, but it’s happening in Canada.”

DIAGNOSED WITH LEUKEMIA AT TWENTY, Raymund Ong* had been preparing for midterms at the University of Guelph, thinking that the abdominal pain he was beginning to feel was a muscle strain from the gym. Two weeks after he started chemotherapy, Ong developed a blood clot on his brain. The clot gave him a stroke and paralyzed him on his left side. “They initially offered me physiotherapy while I was in chemotherapy, but I couldn’t keep up with medication as well as physical activity. So I declined the physiotherapy,” he says. When he finished chemo, he looked into starting his physiotherapy, but he didn’t have the insurance for it. Two years later, Ong was told his cancer was in remission, but his family was forced to pay $8,000 out-of-pocket for an intensive physiotherapy program to help him recover from the paralysis. (He recovered functionality, but still has nerve damage which hinders his coordination.) To make matters worse, he was still feeling the after-effects of his cancer treatment. From joint pains and nausea to mood swings, he felt disassociated from his body and began to shut himself off from those around him.

Adlard, who is currently fundraising to start OneAccessSpace, a digital resource for people affected by cancer, experienced great psychological distress from being sent to the ECU on the verge of death from an opportunistic infection after having a port installed in her chest for chemotherapy.

Just as HIV patients find that living with their cure can be a life-altering challenge, cancer patients must manage the effects of their illness well after their treatment has ended. Post-radiation fatigue syndrome, known broadly as cancer fatigue, is the most common health issue for cancer patients. It can go on for upwards of five years after treatment, and even become permanent. “Sometimes you have to put up a front,” says Gabby Pavao, a mother of four diagnosed with advanced breast cancer in 2010. “Especially for your family. You have to be strong for them, right? You have to show them that it’s fine, but it’s not.”

LONG-TERM SURVIVORS are susceptible to mental health challenges, but the positivity of the popular survivorship movement doesn’t create space for them to experience these emotions and recover adequately.

Every doctor I spoke with for this piece said that the tyranny of positive thinking carries through today, and that there was a common belief among their patients that their psychological states had caused their cancer and could also help cure it.

This attitude can set patients up for a more difficult time coping post-treatment. Dr. Li worries that some patients choose not to disclose their psychological distress to their oncologist, out of a fear that they may be less aggressive in their approach. (Literature shows that oncologists miss signals of distress in their patients 70 percent of the time.) Dr. Li’s research has shown that there is a biological correlation between the effects of cancer and the mental health of patients. “The physical as well as the psychological stress of cancer can work through your immune and alter the inflammatory molecules in your immune system that then change neurotransmitter levels in your brain and cause depression,” she says, explaining that the raised level of proteins called cytokines create a phenomenon known as sickness behavior, which can lead to depression and anxiety. “I try to tell people if you get depressed, it’s not a failure to cope. It’s a side effect of treatment, like pain and vomiting, and we need to treat it.”

RECENTLY, A STUDY IN THE UNITED KINGDOM found that the majority of respondents did not endorse the term cancer survivor, for reasons which varied from not wanting to take on a spokesperson role for the illness, a feeling that it suggested survival was based on personal characteristics and that this label implied they were free from recurrence.

For Scott Secord, of the Canadian Partnership Against Cancer, the cultural context of the survivor label reminds him of the term mental retardation: a label that used to be acceptable but is weighed down by stigma. Adlard holds a similar point of view: “It’s a double-edged word,” she says. “Like, how do you classify people who die? Are they just, not-survivors?”

“It’s sad, in a way, that a lot of this is really up to luck,” says Camilla Zimmermann, head of palliative care at Toronto’s University Health Network. Some people die, she says, “and some people don’t. And it’s not because the people who don’t die prayed harder or were braver or whatever. It’s something to do with the cancer cells and how they’re responding to the treatment.”

Of course, some patients do find strength in the survivor concept. While Adlard and Ong admitted to being uncomfortable with its application, they said that they used it to connect with people to tell their stories. Pavao readily endorses the word by reconfiguring its cultural definition. “To me, survivor is waking up every morning and taking it day-by-day and having the ability to go to work,” she says.

In some ways, the survivor mentality is not all marketing. The imagery of moving forward echoes a concept called post-traumatic growth, a developing theory which posits that if trauma is met head-on with good psychosocial support it can actually lead someone to be in a better state at the end of their sickness than when they were diagnosed. Some patients report that dealing with cancer allowed them to realize what is important in their lives. (To distinguish this from the positive thinking handicap, post-traumatic growth argues for counseling and reflection.) The concept is still being researched, but the doctors I spoke with did say they see it in their patients at a clinical level.

Adlard, Ong and Pavao all attend meetings at Gilda’s Club in Toronto, which provides group-based counseling for patients as well as their families. Pavao, a devout Catholic, likened it to a second church. Listening to them, it is easy to hear the importance of psychosocial care. But resources like Gilda’s Club are still unavailable to most cancer survivors.

“There’s a lot of money that goes into active treatments, and rightfully so,” Dr. Li says. “But survivorship treatments are very poorly funded right now and we need a lot more research into rehabilitation strategies.”

LAST SEPTEMBER, Anderson’s Let’s Kick ASS group held its first town hall, calling for survivors to meet up and share their experiences. Anderson expected thirty or forty people to show up; over two hundred did. Participants discussed the epidemic, ways to move forward and posted their challenges on a wall: survivor’s guilt, trapped on disability, housing, representation. Anderson describes it as a homecoming. “I

About One Year Later

One of our members wrote this after the town hall held on September 25, 2014. The event was One Year Later: Setting a Grassroots Long-Term Survival Agenda. Over 100 long-term survivors attended.

Friday 26 September 2014

During last night’s town hall style meeting of Let’s Kick ASS, the group’s organizers offered their proposed “A Vision for Our Future” for discussion. We attendees settled into four smaller groups to read and react to the proposed proclamation. When we reassembled, someone from each of the four groups summarized for us the points that had been raised in his group.

The last of the group spokesmen reported that someone in his group had said that he (or she) found the organization’s name – Let’s Kick ASS – “offensive” and “unfortunate.” Or perhaps the speaker was worried that others might find it offensive. That was rather unclear from the summary. But it was getting late in the program, and there was no further discussion of the comment. Looking at other puzzled faces around the room, I sensed that a few other people found the comment as baffling as I did. But then,

Cake! (Yummy, yummy cake, by the way!)

I’ve thought about that comment all day now. Speaking for only myself – fully cognizant of and respectful of everyone’s right to disagree – I happen to LOVE the name of this organization! “Let’s Kick ASS” exemplifies for me precisely the attitude we need to maintain in order to make this organization worth our efforts.

I wondered if the objection was to the word “ass” in the name, the acronym for AIDS Survivor Syndrome. It’s possible, I suppose, that the word “ass” might offend someone in the 21st Century, but – really?! I happen to like the acronym. Frankly, my 62-year-old ass is too tired, and is running out of time too fast, to be coy any more. This tribe of wounded warriors we’re talking about is not some myth set in a might-happen-someday dystopian fantasy world. It’s US. Here. That “future we never dreamed of”? It’s in our hands, right now. Right now. If securing our future necessitates stepping on a few people’s linguistic toes to get their attention and get results – well, okay, I apologize for stepping on your toes, but now that I have your attention….

Some, I guess, might object to the “violent” image of “fighting” that the name implies. Well, for me, that’s exactly what being positive has been for more than twenty-five years – a knock-down drag-out bareknuckle fight between me and a soulless featureless little fucking virus that has wreaked havoc on my physical health, on my mental health, on my financial stability, on my emotional stability, on my relationships, and on my friends – both the living and the daily-remembered dead. I’ve been fighting for 25 years just to stay alive! We all have! Besides, we didn’t start this fight, this stupid vicious bug started it. And it doesn’t fight fair! Not only has it attacked us unrelentingly for the last 20, 25, 30 years, now it’s planning to make our growing older even more painful on us than it already is on everyone! And so, yes, we fully intend to continue fighting as long as we have to. It’s been our willingness to fight together that has kept many of us alive this far! I’m glad and proud that we’ve all still got some fighting spirit left in us! For me, “Let’s Kick ASS” embodies that spirit perfectly – it’s not just the name of an organization, it’s a call to action, a rallying cry for the fight ahead.

At the LKA town hall last night, I was reminded and proud of what an intelligent, passionate, articulate, strong, feisty, community-spirited bunch of adults we’ve become! I’m glad I found this group. Already the women and men I’ve met through Let’s Kick ASS have given me hope – and courage — for our future by reminding me of the beauty, the in-your-face strength we have in numbers.

Hank Trout


September Big Event

One Year Later: Setting A Grassroots Long-Term Survival Agenda

Thursday, September 25 Join Let’s Kick ASS for a Party With a Purpose

Let’s Kick ASS is celebrating our first amazing year with birthday cake and a social. We also want your input and feedback on our new Long-Term Survivors’ Declaration and Agenda for Our Future.


Sept Event Flyer


The past year has been spectacular. We’ve become the largest voice for HIV long-term survivors—those of us who were infected in and affected by the first two decades of AIDS.

Based on many conversations, Facebook posts and emails we’ve come up with a set of principles and an agenda. It clear that they need an agenda to begin getting the recognition survivors deserve. If we are going to advocate on behalf long-term survivors we need YOUR input.

Please join for some cake and the opportunity to add your voice to your declaration.

Join us at the San Francisco LGBT Center 2nd Floor Rainbow Room from 7-9 PM. We’ll be gathering at 6:45 and the event will start at 7PM.

Admission is free. Donations are greatly appreciated.

Join our 1,143 likes on

We are on Twitter @LetsKickASS_org

The latest issue of POZ magazine is about HIV and Aging. They spot light survivors one of them you may know:

Healing the Wounded AIDS Warrior

It was my honor to be interviewed by one of my heroes Marcy Adelman founder of Openhouse for this piece in Bay Times.

Healing the Wounded AIDS Warrior: An Interview with Tez Anderson

This is not a time for inaction in our fight against HIV/AIDS. As Tez Anderson told me during a recent interview, “We need to start planning for the next 20 years.” Anderson is the visionary co-founder of Let’s Kick ASS. He launched this grassroots organization for long-term AIDS survivors in 2012. Let’s Kick ASS’s mission is to respect and acknowledge the individual and collective experience of living in the time of the AIDS epidemic, and to build a life-affirming community that reconnects survivors with each other while supporting their dreams and desires for a full and meaningful future.

In the early days of the epidemic, a diagnosis equaled death. There were no effective treatments. Friends and loved ones passed away. Funerals became commonplace. Death was ever present. In the darkest days of the epidemic, and for many years to follow, it was hard to envision the future and even harder still to think about aging at all. It would take a decade and more before a successful multiple drug intervention was introduced to delay the progress of the disease and increase life expectancy of HIV patients.

Anderson, a long-term AIDS survivor himself, struggled for more than two decades with depression, anger, anxiety, hopelessness and survivors’ guilt. Then one day he saw a TV program about an Iraqi War vet with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The symptoms were all too familiar. Anderson had never had a name for it before: trauma, a cluster of symptoms that had left him frozen in time. He understood too well that health care professionals were focused on the individual symptoms but did not address or treat the underlying trauma.

Anderson gave it a name, AIDS Survivor Syndrome, and co-founded Let’s Kick ASS to help people heal. That is just what his organization is doing.

Most long-term survivors are now at midlife or older. Many are aging with HIV. Anderson’s organization brings survivors together to share their stories, to weave a new or renewed community of friends, and to envision and plan for a healthy vibrant later life. There are now over 1000 members that participate in weekly groups and attend town hall meetings.

Anderson walks the talk. “I serocoverted in 1983, but I didn’t know it until I moved to San Francisco in 1986,” he shared. “The doctor said to me, ‘You will be dead in 18 months.’ I thought, ‘I am 26, I will be dead before I am 30.’ Life meant dying as well as I could. I prepared everyone around me for my death. I made it as easy as possible for my friends.”

“In the beginning, everyone around me was dying,” he continued. “It was a very trying time, but also very purposeful. We had a purpose keeping everyone as alive as possible. I was slow coming to grips with the possibility that I might survive. I could talk the talk as a survivor, but I never really internalized I would live.”

As antiretroviral therapies began to emerge in the late 80s, the dire situation began to turn around for the better for some, but clearly not for all. In 1988, for example, Anderson met and fell in love with a man named Gary, who passed away from HIV/AIDS complications in 1999. “So my reality,” Anderson says, “was that people were still dying.” A divide seemed to be established that continues to this day. “We hear about the end of AIDS, which is very well intended. But for the generation I belong to, we went through a war together. Just because the war is over doesn’t mean it has ended for us. We still need to heal and to optimize our lives.”

After Gary’s death, Anderson was depressed, angry and could not sleep. “I was in and out of therapy for 20 years,” he said, “but not one of my therapists ever said the word ‘trauma.’ Depression, anger, anxiety and isolation are all symptoms of AIDS Survivor Syndrome.” He continued, “The fact is that many of us early survivors are traumatized, regardless of HIV status. The mental health community failed survivors by failing to identify this syndrome. I had to piece this together myself. When I discovered how healing this is I started Let’s Kick ASS to help others reclaim their lives.”

Anderson outlined some of the present challenges:

Help people reclaim their lives. We need to help people imagine a future and a life they never thought they would have. We must start planning for the next 20 years. We have the opportunity to heal wounded AIDS warriors and to better the lives of others and ourselves. This is our greatest challenge and greatest opportunity.

Work to combat poverty. Many members of our community are on disability and have restricted incomes.

Identify how HIV/AIDS impacts other health issues and aging. He explained that it is often difficult to tease out if health problems are due to HIV, aging or something else.

Fight ageism. As he said, “We have a culture that doesn’t respect older people. We are old and should be treated with respect. When you see an older LGBT person on the street, smile at them. Acknowledge us. But this is a two way street. Act like you deserve respect and you will get respect.”

The good news is that much is already happening to meet these and additional related goals. Anderson supports the work of The LGBT Aging Policy Task Force in identifying housing and services needs. He said, “We are creating a coalition of existing organizations that serve the older LGBT population to work with our community. We are developing our own agenda about what works for us. I hope people will support us. We have a lot to show the world concerning what we know about surviving.”

A way you can help in the effort is by attending the event “One Year Later: Setting A Grassroots Long-Term Survival Agenda,” which will be held on September 25 from 7–9 pm at the San Francisco LGBT Center. For tickets and more information, please go to or go to

Dr. Marcy Adelman, a clinical psychologist in private practice, is co-founder of the non-profit organization Openhouse and is a member of the San Francisco LGBT Aging Policy Task Force.

AIDS Ally Robin Williams: A Remembrance

So in the hours after learning of Robin William’s stunning and sad death, I wrote something about him. It just poured out of me. It seems to have touched some folks if the number of shares, comments and likes it has gotten. I was content to leave it on Facebook then I saw it reprinted on and thought I’d post it here.

Tez Anderson, Sandra Oh and Robin Williams on the set of The Night Listener.

Me with Me, Sandra Oh and Robin Williams on the set of The Night Listener.

I first met Robin Williams in 1986. It was shortly after I tested HIV-positive. Every time I saw him through the years he always ask how I was doing and he really wanted to know. He gave a shitload of money to HIV. He lost a shitload of friends to HIV. He lived in the Castro during the height of the epidemic. He was not an outsider. He was not gay but he was one of us. He got it. 

So it was a full circle moment when he agreed to appear in a film, The Night Listener, playing a version my once lover. The film was based on a true story. I had the privilege and bizarre experience of hearing he and Bobby Cannavale play out parts of my life on the set of a film that I co-wrote and lived. Including some of the uncomfortable stuff. The film was about an aspect of AIDS that remains one of the most bizarre experiences of my life—of anyone’s life. And it was about much more. Robin honed in on the undertones of how realizing that I might live a very long time, that I’m a survivor played into some of my decisions in those days. I’ll never forget our talk about it.

Robin was wise and had an enormous conscience. He was sensitive with a capital S and smarter than anyone in any room. Chatting with him over the years was a true. There is no one who didn’t love Robin, for good reason. He was simply the kindest, smartest, funniest, self-effacing man in the world. It is simply hard to imagine the planet without that bright, beautiful, compassionate light. I’m so lucky that I got to know him.

He had demons but they were private. He kept most of them hidden and entertained us all. He was a gentle man and a gentleman, and, of course he was a genius. He may have been too sensitive for this world.

Please don’t talk about Robin in heaven or making angels laugh or any of that crap. If they were angels they’d we weeping. He didn’t believe in heaven anymore than I do. He provided heaven on earth for billions of people. THAT’S we need to remember not his depression. When I think of him I smile…or I will as soon as stop crying.

This loss seems so enormous and so senseless unless you understand depression and it’s opposite mania. He had all the money, intelligence, talent and resources of anyone who’d ever lived. But the trick about depression is that nothing makes sense when you are in that state. Taking your own life seems logical at a certain point. I know I’ve been there.

Rest in peace Robin and thank you for making the world laugh.

Tez Anderson

Read more about Robin’s intimate connection to AIDS:

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