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Sweet Dreams, Big Daddy
by June Keith

Last Saturday Richard Heyman decided to forgo another trip to the hospital - the ventilator, the round-the-clock nurses, the bright lights and the nonstop action. The hospital might pull him out of his third bout of pneumonia, his doctor told him. But Richard was getting awfully tired by then. So he decided to stay home.

Richard been dealing with HIV for almost 5 years. He's been damned sick, though often hearty enough in looks and actions to fool lots of people, for the past two years. He's been at death's door twice before and has miraculously found his way back both times.

Last Saturday Richard told us he didn't have another recovery left in him. And so Annie, the Hospice nurse, came. She set up her supplies and had John Kiraly, Richard's partner, to sign the papers placing her in charge of Richard's care. Richard is terminally ill. There will be no more miraculous recoveries.

That evening family and friends began to arrive. They came from Ohio, Indiana, Texas and Ft. Lauderdale. When they arrived at Richard's bedside they found him breathing oxygen, resting comfortably, and happy to see them.

By Sunday, he was still comfortable, but, ever the congenial host, he'd begun to worry. So many people had been called with the news of his imminent demise. He didn't want to let them down when they'd traveled so far to be with him. What if these weren't his final days?

"Are we rushing you?" I asked him.

"No, but what if this goes on for five weeks?" he asked.

I knew it wouldn't. His comfort and serenity are testaments to Annie's fine nursing, but Richard was losing strength. Each day, when I put my hand in his, Richard's grip felt perceptibly weaker than it had the day before.

Tuesday afternoon I climbed into Richard's bed and covered his forehead with kisses. I hugged him and tried to make up for all the kisses and all the hugs I won't be giving him when he's gone. He felt very warm. His cheeks were flushed.

"You're my big daddy, and I love you," I murmured.

"Oh my!" he smiled. "How in the world did I get so many kids?"

Richard is not my father, of course. I worked for him. He was my boss. He's always been my friend. And to those of us with missing fathers, he feels like a father. I love him like a father.

Wednesday it rained all day. I had work to do, and though I could barely see my way clear of the thick grief that surrounded me, I decided to get to it. All day long people phoned to ask about Richard. I went to the store, and people asked me about Richard. Wherever I went, people wanted to know, how is Richard doing?

By Thursday, Richard had begun to weaken visibly. He'd grown pale. His breathing had become more difficult. It was decided that his sedation would be increased to keep him comfortable. His battle with AIDS was about to end. Around 2:30 that afternoon we were advised by Annie to say whatever last words we had for him.

"Everybody in Key West is asking about you," I told Richard, when my turn came to speak with him for the last time.

"Oh yeah?" he joked. "What do they want to know?"

"They want you to know how much they love you," I said, struggling to stay calm and bright. "They want you to know they are hoping and praying for you to have a safe trip."

His eyes closed and he smiled faintly. He was still wearing his glasses.

"Shall I take your glasses off now?" I asked.

He nodded. Gently, I took the glasses from his face, placed them on a cluttered table next to his bed, and left the room.