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It was July 23, 1988 in room number 414 on the fourth floor of Century City Hospital in California. My husband, Bob, and I had rushed there from Washington because our son Scott's temperature had hit 106 degrees. It seemed possible that he might be dying.
Then came the confession that changed our lives forever. "Mom and Dad," Scott said, "I have AIDS. My doctors have given me nine to 24 months to live."
I was shocked, but no more than when Scott had told us he was gay. And, since learning the previous year that he was HIV-positive, I had read everything factual I could get my hands on about HIV/AIDS. So my mind was somewhat prepared, though I hadn't expected it quite so soon.
In my heart, however, something else happened--something that defies explanation on a purely human level. Instead of despair, there was peace. From that first moment, as my emotions were numbed by shock, AIDS was unable to conquer me on a spiritual level. The same was true for Bob and Scott. As a result, AIDS was never able to truly beat us.
Hearing the diagnosis that night changed the way I related to Scott's homosexuality. When Scott first told us that he was gay, we had a very hard time. Our hope and prayer was that our son would leave the homosexual life behind.
Scott had struggled with homosexuality for years, asking God to take away these feelings. He was a sensitive Christian young man who testified openly of his faith. He knew how the church felt about homosexuality; therefore, he shared with no one the nature of his struggle. Unkind words about "those queers and fairies" only pushed him farther into the closet.
When his struggles became known, Scott's church leadership dealt very harshly with him without any effort made toward restoration. Members in the church came to us grief-stricken and in shock over the insensitive way Scott had been treated. Our son should have been destroyed by this experience. Even though it shattered him, it did not shatter his faith. His life as a Christian had been in place for many years, from early childhood through college and Bible school. The power of God in the life of His child was very evident.
But I carried some bitterness about the fact that, when we needed our church family most, there were fractures in the relationship due to leadership decisions. When I shared my feelings with Scott, he said, "Mom, I'm not angry. I just pity them, that this is where they are as Christians. But I've forgiven and moved on." In that one interchange, Scott taught me about forgiveness. If he had forgiven those who hurt him, I certainly should do so too.
Once we knew Scott had AIDS, all our other concerns about his sexuality became secondary. We gave them to God and left it all to Him. At that moment, I gained a new freedom. I was free to love, leaving the judgment to God. We may not have him too much longer, I realized, so every moment is precious.
Scott recovered from his first acute infection, only to fall ill several weeks later. This time, although nine specialists were working on Scott, they still didn't know what was causing his temperature of more than 105 degrees. It was one of the most difficult weeks of my life. Scott's temperature would go down a half degree and there would be a flicker of hope. Then it would go back up, and the crisis was in our faces again. For days, he was totally incoherent.
I sat in a chair in the corner and looked at Scott lying on the hospital bed. He could be dying, I thought. Life has changed forever. The reality of this hit me with such force that I cried out: "God, this is too hard for me! I can't do this. I can't watch my son die."
Suddenly, as I sat there in tears, God's peace came over me as His Spirit personalized one of the Bible verses I had taught Scott and his sisters years earlier: I know it is too hard for you, Mignon, but My strength is made perfect in your weakness (2 Cor. 12:9). Then I heard something else as clearly as if God said it in person: Mignon, there is a world out there that needs to know about My love. I want you to go and love them.
I knew in my heart that the world He meant was the patients in those other 15 rooms, none of whom had any family there to support them. After praying for wisdom, I stood up and went into the room across the hall where Scott had stayed during his first hospital visit. Jerry, the patient in that room, was very sick. After we talked for awhile, I said, "Jerry, I can see that this is a very lonely place, and that AIDS is a very lonely disease. Do you ever feel alone?"
"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes it seems like no one loves me."
"Well," I said, "I just wanted to tell you that God loves you and that you are precious to Him." Then I shared with him about how this experience was very hard for me as a mom, and the only way I could get through this was knowing that God cared about me and that He had His watchful eye on me and on Scott.
"How can you really know that?" Jerry asked.
I told him about my background, about growing up in a Christian home and going to Sunday school when I was a child, and about how I believed in God with all my heart.
"I want to believe it," he replied. "I went to Sunday school, too, when I was a kid. My parents sent me. But since then, I've drifted."
The conversation was very relaxed after that; not forced at all, which was amazing, since I'd no training on how to do this. But I think the real breakthrough occurred when I asked Jerry if there was anything I could do for him that would make it a better day for him. "Yes," he said. "Would you rub my back?"
"Okay," I said, not really sure how to proceed. But I put the lotion on my hands and he rolled over on his side and I gave him the best back rub I knew how to give. When I was ready to leave, he wanted me to stay longer.
I went back to Scott's room convinced that not only should I do what had seemed impossible, but that I could do it, with God's help. But the time we left Century City, I had visited every patient on the floor. And all of the people involved there, including the staff, had started calling me "Mom." I knew how Scott had been treated unfairly, even unmercifully, at times, and I wanted to help these people see that the love of God still exists in this world for them.
I wish I'd known when Scott was sick what I know now about helping people process their dying. He would withdraw somewhere within himself and become very quiet, sometimes for hours at a time. "Mom," he would ask, "why did I do the things I did?"
I don't know how many times he asked me that, or how many times I answered, "I don't know, Scott." His absorption in the past broke my heart, but not just because of the failure he felt. I resented the past because it was also stealing our present, moment by moment, day by day. If I had it all to do over again, I would try to help him talk about it. I would get him involved in a support group. But we were alone; we did the best we could.
Also, I would let him see more of my tears. I felt that I had to be strong for him and I hid my tears. At home he'd walk through the room like a weak old man and I'd go upstairs and cry. But I never came down until I was dry-eyed; I didn't want him to feel guilty that he was causing us so much sadness. It might have helped to simply admit, "Yes, we are sad, Scott--sad for us and sad for you. In any case, we forgive you, because we love you, and nothing you have done or might do in the future could possibly change that."
As Scott's disease progressed, his sadness over dying young changed to anxiety in relation to death itself. About six weeks before he died, he confessed, "Mom, I'm afraid." As we talked, we realized that Scott's primary questions were no longer physical or intellectual, but emotional and spiritual. He needed--we all needed--spiritual support.
The very next day, through the arrangement of hospital personnel, retired Superior Court Judge Howard Patrick visited Scott for the first time. Judge Patrick came to read and pray with Scott every day for the rest of Scott's life. Scott was very comforted by this and often fell asleep listening to a devotional or prayer by this wonderful man who has since joined Scott in heaven. But the time Scott died, he was ready, and no longer afraid.
The end came on September 19, 1989, at half-past midnight. I was alone with him in his hospital room, his dad and sisters asleep in adjoining rooms. Though he couldn't respond, I said softly, "Scott, if you don't feel forgiven about something, from Dad or me or Jesus Christ, just know that you are. Claim that forgiveness, and go."
Scott died 20 minutes later. All of a sudden, as I stood by his side, he took a breath and then was quiet. Then he took another breath, followed by a little gurgle in his throat, and he was gone.
"My dear, dear son," I whispered to him, "I am going to miss you more than I could ever have imagined. You taught me how to laugh and find humor in life. You taught me how to be brave and strong and how to claim victory in the face of defeat. You taught me about pain and suffering. Dad and I will go on, and God will be our strength."
Before homosexuality and AIDS came to our home through Scott, I might have classified our family as "winners" compared to those whose less-than-righteous lifestyles demonstrated that they were "losers." Now, I'm convinced that we're all just fellow pilgrims in the process of discovering who we are, what life is about, who God is, and how He is working in our world today.
On a particularly difficult day while Scott was still alive, I was feeling angry and abandoned. I walked through the house, looking up toward heaven, sobbing, "Jesus, somehow help us. Just help this family."
As I prayed, a peace gradually came over me. I am convinced it was Jesus Himself ministering to my heart. I didn't hear a voice or see a bright light. Bells didn't go off. But in my heart I knew something in a way I had never known it before that moment: God was in control, and He would be my strength.
Additional Information:
Mignon and her husband, Bob, are directors of Support for the Journey (PO Box 1794, Oak Harbor, WA 98277), a ministry to those living with HIV/AIDS. This testimony is adapted from When AIDS Comes Home © 1996 by Mignon Zylstra & David Biebel. Used by permission of Thomas Nelson Publishers, PO Box 141000, Nashville, TN 37214. |
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