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It occurs to me that my time left on this earth may be short. I pray to go quickly and with dignity. I need to talk, but just who I can talk to is a real question. How did my circle of friends become so small? God, I pray for peace and the will to continue for awhile. And give me courage — something I’ve never had much of.
—From Jered Gross’ Journal
September and the AIDS Walk always bring it back — those feelings of love, grief and guilt.
Of all the losses I have had in my life, his is the hard loss, the one I still struggle to get over and perhaps never will. Jered Gross had many friends in Cincinnati, San Francisco and Seattle, the cities where he lived his adult life. He was a good and supportive friend to many, a gay man and my twin brother. On Sept. 27, 1994, he died of AIDS.
It occurs to me that my time left on this earth may be short. I pray to go quickly and with dignity. … I need to talk, but just who I can talk to is a real question. How did my circle of friends become so small? God, I pray for peace and the will to continue for awhile. And give me courage — something I’ve never had much of.
—From Jered Gross’ Journal
September and the AIDS Walk always bring it back — those feelings of love, grief and guilt.
Of all the losses I have had in my life, his is the hard loss, the one I still struggle to get over and perhaps never will. Jered Gross had many friends in Cincinnati, San Francisco and Seattle, the cities where he lived his adult life. He was a good and supportive friend to many, a gay man and my twin brother. On Sept. 27, 1994, he died of AIDS.
Jered was a giver all his life, and his friends still come to me with stories about the love and support he gave them during good and bad times, always with sensitivity and his trademark wit. I have my own Jered story to tell.
We grew up on a small farm close to East Enterprise, Ind., about two hours from Cincinnati. We were very close, but I always knew that Jered was different from me. The word “gay” was never mentioned; but when he came out in the mid ’70s, it was no surprise. The news had no impact on our relationship. Jered was Jered, and I loved him.
The late 1970s found Jered heading to San Francisco and me into marriage. He made constant trips to Cincinnati to see me. But after my marriage, especially once the children came along, our relationship started to change.
My wife knew Jered was gay, and it became an issue once our kids got older: “We don’t want this to affect them — don’t want them to question their sexuality.” In essence, we didn’t want them to know about real life.
While her viewpoints were not mine, it didn’t really matter. In an effort to hold on to the marriage, I went along with conditions as to when and how he could visit our daughter and son. My relationship with my twin brother became very cool as he resented the restrictions we put on him. These restrictions also hurt me, but I allowed the outcasting of my twin brother from my life and we were distant for more than 12 years.
Talked to Mom. Routine stuff, felt OK to not mention “it.” Must remember to call Larry this week. Family ties seem important. Overall, I think I’m doing well, but those thoughts creep in. Do I have two years — two months? How will I be in two weeks?
In 1993 my marriage was starting to come to an end. In the fall, my employer transferred me to Springfield, an old railroad town close to Dayton. The separation from my wife became official as I prepared to live and work in a town where I basically knew no one. My life was empty. I missed my kids and I had failed at the one thing I wanted to succeed in — my marriage.
I spent my first seven weeks in Springfield working, getting drunk in bars and taking women I didn’t know back to my apartment. I was miserable.
One afternoon in early October, sitting in my office, I started crying and couldn’t stop. So much about that afternoon I can’t remember. I do remember checking myself into the hospital. I remember my body shaking, and I couldn’t control it. I remember calling my mother, crying and upsetting her; and I remember being given medication to calm me down and make me sleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I had a visitor.: It was Jered. My mother had called him and he dropped everything in his life to fly from Seattle to be with me, to help me get past the worst period in my life. There was no grudge, no harsh words, no bringing up the past — just love for me.
Jered was my lifeline. He helped me sort through all the muck. He encouraged me to go into therapy and to always be honest with myself. After he returned to Seattle, we stayed in constant contact through phone calls and letters. Maybe I didn’t deserve all this love, but I took it anyway, because I desperately needed it. Jered was saving my life at the same time he was losing his. He was dying of AIDS, but he never said a word about it.
Life is complicated. Just when I’m discovering new reasons for living, I find out my life is coming to an end. Cruel joke? Or a lesson I need to learn? I never did have the answers to questions like that. I actually called a crisis line tonight and talked to a stranger. Not much help.
At Christmas 1993, Jered was back in town. This was a special treat for me, as he got to spend some time with my daughter and son. During this short visit, he seemed very tired; but when I expressed some concern, he quickly dismissed it — just said he hadn’t been taking care of himself and would start to do so in the new year.
As always, Jered was more interested in how I was doing. Thanks to his help, I was climbing “out of the well” and starting to make decisions about my life — one of them being the need to return to Cincinnati to be closer to my kids.
Jered and I continued to stay in touch, but I was beginning to see a difference in him. So often when I called, he seemed exhausted or preoccupied. He always said he was fine, but somehow I knew he wasn’t.
On Sept. 4, 1994, I received a phone call from one of Jered’s friends. Jered was in the hospital with pneumonia. He had a very high fever and an enlarged kidney. His friend took it upon himself to tell me something I needed to know: “Jered has AIDS, and he is very ill.”
The word AIDS shot through me like a bullet. I didn’t know much about the illness, but I knew it meant death. I was on a plane to Seattle the next morning.
I’m praying for a “second chance” today. I want the doctors to be wrong — surely there could be a mistake I’m seeing some friends tonight — maybe that will help. It’s clear to me — at least today — that I need people more than I sometimes think.
My mind still wanders back to early September 1994 and Swedish Hospital. I watched my brother refuse to become the classic picture of someone with AIDS. To improve his condition, he would suck oatmeal through a straw because of thrush — a symptom of AIDS that causes lesions on the membranes of the mouth, lips and throat.
He insisted on being walked several times a day, because he didn’t want to lose strength in his legs. There were no bedpans or catheters for Jered: “No, I’ll get up and use the bathroom just like a normal person.” While fighting for his life, he was also fighting for his dignity.
The conversations we had during that time are the most cherished ones I will ever experience. Even though he didn’t want to hear it, I finally got around to thanking him for all his help during my breakdown. My voice started to tremble as I approached the subject of all those distant years. He quickly interrupted me.
“I could feel your closeness even when you couldn’t be,” he said. “We’re fine now. Let’s move on.”
Jered’s condition improved, and in mid-September he was released from the hospital. I left the day before he was to be released and we made plans to get together at Christmas, either in Seattle or Cincinnati. We hugged, said goodbye and I left Swedish Hospital and started walking back to his apartment, where I was staying.
I sobbed the entire way. Somehow I knew I would never see Jered again.
He spent only a few days at home. Once again his condition worsened, and he was readmitted to the hospital. I got a frantic call from his doctor on Sept. 26 telling me, “Something is going terribly wrong.”
I talked to Jered briefly that night, urging him, “Hold on. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.” He told me he was fine and not to worry, but the fight in his voice was no longer there. The next morning, as I was about to board the plane, I was paged. Jered Gross had just died.
I look in the mirror and see an old man, pretty well spent. I know my time is relatively short but did I really want to be 60? Naw.
For weeks after his death, I felt tremendous anger: “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had AIDS? You didn’t always have to be the strong one. You didn’t have to protect how you’re feeling from me.”
I wanted to repay him for all his help. I wanted to give back and not take, to show him that I loved him as much as he loved me and yes, to relieve the guilt I was feeling for all the years of treating him less than the great man he was.
Is there a moral to this story? I think Jered said it best. Back when my wife and I were putting restrictions as to how and when he could see the kids, we had a conversation in which I said in frustration, “I just wish you were straight.” His reply was, “Why can’t you just wish me to be happy?”
This simple but profound statement finally sunk in after his death, and it has changed my life forever. Jered loved me unconditionally.
I’m learning to live through the life he led on this earth and the strength he had facing death. For a man who thought he had no courage, he is the bravest person I have ever known. I feel so privileged that he was my twin brother. Thank you, Jered. I love you. ©
This article appears in Sep 19-25, 2001.