My Experience as a "Buddy" Volunteer in 1983 with the Inland AIDS Project

Back in the early days of the AIDS epidemic, I volunteered with the Inland AIDS Project during its beginning. They assigned me three "buddies," each one at a time. My first buddy was a local young artist, and his story was not just heartbreaking due to his diagnosis but also deepened by a betrayal that introduced him to AIDS—an all-too-common backdrop of anger that many felt when facing a terminal illness during those times.

Misunderstandings and fear about AIDS were rampant. At the time, many thought it was airborne and could be caught by mere proximity. A former sister-in-law later admitted to avoiding me because she feared catching AIDS just by being around me, even though I was never HIV positive myself.

These buddies, mostly shunned by those who knew them, carried a profound sense of isolation. It was a critical time, and the Inland AIDS Project stepped up to bridge the gap for those in dire need. The challenge for me wasn't just about providing practical help—like ensuring they had groceries or getting them to doctor appointments—it was navigating the deep-seated mistrust many of my buddies felt towards those trying to help. They didn’t just need someone to feel sorry for them; they needed genuine support and understanding.

The youngest buddy, the artist, passed away suddenly. One day I went to visit, and he was just... gone. I didn't get to say goodbye, and that loss has stayed with me. Another buddy, an experienced and talented interior designer, noticed the strain between us as his illness progressed. After our visits ceased, he unexpectedly showed up at my door with a gift to apologize—a moment of profound humility and grace from someone who, despite facing his mortality, cared enough to mend our bond.

The third person was very active in what was then referred to as the "gay lifestyle." His approach to dealing with his diagnosis was radically different; he spoke of "getting even" with others by continuing risky behaviors. Listening to him was difficult; it was a stark contrast to how my other two buddies coped with their anger and pain.

Reflecting on those days, I often think about how much more I could have offered if I had the knowledge and understanding I have now. I wasn’t just there to help; I was there to learn what helping really meant. If I had another chance, I'd want to dive back into that kind of work, not as a caregiver, but as a true support to well-being, equipped with better tools for comfort and support.