For an explanation about Geoffrey, click here.

Fri. 18 Jan 1991

I had a sudden burst of optimism last night and numbered the pages of this journal, just to see: 192 pages, just about 6 months worth. Will I live long enough to need to buy a second one? After my visit to the U of U today, I somehow think I don’t need to buy another one, even if it’s on sale. Dr. P____ told me that my T-cell count is 166. A healthy person needs 1,000. A dead person is zero. So, in theory, there’s less than one fifth of me left. Despite all my efforts, I didn’t gain any weight. If I don’t start to gain weight soon, he wants to put me on an experimental program—taking a “pot” based drug, supposed to make you hungry all the time. The only side effect is to walk around all day being “high.” I don’t think I can do that.

I’m certain now that I’m at the beginning of the last stages, it’s just a question of how much time left to me. I’d call tonight “reality” time. All the way home from Salt Lake on the bus, I kept thinking:

I can accept my own death. In a way, I’m lucky for knowing ahead of time. But, what do I do with the time left to me? What can I give of myself in my remaining time? And who can I give it to? I feel I’m detaching from the lives of people who know me. Who’s ever really up to helping a friend die? I can understand people not wanting to follow through to the end with me. I want you all to live life, and waiting for death can’t enhance someone else’s life. Maybe I can teach you to celebrate my transition. The key word is to celebrate. Maybe we can plan that celebration together. I hope so.