We Don't Have AIDS, But We Suffer, Too

I was 9 years old when I found out my father was ill. It was 1994, but I can remember my mother's words as if it were yesterday: "Kerrel, I don't want you to take food from your father, because him have the AIDS. Be very careful when you are around him."

AIDS wasn't something we talked about in Jamaica when I was growing up. What I knew about AIDS could be summed up like this: If you were HIV-positive, you were going to die. You were going to suffer before you died. And you didn't expect anyone to treat you well, either.

From then on, I knew that this would be a family secret. My parents were not together anymore, and my dad lived alone. For a while he could take care of himself. But when I was 12, his condition worsened. My father's other children lived far away, so it fell to me to look after him.

I tended to his every need. After school, I would cook, clean, shop for groceries and take my dad to the doctor. We couldn't afford all the necessary medication for him, ... // 77% Remaining