He sat upright, his eyes like sunken pools of the polluted Ganges River. Sweat poured off his forehead, running down his face to the creases of his neck, and down to the crevices of his brown chest. I could count ever rib on him, his patient gown bunched at his waist. A towel covered his groin, and his spindly legs jutted like twigs from the bony prominences of his pelvis.

Soft restraints surrounded his wrists, the ties dangling to the underbelly of the bed, tied in a fashion so that he couldn’t reach them. The ventilator groaned and hissed with every breath, forcing oxygen into his fragile thorax. He was fighting with every breath.

The endotracheal tube was taped to the left side of his mouth, with an oral airway placed in the midline of his mouth, so he was prevented from biting the tube. The water in the ventilator tubing oscillated back and forth with every agonizing breath. He looked up at me and mouthed the words ‘help me…..’

It was the summer of 1984, only months after I first moved to Philadelphia. He would be the first, but not the last patient that I would care for that had the new ‘Gay Cancer’. No one knew what to do for it. At first, we cared for these patients, as we did for others. Then the suspicion would take over---and they would be isolated for fear of transmission to others.

I’ve long ago forgotten his name. But I never forgot watching him suffocate on a ventilator with every bit of oxygen and ventilatory support that we could give him.

His memory lives in my soul. I’ve carried that memory for 36 years. I feel that today on World AIDS Day, it is appropriate to tell the world that he mattered.

There is much work to be done. According to Hiv.gov, 1.2 million are living with HIV. One in seven don’t know it and need testing.

I hope that you take a moment today and remember those who have been affected by HIV/AIDS.