15 October 2014


Back in the halcyon days of Donna Summer, Freddie Mercury, ABBA, the BeeGees; i.e., the good ol’ disco era; a new killer arrived … and he wasn’t listening to a dog named Sam.

My wife was a nurse then — still is, unfortunately — and remembered the first patient they had.

“Don’t know what he’s got, but no one has an answer, so we’re all double gloving and gowning before going in.”

“What do the doctors say?” I asked.

Snort from my wife.

“They do Indian rounds.”

“Huh?” says I.

My wife, holds her hand across her brow like Tonto blocking the sun and looking out on the John Ford desert.

“You know, Indian rounds. ‘Yeah. He looks okay.’ They don’t go in and we ain’t going in unless we’re in full coverage.”

They didn't get a name for it until a couple of years later. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the good ol’ HIV/AIDs epidemic that is still with us today.

She and I have lost more than a few friends to that insidious disease ... and I think something worse is on its way to thin the herd some more. 

Only this time, we actually brought the disease here intentionally.

Think about it.

And I hope I'm wrong ... but I don't think I am.

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