My mother passed in 1973 when I was 10 years old. She was just 35. One of the only memories I have from her final days is her writing and saying to my family: “Take care of my Bobby.”
And they did.
That sentence has followed me my entire life—not as sentiment, but as something I’ve felt in motion through the years. Guidance, protection, interruption of otherwise expected outcomes. I don’t always know how to explain it. I simply know what I’ve lived.
Her death became a strange kind of compass for me.
She didn’t get a second chance at life, or a chance to fight her disease. I’ve carried that with me ever since—not as comparison, but as awareness of what was taken and what, somehow, was given.
I didn’t recover from it—I learned to walk with it. A reminder, quiet but constant, that life isn’t guaranteed in length, only in how it is met.
Nine years after she died, I contracted HIV.
In 1985 I was diagnosed with ARC (AIDS Related Complex), and not long after, AIDS. At that time, the odds were not abstract. They were immediate—measured in funerals and hospital rooms, and in names disappearing, many of them dear friends.
But... I didn’t disappear. In their memory and honor I refuse to hide or surrender.
~ Bob Bowers aka One Tough Pirate
43-year long-term HIV/AIDS survivor - Riding strong since 1983