Rock: An Best Example of How Healthcare is Politicised
Movie star Rock Hudson’s arrival on a private jet from Paris was deceptive. The photographers at the airport were not there out of admiration or to capture flattering images. They were there because he was dying of AIDS. Aware of the brutality of AIDS, media outlets wanted to be the first to catch a glimpse of the dying Hudson.
No good death exists. Even if someone dies in their sleep, the outcome remains the same. But in certain situations, death can be brutal, inflicting severe pain and misery on its sufferers before snatching their lives away. That was the case with AIDS. None of its victims died a peaceful death.
So, while the press corps were busy scrambling to snap the best shot for their front page, Rock was reflecting. Unlike members of the press corps, he knew the brutality of the death that lay ahead of him. As a member of the gay community, he had witnessed close friends die. He had seen first-hand the misery and suffering that preceded it.
But for a few seconds, he decided to forget about death and reflect on life. He would not be dying right now and certainly not such a terrible death if he was not gay. What had he done to deserve such a fate? What crime had he committed? The only answer he could think of was that he dared to love in a manner disapproved of by society. For that, he was exiled. He was exiled by his own country and government, exiled from his friends and family and exiled from anyone he had loved in his brief life.
He had been at the bedside of dying young gay men. He had held their hands and consoled their “other halves” who were about to be left to face the world alone — a world from which they were essentially exiled. He had consoled them, never imagining it would be his turn one day. Being a megastar, he had hoped his stardom would shield him from such a dreadful death. But AIDS is no admirer of fame.
The AIDS epidemic had exposed the fault line in the tale of the two Americas. An America where heterosexuals worried about their ability to afford a new colour television. An America in which gays constantly worried whether their lovers would wake up in the morning with purple spots or be drenched in night sweat — the rite of passage to AIDS country.
Yet, no one cared for their plights, not even their relatives and friends, because they were refugees in their own country. This was America, where dreams were made possible by sheer determination and willpower. This was America, where an immigrant could arrive at the airport penniless and become a billionaire a few years later.
But this was also America, where people went to church on Sunday to pray for salvation while simultaneously praying for the damnation of the souls of gays to eternal hell. This was the America Rock fought to protect as a young man. And it’s the America that abandoned him in his hour of need. His battered body needed a rest.
As a young man, he had to conceal his sexuality from his family and friends. He had to hide his sexuality from his buddies in the army. Being a megastar did not afford him a reprieve. He was constantly fighting to conceal his sexuality from fellow actors, producers and above all, the public.
Hiding his true self was the only way he could survive as an A-list celebrity. But they were all about to find out when he was on his deathbed. Should he be ashamed? Ashamed of what? He had not hurt anyone. He had just dared to love who he wanted to love. And for that, he had to die a miserable death.
Many prominent Americans like himself had managed to conceal their sexuality from the public. Unlike the movies he had acted in, where the script could be changed, with death, no one gets the option to alter the script. Like many prominent people who had died of AIDS before him, alive, they had managed to control the messaging about their brand. Dead, the living decided how they would be portrayed.
Throughout the epidemic, medical doctors helped conceal the cause of many deaths. If an individual is dead, there is no harm in maintaining their final dignity. But with Rock collapsing in the receptionist area of a prominent Paris hotel, it would take a courageous doctor to forge the death certificate.
So, Rock knew he would not be afforded the secrecy afforded others in death. Everyone would know he died of the “gay” disease, AIDS. As the gurney wheeled him into the hospital, with the wind blowing in his face, he was apprehensive; he knew there would be long and challenging days ahead of him before his inevitable death. His stardom was not going to spare him the hideous suffering.
Death from AIDS started with a high temperature, a violent fever, and night sweats that left the mattress soaked. Next was a yeast infection in the mouth and, soon after, persistent diarrhoea. There followed persistent fatigue and ghastly weight loss so severe that the sufferers’ bones practically oozed from their bodies.
Then the herpes virus, rashes and excruciatingly painful shingles flourished, causing piercing pain at the slightest movement. Fungus then grew around the fingernails. As death drew nearer, white foam bubbled from the mouth, oozed from the ears and nose, and fluid filled the lungs.
Then the flesh turned light blue from lack of oxygen; patients had multiple heart attacks and organ failures. When the body could no longer endure the battering, patients and their families usually begged medical professionals to switch off the breathing machine. The patient would expel one final deep breath before dying.
That fate awaited Rock as he was flown to the hospital that day. Like most AIDS sufferers at the time, his torturous death started immediately upon arrival. He screamed in agony, “Oh Jesus, Oh God, Oh Jesus”, as the gurney bounced down the runway. He struggled to breathe and gasped for air, clutching his sides and chest and coughing out the mucus stuck in his throat.
Despite his efforts to cough, it remained stuck and continued to torture him. As he lay on the hospital bed, struggling to breathe, he gazed into the tear-filled eyes of the people gathered around him and felt sorry for them. He felt sorry for them because they were losing him.
He felt sorry for the medical professionals who had worked tirelessly to save his life. He felt sorry for himself because he would not die peacefully. Dying of AIDS was not the script he would have written for the end of his life. The doctors put him on a life support machine, but when it became evident, they could do nothing more to help him, they turned it off.
On October 2nd,1985, as the sun rose over Mount San Antonio, and robins sang in the Angeles National Forest, Roy Harold Scherer Jr — aka Rock Hudson — drew one final breath, exhaled heavily, and died. At last, his battered body would rest in peace. Silence fell upon the hospital room. No wife or kids were there to weep for him, but the nation mourned his passing. Until Hudson’s death from AIDS-related complications, the disease was believed to only affect gay men despite evidence to the contrary.
