OUR SON HAS BEEN ADMITTED TO the emergency room. He's critically ill with pneumonia and probably won't live more than a day or two. You should come right away."

Scott's medical crises were no novelty for my husband and me. He'd been born with an immune deficiency that frequently precipitated health emergencies. A second-year radiology tech student, he'd called home a couple weeks earlier to complain of chest congestion. His father, a physician, sent him antibiotics, but he didn't seem to be getting better.

Now this phone call. Fear grabbed our hearts as we quickly made flight arrangements, packed, and hurried to the airport, only to find we'd missed our flight. We had to make the 700-mile journey by car.

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Arriving at the hospital, we learned Scott was in isolation. The doctor took us into a little room and told us bluntly that he had AIDS (acquired immunodeficiency syndrome). We were in shock. The doctor repeated that Scott had only a few days to live.

"You don't know my son," Ed told him."He's a fighter." Gowned and masked, he went in to see Scott first.

Scott tried to prepare his father. "Dad, you've tried to fix me up all my life, but this is something you can't fix. You've got to accept that I'm dying."

Then it was my turn to go in. The doctor had warned us not to touch Scott, but when I saw him looking so pale and sick, with an oxygen mask and all those tubes going into him, I began crying and gathered him into my arms. Scott cried then as if he would never stop. At last he gasped, "I've needed to cry like that for a long time."

In spite of the doctor's diagnosis, he slowly got a little better, and we were able to take him home. On the way home I became obsessed with how he'd gotten AIDS. He had taken gamma globulin shots all his life to build up his immune system, and it was likely he'd been infected through them, but other questions bothered me. Suddenly a little voice in my head said, "Betty, that's enough. The barn is on fire now, and it really doesn't matter how it got on fire. You have only a short time left. Just love him."

Back home we finally found a doctor willing to treat him and got him settled in the hospital. He lived exactly four more weeks. He would be able to come home for a day or two, then have to return to the hospital for a few days. He had violent fevers that sent him into convulsions. His skin turned black and peeled off. When he was home I was so afraid he would die that I would tiptoe into his room at night and touch him to be sure his body was still warm.

In spite of all this trauma we drew very close to each other and shared some special moments. Scott wanted to go fishing with his dad again before he died. He was so weak he couldn't hold the fishing pole or talk much, but we had a nice time.

We learned a lot from Scott in those last weeks—especially the importance of being able to express our emotions. Because we accepted him and listened without judging, he was able to say everything he needed to so he could die in peace. And we were able to let him know how much he had meant to us.

Scott was a pretty wise kid. He knew I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to save things. One day when I was feeling kind of angry because he was dying, I was at the point of wanting to just throw all his things away. But he said, "Oh, don't do that, Mother. Just pack my things and put them under the bed, because you'll need them someday." It was good advice. After he was gone I learned to talk through my grief as I dealt with his things one by one.

One of the hardest things for us to bear was the reaction of our church family. We didn't try to hide the fact that Scott had AIDS. Now I realize the reason our friends avoided us was that they didn't know what to say. Even when I asked them to come and see Scott, very few came. Oh, how much it would have meant to have someone just to listen and share our sorrows (see No. 9 in the sidebar).

And of course people were afraid they would catch AIDS. Scott wanted so much to play the organ and piano at church one more time, but it wasn't permitted. Scott said he understood—but it made him feel as though he was an outcast. The one time he was able to go to church he staggered up to the top of the balcony so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone.

He decided to ask the pastor to anoint him, but the pastor said, "I don't think it would be appropriate. Do you really think the Lord would heal you?"

Scott had the grace to say, "Well, that's all right. But could you please pray for my parents, and pray that I'll be able to endure the pain I'm going through?"

"You know, Mom," Scott told me afterward, "I think I can understand what it must have been like for Jesus to die on the cross. He was totally abandoned by those who said they love Him. He felt bad that His church family wasn't able to be there for Him."

A few days later he said, "When you have my funeral, I don't think anyone will be there, so just have something simple." We decided it would be better not to request permission to have the funeral in the church.

The day before Scott died, a wonderful thing happened to ease our pain and sense of isolation. The pastor of the church Scott had attended while he was in school was vacationing in our area with his wife. They heard about his illness and came to sing and pray for him. That brought him such joy.

After Scott died I received support from Compassionate Friends, a group for parents who have lost a child. I also became a volunteer with the hospice program from which Scott had received such loving care.

I developed a close friendship with Bud (the son of fellow church members), who had AIDS. I was able to do things for him that I hadn't been able to do for Scott because our time had been so short.

One of Bud's dreams was to start a food bank for those in the final stages of AIDS. We forged a partnership to establish an HIV food bank. Bud was its chief architect and guiding spirit.*

As of this writing there are 62 clients. Thirty-four, including Bud, have died since it started. I've become very close to each one and attend their funerals. For a number of years I have also organized our city's memorial service to commemorate World AIDS Day.

I've learned there's a lot of pain in this world, but God will hold our hands and help us get through it. He often works through other people and wants to use us to help others. I can truly say that God has been with me every step of the way and has become my trusted friend.

*Since this story was written Betty has retired, for health reasons, from operating the food bank, although she still acts as a consultant.

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Carrol Grady, a minister's wife, is retired in the Pacific Northwest, where she does freelance writing and has a ministry for families of gays and lesbians