My Dad and HIV/AIDs research

I’m not quite sure what transpired that lead my Dad to focus on immunology. By the early 1970s he was running a clinical immunology laboratory in a hospital in upstate New York. He attended conferences in his fields, both immunology and microbiology and kept up with his journal reading. As such, he read much of the early research in HIV/AIDs, and probably kept up with this reading at least until a couple of years before he passed. As far as I know, he did not do any HIV/AIDs research but several of his friends did.

Over the years my Dad and I had several occasions to talk about HIV/AIDs, both from the perspective of the research being done at that time and other writings from his immunology journals, and from the point of view of seeing so many fine young people die of AIDs.

I recall one of his last visits with us in New Jersey in June of 1990. It was the weekend of the annual gay pride parade in New York City. We took a train into the city to watch the first hour of the parade before going out for lunch. Our perch was somewhere near 23rd street in the boro of Manhattan (NYC). We got there in time to see the beginning of the parade. Among the early marchers was a rather large contingent of HIV/AIDs groups. Dad was very moved by seeing both the AIDs activist groups as well as all those living with HIV/AIDs. Remember that this was before the widespread use of the various drug cocktails used by those living with HIV/AIDs in the U.S. and other developed countries.

A couple of years later, my dear Dad was dead from complications resulting from a neurological disease.

When I first became acquainted with the Global Aids Interfaith Alliance , I knew that Dad would want to be very involved with GAIA if he were alive. If he were able, he would want to go on one of their trips to Malawi to visit various medical facilities working with HIV/AIDs patients and orphanages with children whose parents have died of HIV/AIDs. I’d like to think that my Dad is one of GAIA’s special angels.

My Dad and Africa

I want to pause for a moment and tell you about my Dad, John. You see, in many ways, my Dad is an inspiration for my interest in Malawi. You see my Dad had a Ph.D. in microbiology. I had just turned seven years old when he earned his Ph.D. Around this time; he was offered a post–doctoral fellowship in what was known then as the Congo in Africa. It is possible that my mother mentioned the possibility of living in Africa to my younger sister and I. It seemed so exotic. At the time, the only thing I knew about Africa was that the lions, monkeys and elephants that I saw in cages at the zoo lived wild. I dreamt of seeing African tribesman and wild lions, elephants, and monkeys. A short time later, my mother told us how disappointed she was that Daddy was not going to accept the fellowship. Several years later I recall hearing about some sort of violence and unrest in the Congo. I understood why he didn’t accept the fellowship.

After he earned his Ph.D., he stayed at his university, teaching biochemistry in the med school and doing research. It may have been during this time that he started to shift his research focus to immunology. Later, he ran an immunology lab in a chief medical examiner’s office of another large east coast city before moving to a small city in upstate New York where he ran a clinical immunology lab in one of the local hospitals. My Mom passed in the mid–eighties, my Dad followed a little less than eight year later.

It never occurred to me to ask him about his dissertation research or why he was offered the fellowship in the Congo. After he passed, I found his masters and Ph.D. dissertation in an antique secretary I inherited. I knew that he had left his dissertations in this secretary, when I was ready, I looked to see what he had done his dissertation research on. I don’t know what I never asked him about his dissertation work, perhaps because his life’s work took a very different direction. After he died, I got curious. All I had to do was look in the secretary and read the abstract.

Now, I am not a microbiologist, nor have I taken a microbiology course. But, I knew enough to know that his work was related to Dysentery. The Shigella Flexneri bacterium that was the focus of his research is one of the organisms causing one of the diarrheal diseases sometimes referred to as Dysentery. It wasn’t until over ten years had passed since Dad’s death and I was working on an article on the efforts to supply a safe and clean water supply to a small village in southern Malawi that I made the connection to my Dad’s dissertation work and the fellowship in the Congo that he turned down.

It was when I was reading about water borne diseases that I made the connection about my Dad’s dissertation work. I felt like it was not a coincidence that fate had led me to my interest in southern Malawi. In some ways, I feel like I am finishing the work that my Dad started in the 1950s.

I know that he would be thrilled to know of my interest in working for a safe and clean water supply in Africa and globally. I do believe in angels. he is hovering around me, smilling, as I write this.

Reflections on water

It may be ironic that as I write this it is raining. Rain, what some of the arid or semi–arid regions in the world wouldn’t give for the amount of rain we have had this year, about 9 inches above normal. Those of you who have been following my blog will recall the entries that I wrote in June and July about the flooding on the Delaware River in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

I am not here to write about our abundant rainfall, I am here to write about how my passion for Malawi started. It was about seven months ago and I had started to do background reading and research to familiarize myself with life in southern Malawi. I knew that many people living in less developed regions of the world. I knew that many people in these regions do not have easy access to a clean and accessible water supply near their dwelling. I knew of the various diseases transmitted by dirty water. I knew that the people of these regions were very, very poor. Somehow all this seemed so far away. Up until last spring when I started writing about southern Malawi

It would be arrogant of me to sit here on the east coast of the United States to say that a few months of reading and writing about the people of rural southern Malawi translate into really knowing what life is like for these wonderful people. I can not, even if I should get a chance to go and visit with these wonderful people some time in the future.

But I can have compassion. And I can use the gift of my electronic pen to write of the compassion I have for and how writing about southern Malawi has, I hoped, helped me to not take things for granted. Like the well on my property that supplies us with clean water.

It was around the end of April, and I was taking a break from my research on Malawi. I started to think about what I might or might not plant in my garden in the middle of May after the threat of a freeze had passed. Believe it or not, we were then in our third consecutive month of below average rainfall. I was wondering if we were headed for a dry summer. I wondered whether I should set in new plants or not. I decided not to, to wait awhile.

Suddenly, I thought back to the people in the village in rural southern Malawi that I was writing about. The “problems” of a dry spring seemed suddenly so trivial and unimportant. I thought to myself, what is the worse that could happen if we did have a drought that summer, some of my plants and trees might die. Perhaps we would have to dig a deeper well. But we wouldn’t get sick from drinking dirty water. We don’t have to walk for an hour one–way and wait in a long line at the crack of dawn to get a bucket of water to last the day.

I know that these words sound trite and some of you may be shaking your heads, saying, “Give me a break!” You probably have a point, for I am an expert at what I can white liberal guilt. All I can say is that, suddenly, I began to look at my own use of water differently. And perhaps I can use my “white liberal guilt” for some good, through my writing.

And a few weeks later the rains came.