Maestro Guillermo

It was the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving, and I was hurrying through my infectious disease rounds to get to the airport to meet my wife's relatives arriving for the holiday. Guillermo had been admitted the week before to 4 North, my last stop, because of some painful Kaposi lesions encircling his legs. Once social service made outpatient arrangements, a quick note would ordinarily suffice for discharge, but he usually had many questions written on a pad of paper. Our agreement was that for every question I answered, he taught me a new word in Spanish. I had decided for expediency's sake to see my other patients first, saving my “maestro español” for last.

Guillermo had acquired HIV from sexual contacts with infected men. He was not one of whom his Cuban relatives living in Florida were especially proud. Living alone in an apartment in Chicago, he had nowhere to go for Thanksgiving, and nothing really for which to be particularly thankful. I arrived in his room having seen all of the new consults, and written notes about everyone else, with just enough time to get to the airport. Standing at the foot of …