Did you hear about the man with AIDS, who then got leukaemia? You’d think it would be curtains for him. The end of the road, the final twist of the knife, death coming a’knocking. Enough torment already, thanks very much, the trials of Job are nothing compared to the final straw on that spancelled camel’s back.

But the lucky sod happens to get a bone marrow transplant from someone with a rare resistance to the HIV virus, that occurs in about one in a thousand Europeans. Nearly two years later, he’s as fit as a fiddle and is totally clear of both HIV and leukemia. Talk about a last-minute reprieve from Death Row.
It’s a true story. And, I realise it may sound strange, but it makes me wonder about prayer. About miracles, and that sort of stuff. Around Christmas, I try to remind myself that the tacky extravaganza is not only about shopping and eating and drinking. It has to be about something else, something that isn’t about gratification. Doesn’t it?
You see, I believe that the only word I have for what I’ve been doing in response to AIDS since it first terrified me in the early ‘80 is praying. Never consciously directed at a Higher Power or a God or Jesus or Allah or anyone else, it’s been a sort of focussed period of concentration, almost an internalized furrowing of my brow, for anything from a few moments to a few hours, in which I am actively willing that the world provides a cure for the bloody disease. The world? Human beings. Scientists. The Fates. The Fureys. Anyone will do.
I was reminded of the sad toll the disease has taken on the lives of so many Irish people when I attended a lecture by Niall Sweeney, the writer and graphic designer and general fount of creativity, (or should that be font of creativity?) on the social and visual history of the annual Alternative Miss Ireland contest, the beauty pageant that is open to men, women, and animals. The team of dedicated professional volunteers who have worked so hard over the years to raise funds to defeat the disease and support those living with it, have a heartwarming story to tell. But the design is eye-watering – it’s a visual feast, grotesque and stylish, absurd and sublime, crazy and serene. Most of all, what is evident in the images and videos in the archive is an extraordinary celebratory sense of humour.
But there is a poignancy to it, as so many of the original team have died of the disease since the competition started. It is the hurt of that mournful, terrifying period in the eighties and early nineties that I was reminded of, seeing those fabulous faces and their outrageous frocks.
All that praying, all that willing, the mental forcing, the bending of one’s will to make something happen over the years. The sadness, the grief, the loss, the fear of those close to me. The missing faces on the scene, the wistful memories of fearless lovemaking. The torture of the regular HIV test that never seems to be anything less than an existential trial, a weighing up of pleasure’s costs, the opening of the door to see if Death is waiting outside this time.
All this, for one little virus. I was speaking to a friend last night who, like a few others, wonders about the strict connection between the virus and the deadly disease. I used to think like him – fear drove me into denial, and had me clutching at straws, the discrepancies in the original discovery of the virus, the squabbling laboratories, the cases of those who didn’t die who “should have”. The impact of believing you’re about to die, and how it speeds one towards death, a placebo effect in reverse. The synchronicity of those dying first being those who (generally) used a lot of drugs and had a lot of sex. All pointing to it being a lifestyle effect, a state of mental or spiritual dis-ease.
But it’s not either/or. It is both, for some people. But, for most people, it’s just a virus that strips away one’s defences. It’s as simple as that.
And now we learn that it can go away. Admittedly it’s kind of impossible to imagine how those same conditions could be repeated for everyone with the virus – every thousandth European with the genetic anomaly would have to be found first, needles in a haystack, then blood-typed and marrow-typed. How many times could a person have their bones drilled open and their marrow sucked dry to save a life? I pity the poor donor, who saved this man’s life. He’s got an unenviable choice.
Anyway. In the meantime, all we can do is hope that this is the first of many such breakthroughs. And pray.
When things seem at their darkest, they often turn out unexpectedly beautiful. Fact. Have a peaceful, loving, healthy Christmas.

Image of Niall Sweeney’s Alternative Miss Ireland poster: http://pantibar.com/attachments/AMI_TALKS_TCD08.jpg
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7726118.stm
Niall Sweeney: www.ponybox.co.uk
www.alternativemissireland.com