Love In The Time Of AIDS Analysis

Love in the Time of AIDS

At the dawn of the AIDS epidemic, Maggie Kneip’s husband, John Andrew, was diagnosed with the highly stigmatized disease. In the aftermath of his death in 1991, Maggie lived with secrecy and shame. Neither her husband’s eulogy nor his obituary made mention of AIDS. But the coverup robbed Maggie of the right to properly mourn the loss of a man she loved. Now, more than 25 years later, Maggie is taking back that right, telling the truth, and reckoning with all that was left unsaid.

Excerpted and condensed from Now Everyone Will Know: The Perfect Husband, His Shattering Secret, My Rediscovered Life by Maggie Kneip, William & Mary.

Clad in my chic Bendel ensemble, I found myself sitting in a Park Avenue doctor’s
I would feed my hungry son, I would. Little Caroline perched next to me, sucking a lollipop. She had her priorities straight. I had begun to unfasten my nursing bra when a flashing light caught my eye: the answering machine. Once again, there were nine messages. I stabbed its playback button.

I couldn’t call any of my friends back. What would I say? “Hi, John’s in the hospital. He has AIDS. See you soon!”

After lunch, my dad drove me to the hospital to see Dr. Rothstein and John. As I was his only food source, the baby came, too. I clung to my sweet-smelling son for dear life; to hell with the car seat.

At the hospital, we stepped off the elevator and almost collided with a bespectacled, balding man in a white coat. “Hello, I’m Dr. Rothstein,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re Mrs. Andrew? I’d like to speak with you in my office.” He turned to my father. “Hello, sir. Could you please wait out here for a few minutes?”

I handed Dan over to his grandfather and followed the doctor to his office.

Dr. Rothstein looked like he’d rather have been almost anywhere
The night before, I had poured myself a big glass of scotch and forced myself to consider what would happen if John actually did, preposterously, have AIDS. He would be sick, I’d decided; the kids and I wouldn’t. He’d soon get better and go back to work. We’d get divorced and raise our kids separately but amicably. I’d get married again and maybe have more kids. John would come for Thanksgiving. And so on. At no point in this fantasy would John die.

Dr. Rothstein then said, “Mrs. Andrew, we think Mr. Andrew has carried the HIV virus for a very long time. Seven, eight years, at least.” I could tell he believed he was relaying a bit of good news: If John had contracted AIDS that long ago, there was a chance he’d been faithful to me. But at that moment, I didn’t care if John had contracted the disease seven years ago, six months ago, or last week.

The next day at 2:30 sharp, I went to meet Dr. Neibart in a regal iron skyscraper adjacent to the hospital for my results. My parents and Dan were with me while Caroline, now incessantly inquiring as to the whereabouts of Daddy, stayed home with the downstairs neighbors. Robert was there, too, with John’s father, Merle, summoned from Bethesda, Maryland.

We assembled in the hospital’s lounge on the appointed floor. When I spotted Dr. Neibart stepping off the elevator down the hall, I ran to him. He ran to me, too, sweeping me up and announcing, “You’re negative! You and the children are