I WENT TO EAST LONDON, to Mildmay Mission Hospital, to commemorate its 150th anniversary and recent renovations. My mother once paid the place a famous visit. She held the hand of a man who was HIV-positive, and thereby changed the world. She proved that HIV wasn’t leprosy, that it wasn’t a curse. She proved that the disease didn’t disqualify people from love or dignity. She reminded the world that respect and compassion aren’t
gifts, they’re the least we owe each other.
I learned that her famous visit had actually been one of many. A Mildmay worker pulled me aside, told me that Mummy would slip in and out of the hospital all the time. No fanfare, no photos. She’d just drop in, make a few people feel better, then run home.
Another woman told me she’d been a patient during one of those pop-ins. Born HIV-positive, this woman remembered sitting on Mummy’s lap. She was only two at the time, but she remembered.
I cuddled her. Your mum. I did.
My face flushed. I felt such envy.
Did you?
I did, I did, and oh, it was so nice. She gave a great cuddle! Yes, I remember.
But I didn’t.
No matter how I tried, I barely remembered a thing.
