VIH'Gilance

13/01/2026

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🇺🇸 “Thomas (Tom) Herrell was my best friend from 1977 until his death in 1996 at 40 years old.

We met when I went to live with my father in Cape Coral, Florida during a break in college. My stepsister was studying at Edison Community College, and Tom, who lived in Fort Myers, was one of her classmates. She introduced us, and we quickly became inseparable.

We spent many weekends in Fort Lauderdale, going to the Marlin Beach Hotel disco and enjoying long brunches by the ocean. Later, I moved on to the University of Michigan, and Tom decided to join the Coast Guard. Before he left for basic training in Alaska, he came to Ann Arbor and stayed for a month. We had a wild time—dancing at the Rubaiyat disco and generally getting into mischief. I nearly flunked that semester for skipping too many
classes.

After I graduated, I moved to Manhattan with my partner, Andrew, and by coincidence, Tom was assigned to the Coast Guard base on Governors Island. For about three years, Manhattan became our playground, and my apartment on 16th Street and 6th Avenue was our home base.

In the early 1990s, Tom was diagnosed with HIV/AIDS and passed away in 1996. I miss him every day. He was a beautiful man whose life was cut tragically short.” 📖 by Jim Smith

07/01/2026

Santé des : faisons le bilan

Comment sont-elles prises en charge ? Quelles sont les problématiques en santé sexuelle spécifiques aux femmes porteuses du VIH ?

🎧🎤 https://www.comitedesfamilles.net/podcasts/sante-des-femmes-faisons-le-bilan

05/01/2026

Une très belle année 2026 à toute votre équipe et un grand merci pour tout ce que vous faites pour les patients-es. 🙂

05/01/2026

À 65 ans, Andrew Tan vit avec le VIH depuis plus de trente ans et continue le combat. À Kuala Lumpur, le président de KLASS raconte à Remaides pourquoi vivre avec le VIH, c’est aussi refuser de se taire.

Notre entretien : https://www.aides.org/actualite/lactu-remaides-andrew-tan-VIH

Photo : Laurence Geai

03/01/2026

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🇺🇸 “Our brother, Robert Costa, had a big personality and an even bigger heart. He was handsome, smart and ridiculously entertaining - he could upstage anyone.

As brothers, we had a natural bond - but when each of us discovered our true selves and came out as gay, the bond between the three of us was fused for eternity. We laughed together, vacationed together - we even joined a gay bowling league and named our team “My Three Sons.” To quote Pet Shop Boys, “we were never being boring.”

Rob had always been the daredevil of the family. But along with that role came a bit of recklessness, and he seroconverted during college. He was asymptomatic for a few years, but eventually his T-cells were in free fall. He embarked on a journey down the road of HIV drug protocols, but the drugs proved to be toxic - his internal organs suffered greatly, and he was in and out of hospitals.

Rob died of AIDS-related organ failure on December 2, 1998, while his mother Alice and his brother John held his hand.

Rob, we still think about you every day. The void you left behind cannot be measured. The heavens above are so very lucky to have you.” 📖 by John and Thomas Costa, Bill Lieberman

03/01/2026

Notre collègue, Emmanuel, a accepté de revenir sur son histoire, son parcours militant et sa vision de l’avenir de l’épidémie.

02/01/2026

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🇺🇸 “David Rosenthal had it all. This charming, handsome, successful guy from Louisville, Kentucky moved to Los Angeles right after college. He immediately got a job as a bartender at LA’s number one gay nightclub, Studio One.

David soon became everyone’s favorite bartender. A few years later, he partnered with his good hometown straight friend Truitt and these two Kentuckians opened Rosenthal-Truitt, an elegant men’s store and boutique in the heart of Sunset Plaza.

Their store was an instant hit, attracting celebrities and the wealthy from neighboring Beverly Hills. With the success of their first store, they opened a second in the brand new Crystal Court in Orange County’s South Coast Plaza. Then a third boutique in Los Angeles’ Century City Mall followed. The pair even launched Rosenthal-Truitt cologne.

David’s life was going extremely well and suddenly he got sick. His father had passed away and when David told his mother he was both gay and HIV positive — what was known then as the double whammy! However, she told her son she “couldn’t deal with it.”

With no family support, as was far too often the case back then, his friends stepped in, led by his good friend Greg Browne. Greg came to David’s rescue when his family wouldn’t and took over David’s care.

Greg was a true Saint. He made sure David was always geting proper medical care and home health care. He was there for David every minute of every day. He made sure David had visitors and arranged outings until he was too sick to leave his apartment.

We all watched David’s healthy body and vibrant smile fade away. It was a such a sad ending to a life filled with so much hope and promise.

David died at 36, just before the AZT treatment revolution began to save the lives of AIDS patients.

The smile and charm may be gone. but his memory lives on with all of us who were lucky enough to call David a friend.” 📖 by Fred Karger

31/12/2025

Les 40 années qui viennent de s'écouler ont été fédératrices, remplies de combats, d'avancées thérapeutiques, de fureur de vivre, d'espoir mais aujourd'hui nous ne savons pas de quoi sera fait demain ...
Soyons attentifs pour ceux et celles qui ont besoin de nous, combatifs pour le respect des droits des patients-es mais accordons nous aussi le droit de rêver et d'aimer.
A tous les patients-es isolées ou seuls-es ce soir , nous pensons fort à vous; à toutes les associations et bénévoles qui oeuvrent au quotidien pour sensibiliser, dépister, accompagner dans l'écoute et la bienveillance , nous vous souhaitons une belle et heureuse année 2026.

31/12/2025

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🇺🇸 “My brother, Jason Sumner, (May 20, 1969 - December 29, 1999) died of AIDS just before the millennium. He was 30 years old.

I’m not sure Jason told anyone he might be sick. A sinus infection in mid-December escalated and he ended up in the hospital. In typical fashion, he was acting like it was a case of the flu. He told us he had HIV over the phone, in the hospital, but said it was nothing to worry about. It felt scary at the time, but manageable. It was the last conversation we would have.

Jason got progressively worse and then became unconscious. My mom and I got on a plane to California on Christmas Eve, holding hands as we agreed this was not going to be a rescue mission. Things felt very bad. I was three months pregnant with my first child.

My brother’s partner of seven years, Victor, picked us up and we stopped for a visit in Jason’s hospital room. They told us his brain was swelling and that he had cryptococcal meningitis. We talked to Jason and held his hands. Our mother did all the mom thing she could.

We spent the next several days going back and forth with Jason’s diagnosis as they worked to assess his level of brain activity. Victor was distraught and it was excruciating on my Mother. I coped by being stoic but throwing up in a stairwell.

It occurred to me later that, not being married, Victor had no legal rights there and while we thoroughly included him in our conversations and decisions, legally we could have made him leave. How terrible for him. I have heard of many who faced losing their partner or friends from the parking lot, unable to get access from the families. Not so in this case.

The ICU lobby was filled with friends of Jason and Victor’s. They were all very kind to us. One pulled me aside and said I needed to know Jason would not recover, he had seen this before with a friend who had “late stage AIDS.”

This was the first time I had heard this idea that not only was Jason’s HIV diagnosis not new but that he likely had end stage AIDS. My heart already knew he wouldn’t recover but I was grateful for the friend to help me know where we were in the process.

The doctors seemed afraid to tell us anything, even skirting past our horde in the waiting room, waiting for determinations or guidance. We made friends with other families, learned their sad stories.

When we knew it was over and we would have to let Jason go, my husband brought my Dad to California to join us. My Dad spent some time alone with Jason, his own ritual to say goodbye. Our sister held down the fort at home with her young family, too much loss in her life already.

We were all exhausted. We gathered around and watched the machines turn off, watched Jason cease be with us on earth. My heart pounded in my ears. I charged from the room, down the stairwell I vomited in days earlier and broke out of the stairwell into the white, hot, California sun I hadn’t seen in days. I was gasping and sobbing while I sat on a bench. Jason was gone.

We stayed around a few days after Jason died, making arrangements. Every morning my mother awoke, crying like a wounded animal, a sound I will never forget. Her baby had died. My baby was inside me. We went home before the New Year, worried about what 2000 would bring, devastated by what 1999 had left us with.

In our town in Wyoming, we struggled to find a minister willing to help with Jason’s service. People were afraid I was contagious. I swam daily so I could put my head under the water and not hear the sound of losing my brother in my ears. I woke up most mornings to the realization that it was still true.

Jason had a laugh a lot like a donkey and I hear it in the world here and there. I miss him so.

Jason had never gotten tested but likely knew in his heart he was HIV positive. His own shame didn’t let him acknowledge what was real and get the treatment he deserved. His partner said they didn’t discuss such things. FOR EIGHT YEARS. This is what shame does.

There’s more, there’s always more. I have a memory full of Jason and his antics. His crazy laugh. So do many others. His death wasn't his life but this is where we are. A light gone too soon, and just when things were getting good.” 📖 by Stacie McDonald

📸 Jason, center, with Victor and I

29/12/2025

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🇲🇽 “My friendship with Eduardo Covarrubias (1991 - 2020) was very short, but it was a true and sincere friendship from the first moment we met. I will always treasure the times we shared together and a great connection with similar tastes, in music above all.

I met Eduardo in Guadalajara, Mexico, at a pre-party at his apartment, another mutual friend and Eduardo’s roommate introduced us. From the first moment, he always read my mind and was very intuitive with me. That same night we were at a party in a rather boring Retro Club, and he noticed my discomfort, and immediately told me: “Let’s escape to another, much more fun party!” Eduardo took me to a very fun Gay Bar-Bears, and I spent one of the best and funniest nights of my life with him.

I live in Mexico City, Eduardo lived in the city of Guadalajara, and that was the reason why our friendship was short, due to distance and time. When he visited Mexico City, he was excited to one day live here. Bars, concerts, music festivals, and a personality very similar to mine, that was our connection, always.

Eduardo was a talented graphic designer, and dedicated photographer. He had a very acidic personality, was very funny and sarcastic, he was handsome, sexy, attractive and intelligent.

In 2020, during quarantine we talked on the phone to catch up and cope with the time of confinement. That was the last time I heard Eduardo’s voice and his laughs, and his heavy and acidic way of expressing himself which I loved.

Eduardo was an open person with me, but after his death, I found out that he was also a reserved and very sensitive person, afraid of the prejudices of a preserved and Catholic city, such as Guadalajara. He began to present symptoms of stomach discomfort, diarrhoea, bruises on his body, and sudden weight loss for more than a year, before quarantine.

I don’t know how great Eduardo’s fear of taking a HIV test was and then finding a positive result, I imagine that his fear was very great, since he never took the test in time and developed AIDS-related pneumonia.

Eduardo was hospitalized still conscious, with problems breathing, and he was completely honest with his boyfriend about his fears and his health. He collapsed and was intubated for a week in an induced coma, hoping for a recovery, but he did not make it.

Eduardo died one December morning, at the age of 29.

Eduardo died when he was very young, his birthday was in February, and he did not reach 30. Every time I visit the city of Guadalajara, melancholy thoughts and memories of him invade me without being able to avoid it. We had a lot to share, a lot to live, and a lot more music to listen to together.

I am sure that one day we will see each other again.” 📖 by Alexander Durán

28/12/2025

Oui, on continue de faire passer le message 🙂

25/12/2025

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🇺🇸 “My dad died from AIDS on Christmas Eve when I was 15. I was a daddy’s girl and still struggle with losing him. He was so loved and I wish my kids would have gotten to know him.” 📖 by Heather Swilley