Tyler was born infected with HIV: his mother was also infected. From the very
beginning of his life, he was dependent on medications to enable him to survive.
When he was five, he had a tube surgically inserted in a vein in his chest. This
tube was connected to a pump, which he carried in a small backpack on his back.
Medications were hooked up to this pump and were continuously supplied through
this tube to his bloodstream. At times, he also needed supplemented oxygen to
support his breathing.
Tyler wasn’t willing to give up one single moment of his childhood to this
deadly disease. It was not unusual to find him playing and racing around his
backyard, wearing his medicine-laden backpack and dragging his tank of oxygen
behind him in his little wagon. All of us who knew Tyler marveled at his pure
joy in being alive and the energy it gave him. Tyler’s mom often teased him by
telling him that he moved so fast she needed to dress him in red. That way, when
she peered through the window to check on him playing in the yard, she could
quickly spot him.
This dreaded disease eventually wore down even the likes of a little dynamo
like Tyler. He grew quite ill and, unfortunately, so did his HIV-infected
mother. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to survive, Tyler’s mom
talked to him about death. She comforted him by telling Tyler that she was dying
too, and that she would be with him soon in heaven.
A few days before his death, Tyler beckoned me over to his hospital bed and
whispered, “I might die soon. I’m not scared. When I die, please dress me in
red. Mom promised she’s coming to heaven, too. I’ll be playing when she gets
there, and I want to make sure she can find me.”