Dawn's Gift - AIDS Education

Dawn's Last Lesson (by Dawn's father, Larry Schwitters)

I fancy myself to be a more than adequate teacher, having spent 29 years in the trenches of public education. I know it demands dedication, commitment, and the right stuff. When my yearly assignment included Health (read sex) Education, I challenged myself to do the job right. So for the AIDS awareness unit, I promised my six classes that I would present to them as a guest speaker a real person who had AIDS. When I introduced this beautiful, charming lady to the seventh graders as my daughter, we certainly grabbed their attention.

This was only the second time she had told the world her story. Her father stood tall beside her, as six times she told this story of how she contracted the deadly virus, how it had affected her life, how she was coping with it, and yes, that it could happen to them. Dawn was poised, relaxed, and very much in control. She was a great teacher, and I was very proud.

Thus became a new career for Ms. Dawn Beckhols: AIDS Awareness Educator. She was a rarity in 1991, a young, attractive woman with full-blown AIDS. Her presentation was spell-binding; this poised, elegant woman giving the facts of the epidemic mixed with the personal touch. The most powerful moment was when she would show her audience the tube leading into her heart which carried the medication which kept her from going blind. For six years she brought the word to anyone who would listen, from classes like mine to the New York Jets. "The risk is real, don't let what has happened to me happen to you."

But the best teaching that Dawn did was by example. No one could come in contact with her without wondering, "How can this young lady be so happy, so upbeat, and so in control with all that she is having to deal with?" Dawn became well-known in the AIDS community. She gave proof positive that you don't have to feel sorry for yourself. AIDS is not about dying, it's about living. Inspirational and courageous were words often attached to Dawn.

1997: six years of battling the disease have challenged Dawn. Legally blind and bound to a wheel chair, her teaching goes on. She still looks gorgeous. She's still cheerful, she's still happy. Countless blood drawings, injections in the eyes, side effects from every FDA-approved anti-viral medication and single digit T-4 cell counts take their toll, but her message is the same. You don't feel sorry for yourself. You carry yourself with dignity and grace. No matter how bad things are, you never give up and you make the best of it. By her example, Dawn taught others how to live with adversity.

This brings us to Dawn's final lesson. I've got this very negative thing about Death. Yes, I know it's natural and I suppose it's even more or less fair. But to me it seems so inevitable, so final, so scary.

This was Dawn's fourteenth stay in Virginia Mason Hospital. Thirteen times she'd walked away, but the prognosis was not good this time. Not enough lungs left; only ten percent kidney function. Dawn knew all this, but you would never know it from her manner. Still happy, still pleasant--you make the best of it.

Saturday is her 33rd birthday. Dawn's very weak, she can't even sample her cake, but there are no complaints, and she doesn't want me to know how serious her condition is, doesn't want me to worry. Well, I'm not that stupid. I am worried about her, but that night I am not with her in the hospital. I'm afraid to be with her at the end; afraid that the image of her final tortured moments will haunt me forever. Her mother is by her side the long night, but I have escaped. Sunday night: I will stay with her until almost midnight. Two of her loyal friends want the night watch. That gets me off the hook again. Good, I don't want her to be alone. For the last four hours, Dawn's breath has been deep and steady. She doesn't move. She is in no pain. She still looks pretty. But there will be no happy ending. For her to struggle further is pointless.