Dr.

Richard Gehardstein

I had never heard that Orwell quote before. If someone had

relayed that one to me at the time, I might have reconsidered

what I did. I might have retired when my wife wanted me to.

I do not regret it. I woefully regret what some others did.

I have had few regrets.

Too few to mention

I had been spending much of my time in the office and far too

much time at home preparing to give an address at the

International AIDS Conference.

Of course, anyone speaking at a major international

conference like that would suffer some anxiety. I have spoken at

several so I wasn’t worried about a flop sweat.

I came to Chicago to open this AIDS research center. It was

an offer that was agreeable to me. It worked financially; it put

me in a position where I could build the whole works in the

image I saw. Nothing at Harvard worked exactly that way.

Only thing was, I needed to prove that I was the great white

hope. I needed to do that quickly. Using my name, University of

Chicago has funded the opening of an AIDS research facility with

my name. It is not named after me. It is just my name that is

supposed to give it some prestige.

These conferences, like this Barcelona affair I will address

on July the tenth, are biennial events.

I have to admit, with all of the study I have done, I don’t

know how you can establish something in this research community

during the time in between. I doubt my good name will carry

budgets till a Bangkok colloquium in two years. I have to make a

big bang.

I spoke at the conference two years before about some

possible AIDS drug cocktail improvements. That conference was

in Durban, South Africa. It was called a shining moment for me.

People wrote that I presented some of the best treatment

research to date. This was positioning me to be a part of

whatever the next big thing would be.

So I was in Durbin, where the disease is a far more glaring

part of existence. I was talking about the development of

treatments that no one in South Africa could afford.

Now there has been some fruit from the protocols I

introduced there. For those in the world who can afford it, a

little bit easier time dieing of the disease. There is little

comforting done where the most people get sick.

I could and would say at the time that the research was

largely futile due to market conditions. There was little money

for University research. Private drug research was a lot better

funded for conditions that afflict the more affluent.

Those for-profit interests in the AIDS industry hold a gun

to the head of the dieing Africans. I would imagine there would

be some introspection would stop this long before they uttered

“gimme your dough” to an emaciated waif and the flies buzzing

around them.

I can still rant about this, as it’s not over.

There is one piece of that I must explain first. By ‘more

affluent’ I was referring to those more affluent than co-humans

in Sub-Saharan Africa. You might consider American Homeless in

that category.

I was thrilled when Miles gave me this piece of Tribe to

read. A bit nervous and duty bound when he asked me to annotate

the section as he had not met Peter by that time.

Tribe is diatribe in case you hadn’t gathered. I saw just

the salutation to his imaginary friend that night.

“Dear Diatribe”

I liked it.

He occasionally in passing referred to his poor short-term

memory as a reason for constant note taking. Socially he pulled

of an acceptance from most that he was always writing, and

looking like he might be ignoring you.

This tablet is a laptop that comes apart. You can use just

the screen with a stylist, or type with the keyboard. Being a

trained pianist, no matter what he did with that skill now, he

preferred the keyboard.

He often looked like he might be a reporter. This instilled

enough fear in many to ignore what might be seen as a breach in

etiquette. The stylus is mightier than the …

Sword?

We had it on in the Get Me High jazz club that night without

umbrage. I became fascinated with the open source

pharmaceuticals concept.

It started a few months previous when Geeta told me her

husband “had this idea” that was somewhat interesting. “Having

an idea” is something you might discuss over a drink. He was not

a name thinker; he wasn’t in any sort of position of influence.

He had recently been left without any sort of position.

At all

My mentor asked me to get a piece of this theory from

Geeta’s husband and give it a cursory vetting.

She expanded the idea by giving me the five-page synopsis he

discusses. It was well written. It seemed to cover the major

points of what would need be cover had someone wanted to pursue

the venture. I spent hours thinking through it. It was very

abridged, but I could see that he had a sentence to cover each

point I could think of.

This guy who dashed off this ‘treatise’ as I called it, was

someone I wanted to meet. I was intrigued with the fact that he

wrote down his ideas. People have ideas outside of their area of

expertise all the time. Peter had sensed that this was a good

one. I agreed with him. He should get his due. He is clearly

shocked hear that someone like myself would find it so

affecting.

I never have had the chance to recount this meeting in such

detail. It does lend credence to the memory-jogging aspect of

journaling. When I tried to recall myself, my memories weren’t

nearly as detailed; mine were wrong in several places.

To answer his question; it was not a job interview that

night. It didn’t become one for a couple of days. I was going to

see a jazz show, and listen to something from Peter that I was

interested in.

I was impressed, and stay impressed with him. His diatribes

are very accurate, although often limited by perspective. There

is but one thing I wish to challenge in this bit of tribe.

I have to leave alone the “daddy at Harvard” bit. Geeta’s father

is in Endocrinology at Mass General, instructor of Harvard Med

Students. Dr. Jain and I met at an MGH Research Committee

meeting in mid 1982. He was new there at the time. We crossed

paths regularly; we always chose seats near each other, agreed

on variety of issues, had some nice talks. A that time it wasn’t

something I would call a friendship. In this second year in

Cambridge, he was invited to a fete for medical instructors at

the Faculty Club on the square.

Helen and I brought our three kids. Phillip, the eldest, was

thirteen; Kristin was ten and Amy nine. Rajeev walked in and

scoped the unfamiliar crowd until he saw me. The energized grin

I that I had come to identify him with sprung forth as he

pointed me out to his wife and rushed her over. We met Rani and
exchanged introductions. Through the crowd I hadn’t seen that

they had ten-year-old Geeta in tow. When her mother turned to

introduce her, she was already laughing with Kristin and Amy.

To correct Peter, Kristin introduced me to Geeta later that

afternoon at a table in front of the club.

Geeta was a close friend of all three of my children until each

of them were grown and moved on. She is still in touch with

Kristin in Columbus Ohio and has visited Amy, the future fashion

icon, on trips to New York.

She was a regular fixture in my home. Always bright, always

inquisitive, the key to Geeta’s intelligence must have been

asking the right questions. I believe my daughters gained from

their friendship with her.

Before coming to Chicago, I ran into her father. He informed, or

reminded me (I didn’t remember, but I am sure I knew) that Geeta

was living there and pursuing an MBA at the University.

I was absolutely thrilled. Peter’s claim that her father got her

the job is way off the mark to me. I would have been crushed if

I found that she had another job and didn’t want to work with

me. I asked her father for her phone number at lunch. When he

hadn’t called my house by the late hour of 6:30pm, I called

Kristin to get this started.

Kristin hadn’t spoken with Geeta in about six months. Knowing

far more than I did about her school-work-insurance-money

situation than I did, she said it was likely she would be

interested in working for me.

My recruitment zeal was burnished by Helen. I came home to

inform “Did you know Geeta lives in Chicago?”

She nodded knowingly.

Geeta and Helen had a special relationship, of which, I know the

outlines, not the intricacies of feminine discourse.

Our house mourned and attempted active support roles when

Geeta’s Mother passed away. She was sixteen years old.

Rajeev and I could speak to each other in terms like Invasive

Ductal Carcinoma, and did. I could get as far as putting an arm

around him during the worst of things. I probably comforted him

most by erecting the ivy-covered wall of academic disassociation

and standing behind it with him.

Geeta spent nearly every moment outside Mass General with the

girls. Helen was easily one of the girls. No surprise, she is

six years younger than I am, but I don’t think age is the
driving factor.

She offered the needed support for Geeta which binds them to

this day.