ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, December 1, 1996 TAG: 9612020055
SECTION: NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL PAGE: A-10 EDITION: METRO
DATELINE: SAN FRANCISCO
SOURCE: DAVID FOSTER ASSOCIATED PRESS
THE PROBLEM FOR SOME who expected to die is how to recover financially. But for many, the joy of being alive far outweighs any worry about how to make ends meet.
There was no doubt but that he'd die an early, ugly death. Chuck Johnson had come to accept that. He had AIDS, so he was going to die. It was that simple.
As a gay man living in San Francisco, Johnson had seen the disease kill hundreds of friends and acquaintances. A year ago, he watched it start to kill him.
An AIDS-related infection, his fifth in 18 months, sucked 30 pounds from Johnson's body-builder physique. He was so nauseated he couldn't eat, and a catheter in his arm provided his only nourishment. At age 37, he walked like an old man. He gave himself a year, at most, to live.
Then an amazing thing happened. Chuck Johnson got better.
Last Dec. 28 - a date he remembers as if it were his birthday, for in a way it was - Johnson started taking Crixivan, one of a class of potent new AIDS-fighting drugs known as protease inhibitors.
By February, the AIDS virus had dropped to an undetectable level in his bloodstream. Today, there's still no trace of the virus, and Johnson's weight and health have returned. His once-pallid cheeks are rosy again, and gym-buffed biceps and pecs bulge once more beneath his T-shirt.
One recent morning, Johnson sat outside his apartment, trying to describe the ecstasy of a sunny day. ``Just sitting on this deck and looking at the bay - it's wonderful!'' he said. ``It's incredible!''
Even more incredible: Researchers say Johnson's turnaround is the rule, not the exception. For many, protease inhibitors appear to have transformed AIDS from a death sentence to a chronic, manageable disease.
The news has had a profound impact in San Francisco, ground zero of the AIDS epidemic. In a city where nearly half of all gay men are infected by the AIDS virus, 15 years of death and desperation have given way to hope and giddy relief.
``Before, if you were HIV-positive, the assumption was that you were going to die. It was just a matter of time,'' Johnson said. ``Now, the assumption has changed from death to life.''
A thousand cautions are in order. Protease inhibitors keep AIDS in check, but they don't cure it. While the drugs control HIV in the bloodstream, the AIDS virus can linger in the brain and other tissue, and many wonder if the seemingly miraculous effects will wear off over time.
Also, protease inhibitors are of little help to some people at high risk of AIDS, such as drug addicts who can't follow the strict pill-popping regimen required. And the expensive new drugs, covered in the United States by Medicaid and private health insurance, are beyond the reach of most of the world's 22 million HIV-positive people.
Even among those taking the new drugs faithfully, about 10 percent don't respond.
But more and better drugs are in the pipeline, and in San Francisco's gay circles, parties are starting to outnumber funerals. Like bears emerging from hibernation, people who once lay dying in dark rooms are back on the streets.
``I see people I haven't seen in years,'' Johnson said. ``I didn't know they were alive.''
``There's tremendous hope out there,'' agreed Dr. James Dilley, a psychiatrist and director of the AIDS Health Project, which runs support groups for those with HIV.
But Dilley said there also are suspicions, in a community burned before by false hopes, that the good news might not last. And even support-group participants who share Lazarus-like tales find that once the euphoria subsides, they must grapple with issues long subjugated to their illness.
``They have to learn how to reinvest in their lives,'' Dilley said.
Not to mention their bank accounts. Some with AIDS, aiming to make the most of what they assumed were their final months, cashed in life-insurance policies, drained savings and maxed out credit cards.
``They threw caution to the wind,'' Dilley said. ``Now, they're suddenly fearful they're going to run out of money.''
Johnson, still on AIDS disability, tires easily, and his days revolve around his illness. His kitchen cabinet looks like a pharmacy, crowded with bottles of the 26 pills he takes daily to battle HIV and keep opportunistic infections at bay.
``It still lives with me,'' he said. ``It's like having a stalker. If I turn the corner and look back, I get a glimpse of it, and I worry that it may still come up and hit me on the head.''
But if the wonder drugs cannot erase such images, they at least have added ones like this:
Johnson is at the gym. Rock music booms, punctuated by the clank of weights and exercise machines. Sweaty, muscled men and women stroll past. ``Hi, Chuck,'' they say. ``Great to see you.''
Johnson lies on a weight bench, veins popping on his close-shaven head, arms straining against the barbells. He's no longer afraid to push himself, no longer afraid of breaking.
After years of preparing to die, Chuck Johnson is ready to live.
LENGTH: Medium: 97 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: AP. Chuck Johnson was diagnosed HIV positive in 1988,by CNBbut has done remarkably well on Crixivan.