It is 1984 and I am despatched to Chandler’s Ford to track down a family who were thought to have been affected by the newly breaking news that people with haemophilia had contracted HIV, the precursor to AIDS. Their son was regularly injected with Factor 8 - a substance made from blood plasma that makes blood clot. Most of us generate our own Factor 8.
Haemophiliacs do not. For parents told that their child has a Factor 8 deficiency it’s devastating. A son can never play football for fear of sustaining an injury that will bleed – externally if you are lucky so it can be seen, internally if you’re not so lucky.
Girls are less severely affected. Growing children have to learn to curb their natural exuberance for fear of what might happen. Imagine, then, if you’re told your child has contracted HIV as well, but no one can tell you why, at a time when all anyone knew about HIV/AIDS was that that it would probably kill your child and there was no known cure.
The family weren’t answering their phone and the thought was they might answer the door to me, a familiar six o’clock TV face. As it turned out, they did, and invited me in, but not before I witnessed at first hand why they had shut themselves away and drawn the curtains in broad daylight. As I walked down their quiet cul-de-sac someone was cutting their hedge.
“Is this where the so and so’s live?” “I hope you’ve come to get them moved on. They can’t stay here. Their kid’s got AIDS.
We’ve spoken .
