tic.
“Might be tomorrow,” her father
in-law says. “Might be next winter.”
* * *
• • • %
Few families have been so se
verely tested. Not many would have
survived so courageously.
“It didn’t split the family, split the
husband and wife, didn’t split the
child—stop us from loving the child.
... We didn’t withdraw and hide in the
sand,” Betty Plankinton says.
The struggle has been immense.
There have been hospital visits, doc
tors to consult, insurance companies
to convince, test results to retrieve,
medication to pick up and administer
... loved ones to bury.
Only love for her family has got
ten her through, Betty Plankinton
says.
“That’s something death cannot
destroy.”
AIDS victims need such support,
her husband insists.
“They simply don’t have enough
energy to keep tracking down their
own health care, own business,” he
says.
Sarah needed additional help. She
found it in Kim Pohlman, Pierce
elementary’s school counselor. The
relationship started with Sarah’s
child-like questions about her “HIB.”
Pohlman sought out the answers, and
the two talked — again and again,
week after week.
The relationship soon changed.
The two became friends, then like
family. They ate together at school,
went out on weekends for pizza and
movies. They went swimming to
gether in the summer.
“I was her favorite.... She was just
my little shadow,” Pohlman says.
But Ray and Betty Plankinton car
ried the biggest load.
In December of 1993, Bett>
Plankinton cut back her hours at Co
lumbus Community Hospital so she
could devote more time to her fam
ily. Eventually, she took a leave ol
absence, spending her days in Pierce
caring for Rick and Laura and Sarah.
Her husband, a math teacher at
Platte Community College, took the
weekend shift, heading north after
classes concluded on Fridays. In his
free time, Ray Plankinton cross
stitched Ron’s AIDS quilt.
The Plankinton’s daughter, Zoann,
played her part, tutoring Sarah so she
could stay up on her classes.
The family made an agreement
that Rick’s family could live in Pierce
until Sarah could no longer attend
school. But when Rick died, the
Plankinton s moved Laura to their
home in Columbus.
it ic 1c
One bright spot stands out for the
family. In the summer of 1993, Sarah
received a wish from the Make-A
Wish Foundation, a trip to Disney
World in Orlando.
Rick and Laura could go with Sa
rah, then Sarah chose Pohlman as the
fourth for the group. Ray and Betty
paid their own way.
The trip was magic for Sarah —
Disney, Epcot Center, MGM Stu
dios, parades, swimming, Sea World,
staying in a gingerbread house, wheel
chair races with dad, snacks, drinks,
fun. Sarah went at top speed and wore
the rest of the family out.
“The day didn’t start early enough
or last long enough,” Pohlman says.
The break, however, lasted only
four days and four nights.
ie ie
Mostly, the stricken family has
had wonderful support from their
communities. But not always. AIDS,
the family discovered, carries certain
connotations.
“We feel like this disease is some
thing we have to hide,” Rick told the
Columbus Telegram. “This disease
is associated with something evil.
Well, it’s not evil. We are not being
punished for something we did. We
didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
Ron was turned down for jobs
because he had AIDS. A few of Rick’s
co-workers held AIDS against him.
Students at Sarah’s school gossiped.
Kim Pohlman helped enormously.
“Whether you think you know
what’s going on or not,” she told
some students. “I don’t want you
talking about it.”
Looking back, Ray and Betty
Plankinton say few things angered
them — except the medical commu
nity.
The problem with some doctors,
the parents say, is that they feel AIDS
patients are hopeless and don’t de
serve complete medical attention.
“It’s unbelievable to see the prob
lems,” Ray Plankinton says. “The
doctors don’t want to treat them. The
doctors want to give up.”
iHr ilr ie
The Plankintons find it difficult to
rationalize what happened.
“We’re a pretty ordinary family
who’ve been through a pretty
unordinary problem,” Ray says.
They find it almost impossible to
describe their sense of loss.
“There’s no real way you can de
scribe it to someone. There’s a defi
nite emptiness,” he says, turning his
thoughts to his sons’ childhood, their
successes, the good times of the fam
ily.
His wife tries to put it in perspec
tive.
“There’s a saying,” Betty says.
“When you lose your parents, you
lose the past. When you lose your
husband, you lose the present. When
you lose your children, you lose the
future.
“There’s a lot to it.”
Sarah and her “brother,” Caesar
From left: Sarah was getting thinner by age 10. Later in that school year, she was looking
stronger. A few months before she died, her face turned puffy.
