I have had exactly one sexual partner; a relationship that was over before it began. We always had barrier sex and I never thought twice about the possibility of having a sexually transmitted infection (STIs).
Recently, I started teaching reproductive health to disenfranchised and homeless youth. It has been nothing short of absolute inspiration. The stories and experiences that these teenagers have, the good, bad and ugly, are remarkable. Their experiences are a true testament to human resilience and life after trauma. It should be no surprise, although it was a definite shock to me, that girls and women knew much more about the consequences of sex, STIs and pregnancy. Even the act of putting a condom on seems to have fallen to the responsibility of women, when in fact, it should be common knowledge between the genders and the responsibility of both.
During one fateful teaching session, the question arose about HIV. Ahh, HIV, the omnipresent bane of humankind. I thought to myself, "Everyone may not know what HIV is, but they surely know how people can get it." Again, the girls knew much more than the boys, even though they were equally at risk.
After that teaching session, I concluded that I needed to get tested, to actually experience what it would feel like to not know my HIV infection status. As stated before, I've had exactly one sexual partner to date. We used condoms every time. For the typical woman, making an annual visit to their gynecologist, there would be no doubt as to their status. Pap smears and other gynecological tests, including blood draws for STIs, are routine and usually covered by insurance. Men and boys have to seek out medical intervention, many not doing so due to the financial risk and the potential for embarrassing and frightening news i.e. men and boys tend to stick their heads in the sand. I made the promise that I would not stick my head in the sand, that I would face this head on.
Thus began my personal panic attack. What if the condom had slipped or broken during our intimacy? What if she had lied about her status? Should I contact and ask her about her health? Won't that be really awkward? I have donated blood countless times, maybe they missed testing my blood?
This bullet train of thoughts occurred at 3 am. I immediately sought out a Planned Parenthood facility to get tested. I found one that did testing and scheduled an appointment for 9 am.
The next six hours were torture. If I have HIV, what will I tell my parents and family? Will my friends judge me? What will this mean for my goals? After an hour of tossing and turning in bed, I sat down in front of my computer and started reading about HIV and AIDS. The wealth of information and misinformation was tremendous. I began reading about the symptoms, all of which resemble flu like symptoms with the exception of skin lesions in the later stages of HIV infection. I've had the flu at least twice since my last sexual experience. Frantically, I began to search my body for unusual lesions. My appointment to get tested was only one hour away and a sick feeling washed over me.
I had just gotten my finger pricked and blood drawn. The test would take 20 minutes to develop and so, I sat down in the limbo that is the Planned Parenthood waiting room. The next 20 minutes were the longest of my life. At this point, I realized that mentally preparing for bad news was a bogus notion. There were a few others, mostly women (again, no surprise), also sitting and waiting. I read a few pamphlets about HIV and AIDS. The pictures on the reading material were of smiling, multi-ethnic groups of people. How the hell could they put smiling people on this brochure?! HIV is nothing to smile about!
I was covered in sweat and the hot South Florida sun had nothing to do with my perspiration. A deeper sense of dread washed over me as the clock counted down, ticking loudly, mocking me and my mortality. The nurse that drew my blood called my name. The moment of truth was upon me.
I stood up on shaky legs, suddenly feeling numb all over, my forehead awash in cold sweat. My heart was pounding, the sound being that of a large bass drum, threatening to explode out of my chest. The walk into the counseling room was a surreal experience. I felt as if I was floating, all the objects around me were devoid of color and form. I was shown my test: One line. One line? What is one line? What does that mean? I looked at the nurse, a mixed look of uncertainty and perplexity on my face. "One line means negative. Congratulations," she said. My legs almost gave out and a feeling of relief enveloped my body, embracing me like mother holds her child. I was given a release to sign and a copy of my NEGATIVE status. I was counseled to re-test in six months to ensure my status.
On the car ride home, I realized how infantile and stupid I had been. I have donated blood at least twice a year since I was 18. Screening for various blood borne communicable diseases is taken very seriously. If had been HIV positive, I would have already known. I got home, walked into my room and slumped on to my bed in exhaustion and relief. My mind meandered back to my reproductive health class, the initial cause for my near nervous breakdown. Those kids epitomized survival, having lived through abuse, broken homes, parents that were drug addicts or had abandoned them altogether. Despite all of that, they had decided to take charge of their lives and keep living, to keep fighting. Their mantra would exclaim, "I may be alone in my fight, but I won't stop fighting."
I thought back to that pamphlet, the one with the multi-ethnic groups of people smiling. I realized that they were smiling, not to mock those who were being tested or tested positive. They were smiling because they represented that resilience of the human spirit, the same resilience exhibited by the kids at the youth shelter. They were smiling because they represented the idea, "I may have HIV, but I won't quit."
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