THE FIRST STEP IS ADMITTING to yourself that, no matter the outcome, life goes on.
The clinic is packed with people walking in every direction: To the left, a child is running in circles while an exhausted mother tries to calm her down. To the side, a man in his seventies rocks back and forth on a cane, refusing every courteous offer of a seat. A little farther down, the door to one of the exam rooms is ajar and a doctor is scanning a medical chart for information while a woman sitting across from her waits anxiously. To my right, a tall guy with a blue streak in his hair is staring at his phone, his foot tapping as nervously as mine, and I can tell that even though he’s looking at the device, he’s not paying the slightest bit of attention to it.
And in the middle of all this hubbub, of doctors and nurses walking this way and that, of people dissatisfied with the long wait time for appointments and a dusty fan that makes more noise than ventilation, I wait.
“Ian Gonçalves?”
A woman with shoulder-length blond hair and the coldest blue eyes I’ve ever seen looks at me; a folded piece of paper rests in her hand as she closes the door to the lab behind her. She has wrinkles that she’s probably tried to cover up with Botox injections and the full lips of someone who’s tried rejuvenating fillers, and there’s a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant hanging from her neck.
I press my finger against a cotton ball that absorbs a drop of blood (I had to come back in for a second rapid HIV test because they told me my blood clotted the first time and they needed another sample) and ask myself if those cold blue eyes bring good news or bad.
I nod, and she signals for me to stand up.
“This way, please.” She turns her back to me and walks to a door at the end of the hallway. She doesn’t even look to check if I’m following her. Maybe she’s just used to the veiled nervousness that comes with getting tested for HIV.
The blue-haired guy next to me waves and parts his lips into a supportive smile, as if wishing me luck. His finger is also pressed against a cotton ball as he waits for his own results.
I go down the hallway, and it morphs into a blur; I’m dizzy with anxiety, sweaty from the heat, and exhausted from all the waiting. It’s been only thirty minutes but feels like an eternity.
The therapist’s office, just like the rest of the clinic, isn’t in the best shape: There’s a bucket behind her desk, where drops from a leak fall sporadically and monotonously. The desk is made of wood, and the sawdust on the ground points to a termite infestation. The fan spins lazily overhead, spreading dust and making the October heat even more unbearable in this tiny room with nothing but a jammed window to let some air in.
“Please have a seat.”
My impression of this woman is that it’s impossible to like her right away. She has a sour taste about her, as if it’s her job to give bad news on a daily basis and she isn’t exactly comfortable with it.
“Why did you decide to get tested, Ian?”
Good question. I could tell her the truth about my sex life, about the two times I threw caution to the wind and didn’t use a condom because I thought it would be a one-time thing; or I could lie and say that I got a tattoo from a hippie, and the needle he used was rustier than a piece of iron cast out to sea. Whatever my answer, the last thing I want is to face her judgment.
“I found out you provide rapid HIV testing here. I’m eighteen, and I’ve never gotten tested before, so I decided I should,” I say, half-lying, half-truthful, looking into those ice-cold eyes that won’t stop analyzing me.
The truth is, I have no idea why the hell I chose to come here. The only reason I’m not 100 percent regretting being here and having to look this woman in the face is that my health is more important than anything else. Do I need a reason to know my status? Every ad I see about this topic says it’s important to know your status regardless of your lifestyle or what you do in your free time. And the first thing the therapist asks me is Why did you decide to get tested?
Honestly, if the idea here is not to play the blame game, then her technique needs a lot of work.
“Hmm …” she mumbles, looking at the folded paper in front of her. She hands me my ID, and I put it back in my wallet.
Silence fills every corner of the room for a couple of seconds, but in my mind it feels like a whole week has gone by.
“I’m afraid I don’t have good news.” She unfolds the paper, and that’s indication enough that, yeah, my life is about to change forever.
The paper is marked up in blue ink, and there’s an X between two parentheses next to three uppercase letters:
“The good news is that the results came back negative for syphilis and hepatitis C.” She tries to smile, and I do the same in the face of what she’s calling good news. “The bad …” She doesn’t finish the sentence but points to the other markings on the paper, showing that the results for the two different blood samples (so that’s why they asked for another sample!) are both positive.
I remain silent, and she hands me the paper.
What does she expect me to do? Frame it?
“Do you know who might have infected you?”
Infected. As if I were an addict’s fucking syringe.
“No” is my answer.
Because it’s the truth, but it’s also a lie. I know who it could have been, but there’s only a 50 percent chance that I’m right. And it’s not like I’m still in touch with either of those guys, or like I can remember their names or know how to find them.
But, hey, this isn’t supposed to be about blame, right?
“Really?” she insists. “It’s important that you have a conversation with whomever might—”
“No,” I repeat firmly.
“All right. Are you in a relationship?”
“No.”
“Have you had sexual intercourse without a condom in the last few months?”
“No.”
“Not even oral sex?”
I remain silent, staring at the floor, tired of this interrogation.
“Ian, it’s important that you speak with your past partners so that they can get tested, too.” Her voice is almost kind now, as if she’s suddenly realized that she’s dealing with a human being and not a goddamn wall. “The sooner you tell them, the sooner they can make arrangements to get tested. Understand?”
“Mhm.”
More silence.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask.
We. I try using the plural pronoun so I can feel a little more supported, but in this moment I know I am all alone.
“You will be directed to the infectious diseases department, where you’ll do another round of exams to confirm the rapid test. After that, it’s typical to start treatment right away.” She opens a drawer gnawed by termites and hands me a photocopy. “Bring a copy of these documents to the reception desk so we can put all the bureaucracy behind us.”
The woman sighs, tired, showing a sign of humanity for only the second time this afternoon.
My ears are buzzing; I feel numb and certain that if I take a deeper breath, I’ll start crying. So I focus and stare at the leak in the ceiling.
“Look,” she continues. “People don’t have to die from this anymore. If you follow proper treatment, your life can be as normal as anyone else’s. But I’ll let the infectious diseases specialist discuss all that with you.”