“I need to drop by school to finish a microeconomics assignment,” I whisper, stuffing the documents that need to be photocopied into a folder and tucking it into my backpack, along with my HIV test result that has Bus Stop Guy’s number scribbled on it and a book that I hope will help distract me in the waiting room.
“Okay,” she says, lost in her own calculations. I realize she’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“Mom, did you get any sleep?”
“Sleep is for the weak.” She grabs her coffee mug and extends it toward me as if she’s toasting, then brings it to her mouth and takes a long gulp. “These plans had to be done two days ago.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
She smiles and looks at me, noticing my expression. “Is everything okay, Ian?”
I try to disguise my dismay. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You look awful. Did you spend the whole night bingeing Netflix again?”
The good news is that she gave me a pretty solid excuse herself.
“Yeah. There were just six episodes left in the season.”
“Just six episodes? Honestly, I would love to know where you find the patience.” She turns her attention back to the blueprints spread on the table. “I hope you get some sleep tonight for a change. Sleep is important, you know.”
“Sleep is for the weak,” I answer with a smile, opening the front door and walking to the elevator.
I wonder if it would be a good idea to tell my mom about my diagnosis. I mean, we have a healthy relationship, even if we’re not exactly confidants. She’s much easier to talk to than my dad, for instance, who hasn’t really accepted the fact that I’m gay and prefers to believe it’s just a matter of time until I get a girlfriend and that one of these days I’ll show up on the doorstep with the mother of his grandchildren.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I spent way too much time crying into my pillow, careful not to make any noise and wake Vanessa—which would have been hard, since she sleeps so heavily that not even her alarm clock on the loudest setting can wake her up in the morning.
When I finally stopped crying, I lay in bed wide-awake, letting the bad thoughts overcome me. What will the HIV take away from me? Will I be capable of being the same person I’ve always been, of taking risks, of falling in love, having a family, traveling, skydiving, studying abroad, drinking—of being happy? Or will my entire life be defined by this virus? Will this gray cloud that seems to overshadow everything last forever? Will I ever again be able to think that things can turn out all right and that life is worth living?
At the same time, I thought about Gabriel, my best friend. I still haven’t told him about my diagnosis. In fact, I haven’t told anybody about it except that guy at the bus stop. It’s not as if I have a lot of friends at school with whom I could have a conversation like this. People say I’m a little averse to friendship, and that might be true. I haven’t even replied to Gabriel’s last message—a simple “What’s up?”—as if, bizarrely, he already knew that things weren’t going well and that I needed someone to talk to.
I don’t know if I want to go through the process of calling him, telling him the truth, and enduring the silence from the other side, even if, somehow, I know that he’ll support me. I don’t want him to look at me differently, or to judge me, or to say anything that could hurt me even more, because I simply can’t handle that right now. But if I’m wrong, and he doesn’t support me, what can I expect from others?
When the sun came in through my bedroom curtains, the only conclusion I could come to was that I needed to get up and set things in order.
+
The nurse’s office is cold from the powerful air conditioner, and it doesn’t look anything like the shabby and claustrophobic office of the therapist who saw me two days ago. This place is airy and sterile, with a cabinet full of medicine locked behind glass, a bed covered in a hospital sheet, a scale, and a small table where a nurse is sitting.
Somehow, she makes me feel calmer. Maybe it’s her perfect smile or her neat hairdo, with not one single strand out of place. It may be the fact that she’s not even thirty, or it might be her immaculately white scrubs. Perhaps it’s her posture, both professional and welcoming, or even the simple fact that she does not seem inclined to treat me like I’m terminally ill.
“Did you bring copies of your documents?” she asks, and I hand them to her. Her skin is black, and her eyes are round and brown, watching as if trying to decipher me before I say a word.
The nurse unfolds the papers, checks to make sure everything is in order, and retrieves a piece of lined paper from a folder. She glues a passport photo in a square that’s meant to serve that specific purpose and jots down some basic information from my ID, and in the meantime, I remain silent. Her handwriting is curvy and careful, very different from the chicken scratch that doctors scrawl on their prescription pads.
When she’s done filling everything out, she looks up at me and smiles.
I smile back mechanically.
“So, Iago … before we start, I want you to know that this facility offers everything you need to ensure you receive proper treatment.”
“Ian,” I say under my breath.
“Sorry?”
“You called me Iago. My name is Ian.”
“Oh, of course!” Her smile widens pleasantly, and she seems a little embarrassed by her mistake. “I’m sorry about that. But you look like an Iago, you know? Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Actually, no.”
“Well, okay, Ian.” She offers her hand, and I shake it. “My name is Fernanda. How are you?”
“I’m okay …”
“Hard for someone to feel okay after receiving the kind of news you got. How are you really?”
“Scared,” I answer, trying to sum up all my feelings in one word. Maybe this is the only word that comes close to the real feeling.
“And that’s understandable. Here’s what I can tell you: From now on, you’ll need to take a few extra precautions and have some different routines from what you’re used to. But it’s no mystery. Brazil has one of the most effective HIV treatment programs in the world.”
I look at the medicine cabinet and notice a bunch of different containers with strange names.
“Are all of these part of the treatment?”
“Yes, but you won’t have to take all of them,” she answers. “Treatment for HIV has evolved a lot over the years, and all these medicines you see here are different options. What you need to understand, Iago, is that every body is different, and the virus manifests differently in each one; that’s why we have so many options. But most patients we treat use that one over there.” She points to a container that looks like a vitamin bottle. “We call it the three-in-one, which means it has three antiretroviral drugs in one single pill.”
I ignore the fact that she just got my name wrong again.
“One pill?” I ask. Whenever I’ve heard the expression cocktail therapy for HIV, I thought it would be at least a dozen pills at once.
“One pill, once a day, and that’s the end of it. That’s the basic, most common treatment, unless you experience any unexpected side effects. But that’s a conversation you’ll have with the doctor at Infectious Diseases when you get to meet her. The treatment is simple and very effective, and even though we’re still not very close to a proper cure, strictly speaking, it is still possible to lead a relatively normal daily life. If you follow the treatment, your life expectancy will be identical to that of someone who is HIV-negative. And I’ll also point out, Iago, that people living with HIV who take their medication consistently cannot transmit the virus to others.”