Life has a very interesting way of proving you wrong at times of doubt. The 16th day of December in 1988, I lost my mother in a violent car wreck to an underage drunk driver. I never thought there would be anything that could happen to me that would cause as much devastation in my life as that day. I found that to be very untrue several years later. It was the 26th day of March 1997 that I got the news of my problem.

I have been living an open bi-sexual lifestyle for the past 15 years. I always wanted to be a responsible person and guard my health. To help ensure this idea I went to the health department for a regular AIDS testing. I had been attending the University of Texas, at San Antonio, for one semester and the University offers the test at no cost to the students. It was about time for me to retest. I felt secure that I had been very careful in guarding my relationships. I went to the clinic at the school and took the test.

It was the last day of spring break when I decided to go to the school to get the results from the test. I went to the clinic for the standard conciliation. Before they give you the results of the test, a counselor must have a session with the person to whom the test was administered. I sat and talked to the doctor on call. In hindsight, I should have at least suspected something was wrong. The first thing the doctor asked me was how many times had I been tested for HIV. I replied that I had been tested about every other year. The next question she asked me was what the results of the tests had been in the past. I was kind of puzzled about the question, but I answered they were non-reactive. Then the final question was, "Have you ever consider the possibility of this test coming back positive?" I was really puzzled about her line of questioning, so I asked if there was a reason for these types of questions. The doctor was a little apprehensive about answering, but then she gave me the news. "Ms. Flores, the test has come back highly reactive" were the next words that came out of her mouth. I was floored. The doctor tried to help me cope, but I had a hard time registering the information I had just received. I was in shock to say the least.

My mind was a flurry of feelings and emotions. I was devastated. I did not know the first steps to take in attempting to handle this grave news. There were so many things going on in my mind it was hard to keep one single thought in my head. I missed the last bus to my car parking lot, so I walked the one-mile. I cried for the next week. I went through every possible emotion. I decided to go the health department to reconfirm the test with another organization separate and apart from the college. The two weeks it took to get the results back were the most stressful I had ever gone through. After two weeks the test was confirmed. I was now officially HIV positive.

I went back to the doctor at the college to get her advice as to the next steps I should take to help improve my situation. The doctor was instrumental in getting me in contact with the people I needed to help me in this detrimental situation. The next few weeks were filled with doctor's appointments, lab tests, and people whom I had to rely on to help me get through the hardest time in my life. I was not prepared for the roads that lied ahead of me. I had to attend psychological counseling to help me deal with the disease that I had contracted. I felt as though I had just been sentenced to death. To this day I still do not know where I got the infection.

My first visit to the hospital was very unnerving. I saw people who wanted to know things about my life. The information was very intimate and personal. I had to go to the lab to have a series of blood work and profiles to establish how far the disease had progressed. The people I came in contact with seemed to be insensitive to the fact that I thought my life was near its end. The ladies in the lab treated me like I was one of the cattle on their way to slaughter. My experience there was all but pleasant.

My next stop was in the actual clinic, which proved to be an awakening occurrence. I saw people who were very ill from a disease I had just been diagnosed as having. As I looked around the room, I felt more and more depressed at the idea that I would end up in this situation soon. I saw a RN who interviewed me prior to my appointment with my new doctor. He was the nicest most sympathetic person I had met up to this point. I asked him if the people in the waiting area were typical of the progression of the infection. He explained to me that the disease did not necessarily follow the progression that I had seen in the lobby. Every person's case was unique.

After the small talk he gave me, I felt somewhat better. Now I had to wait for the doctor whom would be taking over my case. I was a little nervous at first when I met my doctor, especially because she was so young. She explained some of the basics of the disease, and she did what she could to help me understand the disease to the best of her ability. She also explained some of the numbers and counts that appeared on a paper she had in front of her. By the end of the consultation I realized she was brilliant.

It is not conducive to good health for a person to go through so much anguish. It took about five or six weeks before I started the regimen of the drugs required. The waiting and uncertainty of the status of the progression of my affliction caused me a great deal of stress. The doctor prescribed two different pills. The pills did cause mild side effects that included nausea, diarrhea, headaches, and general discomfort. I have to take the pills every 12 hours with little to no deviation from the regimen. I had so many new things to remember and it was all so new it seemed at times to be overwhelming.

I could tell with every passing day that I was getting further and further into a state of depression. I had so many things to deal with that my grades started to suffer. I had thoughts about how long I would live. Maybe I would be missing out on something. I wanted to make each and every day something special. I did not know how many days I would enjoy before the disease crippled me, or left me as devastated as those people I saw in the waiting area of the hospital. I wanted to take time to smell the flowers, watch the children playing, and play with the dogs that I loved so much. I wanted to enjoy the beautiful mornings that I had taken for granted for so many years since I had been attending college. I had to justify, to myself, the reasons I should take up my valuable time with senseless education that I would never get to use. Prior to this change in my life, the idea of graduate school was so ingrained in me that I had never even considered that I would not be attending. Now, I was seeing all the work I had put into good grades slipping away from my grasp. Graduate school was getting further and further away from my reality. I still had to tell the people I loved about the infection invading my body. This idea further perpetuated the depression. I started to attend psychiatric counseling where the doctor prescribed an antidepressant called Wellbutrin. I think the Wellbutrin has been a godsend. I feel better now than I have for the past two years, when I began battling this infestation of my body.

Since I have been fighting this disease, my health has been a rollercoaster ride. The hardest part of this infection for me has not been the pills, lab visits, or the doctor appointments, but telling the people I loved. It was very hard but very crucial, that I tell the man with whom I had now made my life. I told him on the day I found out. It was useless to try to hide the severe emotional distress I was going through. He has been very supportive and has stood by me through my whole ordeal. After the violent death of my mother, I had tried to be the strong one in the family to help my younger siblings to cope. Now I was faced with the idea of telling them that I was suffering a severe, incurable disease. How does a person tell the people she loves that death may be closer to taking someone else in their family? This type of disease is plagued with all types of misconceptions and stigmatism. My family took the news extremely well. They were crushed, but they were supportive and loving. There were a lot of tears and hugs, and they accepted me with open, loving arms.

It has been only in the past few weeks, since October 14, 1998, that I finally see all my test levels at great encouraging improvements. I am encouraged for the first time in a long time that my life is not a short time span, but a long, hopefully full, life with a disease that is not a death sentence.

Anonymous