Positive News

At the orphanage in Ghana I worked at there were a few kids I knew to be HIV+ (they don’t test every child that enters the orphanage, they only test the kids if they get really sick and have to go to the hospital.) I played and interacted with the HIV+ kids just the same as the others. I changed their diapers, got slobbered on, spit on and was subjected to ALL forms of bodily fluids. Now that I’ve been back 3 months I decided that it would be responsible of me to get tested for HIV. Apparently you have to wait 3 months since you participated in “risky activity” before they can get an accurate test. I researched HIV testing locations and made my friend, Fannie, tag along; he was due for a test anyways. Off we went to get swabbed and find out how heavily medicated our futures may be. We arrived at the Utah AIDS foundation and went down to the basement where they do the tests. Seriously? A basement? How Hollywood is that? Were my first thoughts.

While waiting for my turn to be swabbed, they gave me a clipboard with forms to fill out. I think I should be in charge of writing the questions on those forms. People are willing to sit down and check a box telling you their deepest darkest secrets, and that needs to be taken advantage of. I’d start out with the basics like:
1. In the past year have you participated in anal sex?
2. In the past year have you shared needles?
3. In the past year have you had sexual contact with someone you know to be HIV positive?

And then move to some more exciting questions like:

4. In the past year have you dressed in leather, assless chaps and been whipped by a man who insists on you calling him daddy?
5. In the past year have you gone to Gossip (the local gay club) and danced in the cage with the guy who has a sock in his briefs.
6. In the past year have you been in a committed relationship with a wonderful man who buys you everything you want and treats you like the king that you are, only to find out that he is a nymphomaniac and cannot function without being with at least 10 partners a night?

As it comes to my turn to be swabbed I feel a little sensation in my chest. Was that nervousness? Fear? Anticipation? I dunno, but I didn’t expect to feel it that’s for sure. A charming older man gives me a stick. “Swab in between your gums and your lips.” He tells me.

“That’s it?” I reply.

“Yup, just follow Patti up the stairs into the waiting room and your results will be ready in about 20 minutes.”

I follow Patti and get to a room with couches along 3 sides of the wall and a very small T.V. in the corner. There are about 5 other people waiting to hear their fates. Nobody makes eye contact or conversation. We all just sit, tweedle our thumbs and anticipate the news we’re about to get. There are some interesting characters waiting in the room with me.

I like to imagine the back stories of people I’ve never met. I’ll do it as I’m riding the train to school, while I’m in a meeting at work, or while I’m sitting in class. These people on the couches provided me with the best back stories. The girl who asked me for a pen as she walked in was probably the most interesting. She was Hispanic and had on incredibly tight jeans, they looked like they had been painted on. She also wore furry boots and her eyes were caked with so much make-up that I had to squash the intense urge to take my finger and press it to her face just to see how deep it would go in. The make-up made her face look like it could be molded into whatever shape you desired. In my head I molded it so that her left eye was wider than her right. I imagined that she is a single mother of 3 beautiful children, and in order to support those kids she gives massages with “happy endings” behind a Thai restaurant downtown. She’s applied for respectable jobs like a receptionist, T-mobile customer service representative or a Deseret Book sales floor girl, but no one would have her. They all were a little bit disturbed by the ratted hair, acrylic nails, tight jeans, and Plaster of Paris make up. This isn’t a judgment on her character I’m sure she’s a very nice girl. That is just the image that popped into my head when I saw her.

A young blonde girl enters the doorway and calls my number; not my name, my number. I follow her to a room where she closes the door and offers me a seat. My heart leaps as I anticipate the news she’s about to give me. After a few VERY personal questions she tells me that she does not have my test results and it will be another 10 minutes. What the hell? I’m all psychologically prepared for whatever news you’re about to give me and all you want to know is if I’ve ever exchanged sex for money? Back to the waiting couch room it is. My friend, Plaster Face, is nowhere to be found. I sit and wait for another 10 minutes, flipping through the Details magazine that I found on the table. Finally, a short girl with a bob cut calls my number. She takes me back to a room and we both sit down. She looks at me very seriously and tells me “I have some positive news for you.” She tells me breaking her serious look and giggling at her own crappy joke. “Your results came back as negative; you are free to go now.” That’s it? No plaque declaring my negative status to the world? No certificate of cleanliness? No button with a large negative sign and the words “Negative, it’s a positive thing” written along the edges of the button? No t-shirt saying “HIV? Not for me!” Oh well, I guess peace of mind will have to suffice.