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My Turn by Kim Constantinesco
It was the kind of hill that made car engines roar like lions as they drove to the top. The hill made me suffer every time I sprinted up it, but that feeling was embraced. With my head down, I came to recognize the passing cracks in the street, and used them to tell me how close I was to the top.
The sound of my own footsteps, especially through the darkness of a crisp morning was the kind of thing that prepared me for the day to come. During the first mile, my legs were still trying to rouse from a restful night’s sleep, and the car headlights were few and far between. In the winter months, the cold seared my lungs, and with every deep breath came a stream of white frost. I loved running in the cold weather because it made me feel alive.
I walked into the AIDS Resource Center as a volunteer every Friday with my hair pulled back in a tight pony tail, and an old T-shirt on. At first, I came through the front door where I waved to the people behind the glass window, and they would buzz me in. After a while I felt like I was part of the staff, so I would just walk around the back of the building, and straight into the kitchen where I would grab a pair of latex gloves, and go to work slicing, dicing, mashing, and eventually serving.
“Would you like pork or chicken?" I asked everyone who passed through the line.
The line started at the door, where membership cards were checked, and wrapped around the salad bar across from the hot food where I stood serving those infected with the virus that causes AIDS.
This line was more than just a way to get a nutritious meal. It provided a source of social support where people shared similar experiences, and discussed new breakthroughs and treatment options as they placed tomatoes on their plates. They felt that they could give and receive advice about relationship problems. Waiting in a line is not how most people would like to spend their time. However, this is the kind of line that is welcome in the lives of the chronically ill.
“Hey David, how are you doing today?" I asked as I took his plate.
“All right, I guess. How are you, Kim?"
“I’m blessed. You look better this week," I said as I served David some mixed vegetables.
“Yeah, the doctor changed my prescription, and these meds don’t make me as sick, allowing me to eat more," David said, even though his face was still gaunt and his legs were as thin as toothpicks.
“That’s great. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Have a good weekend," I said as I prepared to load up the next plate with “all the fixin’s" that everybody requests.
Regardless of sexual orientation, I think the clients like it best when a woman serves them food. A gentleman once told me it reminded him of how his mother would take care of him when he was sick and home from school. “Nothing is better than a warm meal served by a lady with a big smile and rosy cheeks," this man told me. “The only sure thing I can count on is your warm heart, Kim."
In a sense, I used my morning runs to try to understand what I saw at the Resource Center. As I sprinted up the steep hill as fast as I could, I tried to understand the pain the clients were going through. My legs ached, and my chest felt like it was going to explode. I thought if I kept going, I was helping the clients fight their battles.
I knew my suffering would end when I made it up the hill, so I continued to push even harder to make it to the top. If I couldn’t battle pain when running up a hill, how could I understand how the clients endure their pain and fight their battles with this deadly virus?
With each labored breath, I imagined being able to release the virus from the bodies of the clients. The stream of white frost that came out of my mouth was the virus being expelled into the cold air. A solution that simple only seemed realistic under the dark morning sky at the top of the hill.
Kim Constantinesco is currently pursuing her Master’s degree in health psychology at Northern Arizona University.
June 2006
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