My Turn by Jon Elmore
I cried yesterday. Not from sadness, despair or hopelessness. It was from total joy.
I have 237 T cells…and an undetectable viral load.
A year ago, after ten days in the local mega-monolith medical center, I had severe streptococcal pneumonia and T cells of twelve with a viral load of 7.5 million!!
What did I do to show such improvement?
I wrecked my car.
Why would that have anything to do with such a drastic and beneficial change in the numbers? It took from October of last year until July of this year to work my way up from twelve to 150 T cells. Why the drastic jump? I wrecked my car and I haven’t bought another one. I’ve had to walk from home to the bus stop and the bus stop to work. I walk to the grocery store, the laundromat, the Chinese restaurant on the corner.
Oddly, I was self-talking the other day, trying to convince myself that I was no longer getting any benefit from the meds.
’Tis funny how we can lie to ourselves that way.
Moving from near-death to a confirmation to live has been an experience in itself. No matter how bad I’ve felt, no matter how much I thought I couldn’t go on, I still ingested the meds…still went to work every day…still talked to friends… still “acted ‘as-if’” as I was told when I first began attending Twelve-Step meetings some years ago. I acted as if I was going to live.
My best friend, Bryan, a very giving/caring/upbeat positive person, still goes about his business—volunteering at his church three days a week; composing and editing the church’s newsletter; taking himself and others to doctors, etc.—is the Energizer Bunny of our group. He doesn’t stop. He has definitely slowed in the last year-and-a-half. But he hasn’t stopped. We were talking on the phone a few days ago and I asked him, “So, how many T cells do you have?”
“Something less than twelve.”
“How much ‘less than twelve.’”
“Three.”
Bryan and me are often each other’s reality check. I didn’t fail in my response:
“Well…,” I said, “at least they have someone to talk to! What’s your viral load?”
“Over five hundred thousand.”
“Ouch,” I said.
Yesterday, Bryan was at the doctor’s office for his twice-weekly infusion and me for my maintenance appointment. He gave me a ride to work afterward. On the way, he asked me:
“What are your numbers?”
I’d been dreading this. I was fighting with the raunchy urge to do cartwheels. “I don’t want to tell you,” I said, definitively.
“Come on! Tell me.” He sounded angry.
“Two thirty-seven.”
“That’s great!” I didn’t tell him that I’m also undetectable. At least, not then.
I showed Bryan around my office and introduced him to my coworkers. A couple of people I wanted him to meet were on vacation. He left. I went to my office, closed the door…and cried again. Survivor guilt is a killer.
My saving grace is that most of my coworkers know that I’m HIV-positive and also know what I went through last year, just this side of dead, and what I’ve been through since to get as far away from it since. I was able to share my good news with them and recapture some of the elation I’d felt upon learning I was toting around 237 T cells. I called my supervisor and another coworker—the two people on vacation—and left them voicemails that went, “No…this is not a ‘crisis call’ from work. I have some very, very good news for you!” One of them said she was “honored” that I would include her.
I said, “Victoria…I’m glad you feel that way, but I called you because you get it. Even my own sisters don’t quite understand what this really means.” That’s what is important: Sharing stuff with those who Get It. I’ve discovered when I have to explain the import of 237 T cells—or any number, for that matter—there’s a letdown for me in the explanation of it all. Broadcasting good news is best done with those who know how important that news is to the sharer.
The walking doesn’t hurt, either.
Go figure.
Jon Elmore, a writer in Orlando, Florida, is currently working on the first “non-self-destructive” book, Hi! My Name Is Jake...and I’m a LOSER!
November 2005
