“That’s what we must determine,” Dr. Stevenson said kindly. “We need to figure this out, Anne, for everybody’s sake.”
“I don’t know how,” she cried. She felt her father’s arm go around her protectively.
“You’re not an intravenous drug user. Sharing contaminated needles is a major cause of transmission,” Dr. Stevenson said. Anne shook her head emphatically. She never used drugs! “That’s why I asked about your boyfriends,” he said. “The virus is also sexually transmitted.” Anne had a few friends who were having sexual relationships, but she certainly wasn’t.
“Anne doesn’t even date,” her father said defensively.
Anne wished he’d keep quiet; he wasn’t helping. The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. “If there was anyone, Anne, even if it was only once—”
Anne interrupted him. “No one. Not ever.”
Dr. Becksworth cleared his throat. “The other most logical possibility is via a blood transfusion, but you said you haven’t had one.” He glanced back down at his chart.
“But, she has,” Anne’s father interrupted. “It was a long time ago, after the accident.”
“When?”
The horror of the past flooded over Anne. “My mother and I were in an accident when I was ten. She died.” Anne shook her head to dislodge the memories.
“Anne almost died too,” her father added, holding her against his side. “They gave her a blood transfusion in the emergency room.”
Anne scarcely remembered. She definitely recalled the long recuperation in the hospital. She and her dad, alone. Her mom, gone forever.
Dr. Becksworth nodded with understanding. “That was before eighty-five.”
“It was in December. We were going Christmas shopping,” Anne explained. The memory was extremely painful, even after almost seven years.
“It wasn’t mandatory for labs to start screening blood for HIV until January eighty-five. All I can say is that it’s very likely you received contaminated blood at that time.”
Anne could scarcely absorb what the doctor was telling her. “But that was years ago!” her father exclaimed. “Why would it show up now?”
“One of the longest dormancy cases on record is almost ten years,” Dr. Becksworth replied. “That’s highly unusual, but Anne’s young and healthy. Think back. Did she have any unusual complaints or symptoms in the first couple of weeks or even months after the transfusion?”
“My wife was dead, my daughter was in serious condition. How should I know?” her father snapped.
Anne touched his arm, stopping his explosion of temper. “Dad, I remember, I had a skin rash and my glands swelled up. The doctors thought I might be having a reaction to the antibiotic they were giving me.”
“They should have caught it,” her father stormed. “Why didn’t they diagnose the virus then?”
“The test wasn’t done routinely then,” Dr. Stevenson explained. “There’s no way that anyone would have guessed that someone in such a low-risk category as Anne might have contracted it. She was given the transfusion to save her life.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” she said suddenly, and her tears flowed freely. Blood—the very thing that once saved her life—was now turning her body against her.
“What are you going to do about it?” Her father challenged both doctors, balling his fist at his side.
“How are you going to keep my daughter from getting AIDS? How are you going to cure her?”
Dr. Stevenson took a deep breath and in a soft, troubled voice said, “I’m sorry. We’ll do everything we can possibly do, but there is no cure for AIDS.”
Three
“THERE ARE TREATMENTS—ways of delaying the onset, of stalling full-blown AIDS,” Dr. Becksworth told them. “The drug AZT, especially combined with other drugs, is our most potent weapon in AIDS treatment at this time.”
Anne wasn’t concentrating on what he was saying. She felt as if she’d stepped out of her body and was standing at the side of the bed, hearing medical information about some stranger. It wasn’t Anne they were discussing … it couldn’t be. She was only sixteen. She had her whole life ahead of her. This was some terrible mistake. She felt shocked pity for the girl on the bed.
“I want a second opinion,” Anne heard her father command.
She looked up at his face. It was the color of white chalk. “I think I need to be by myself for a white,” Anne said softly. “I need to think about what you’ve told me.”
“We can talk about it in the morning,” Dr. Becks-worth said. “The important thing is to start you on medication and begin a regimen for you before you leave the hospital.”
“What about her day-to-day life?” her father asked, still agitated. “Is she supposed to drop out of school, stop going places?”
The idea of returning to school seized Anne, frightening her. How could she go back? What would happen when everyone found out she was HIV-positive? They’d hate her, shun her. Why, the administration might not even allow her to return!
“Anne should resume a normal life,” Dr. Stevenson replied. “Once she starts taking AZT, and adjusts to its side effects, she can do the things she used to do.”
“But the people I’m around—”
The doctor interrupted her. “The virus can’t be passed through casual contact. Touching, kissing, even sharing eating utensils and drinking glasses won’t spread the virus. Caregivers of AIDS patients do not contract the illness unless they exchange body fluids with the patients. We know for a fact that the virus isn’t very strong outside the body—a simple disinfectant like chlorine bleach can destroy it. Don’t worry about passing it to anyone, Anne. So long as you don’t have sexual contact or donate blood, the people in your life are perfectly safe.”
Anne wanted to laugh at him. Perfectly safe. Who was he kidding? The illness held such a stigma that no one was safe from the ostracism it caused. She wiped a tear aside.
When the doctors left, her father took her in his arms. His grip was so tight that she could hardly breathe. “I’ll talk to other doctors,” he promised. “There have got to be better doctors, specialists. We’ll find someone to help you.”
She felt sorry for him. She couldn’t picture her father living alone. He needed her. They planned things together, cleaned their apartment together, did laundry together on Saturdays. She chose his ties and made certain he was on time for his classes. “Sure, Daddy. Whatever you say.”
She finally made him go home, telling him she was exhausted. He swore to return first thing in the morning with other news. Once she was alone, Anne turned off the lamp and lay in the darkness. Only that morning, she’d thought she’d be home by now. Only hours before, she’d been annoyed at having to spend spring break in the hospital. How different her world looked now.
Her tears came as if a floodgate had opened. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to deserve such a terrible sentence as AIDS? First the loss of her mother, now the loss of herself.
She drifted off to sleep, but woke with a start, late in the night. She had the sensation that someone was in the room with her. Her heart pounded, yet as she glanced around, she saw that she was alone. Taking deep breaths to calm her ragged breathing, Anne turned her head. She noticed that beside her cheek, on her pillow, lay an envelope.
Curiosity beat out her fear. Anne flipped on the light over her bed and squinted at the envelope. It looked like parchment and was sealed with wax, stamped with the initials OLW. Carefully, she broke the seal and pulled out two pieces of paper. One was a letter. She held it up to the light and began to read.
Dear Anne,
You don’t know me, but I know about you, and because I do, I want to give you a special gift. Accompanying this letter is a certified check, my gift to you, with no strings attached, to spend on anything you want. No one knows about this gift except you, and you are free to tell anyone you want.
Who I am isn’t really important, only that you and I have much in c
ommon. Through no fault of our own, we have endured pain and isolation and have spent many days in a hospital feeling lonely and scared. I hoped for a miracle, but most of all I hoped for someone to truly understand what I was going through.
I can’t make you live longer. I can’t stop you from hurting, but I can give you one wish, as someone did for me. My wish helped me find purpose, faith, and courage.
Friendship reaches beyond time, and the true miracle is in giving, not receiving. Use my gift to fulfill your wish.
Your Forever Friend,
JWC
Mystified, Anne looked at the check. It was made out to her in the sum of one hundred thousand dollars! She gasped. What was the One Last Wish Foundation? The check was signed by Richard Holloway, Esquire. Who would have done such a thing? She didn’t know anyone with the initials JWC. She certainly didn’t know anyone with so much money. Anne read the letter again and again. It said she could spend it on anything she wanted. Was one hundred thousand dollars enough to cure AIDS? She knew it wasn’t. What good was money if it couldn’t buy a future? She’d give the money to her father, if this was for real, at least he’d be able to be secure.
One hundred thousand dollars. She turned the possibilities for its use over in her mind. College? Probably not. Health care? How much did it cost to take care of someone with AIDS? Her funeral? Anne shook her head, hating the macabre direction her thoughts had taken. She decided to try to sleep. She’d wait until the morning and think about it again—if the check didn’t evaporate. She put it under her pillow for safekeeping, turned out the light, and lay still in the dark.
Her father arrived while the nurses were clearing away the breakfast trays. His eyes were red-rimmed. He bent and kissed her. “You should have shaved, Dad. You look awful,” she told him.
“I was up most of the night.”
“Me too.” She slipped her hand under her pillow to feel for the letter, certain she had dreamed it. The tip of her finger touched the edge of the envelope.
Her father sat down heavily in the chair next to her bed. “I spent the night using the computer library looking for information about AIDS and the AZT treatment.”
Anne’s father had a modem, a special phone, on his home computer that tied into the university’s system, so he could call up a data bank of reference libraries. She’d used it often when researching papers for school reports. “What’s the bad word?” she asked.
“AZT is currently the best drug there is for AIDS treatment. There’s also a drug called DDL, but people use AZT first.”
“Tell me everything, Dad. Remember, I know how to use your computer, and can look this up for myself as soon as I get home, so save me the time and trouble.”
He rubbed his eyes and slouched. “AZT’s a powerful chemical. You’ll have to take it several times a day and put up with the side effects—nausea, vomiting, tremors, depression.”
“Sounds like a real lifesaver, all right.”
“Patients adjust,” he said, not hiding his sadness. “If things get too bad, you can go on antidepressants and other drugs to counter the effects.”
Anne felt a fresh wave of tears clog her throat. It wasn’t how she wanted to spend the last days of her life. “Is AZT my only choice?”
“It’s your best choice.”
“What if I don’t start taking it right away?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if I wait until I actually get AIDS?”
“Anne, that’s not wise. All reports suggest the importance of immediate treatment.” Her father straightened and looked at her. “Doctors agree, the sooner, the better.”
“What could be ‘better’ about being sick and depressed?” Anne felt herself getting angry, wanting to lash out at the shapeless enemy that waited to kill her. “You said there might be other doctors, specialists.”
“I have the names of several specialists in the city.”
“Maybe we should talk to one of them first.”
“You mean, not go on the AZT immediately?”
“That’s right. What difference could a few days make?”
He frowned, and Anne could see that her logic didn’t appeal to him. “You’re only putting off the inevitable.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to have to deal with this now. I want to go home, I want to finish the school term, and I don’t want anyone to know about the diagnosis.” She reached out to him. “We can keep it a secret, can’t we, Daddy?”
“It’s nobody’s business,” he replied. “We won’t tell anyone until we have to. But we do need to see a specialist immediately. I don’t think you should delay starting treatment for long.”
Anne appreciated him for respecting her wishes, but then, he’d always treated her as an adult, capable of making her own decisions. “Please get me out of here,” she said.
The doctors agreed to have her released that morning. At home, Anne tried to believe that life was normal, that she could pick up where she’d left off before her hospitalization. When her father had to go teach his classes, she set to work on the computer searching for information on AIDS treatment. She knew she was running up a large phone bill but figured it didn’t matter. If the Wish money was for real, she could certainly pay a phone bill.
The more she studied, the more depressed she felt about her situation. All the treatments indicated debilitating side-effects, at least for awhile. She felt overwhelmed and immobilized by her situation. To divert herself, she reread the letter from JWC. The check was such an irresistible lure. To spend on anything you want, her benefactor had written. Anything.
In a burst of inspiration she turned to the computer bank libraries for information about ranches and summer vacations. Sometimes the descriptions were so vivid, she could almost smell the fresh mountain air. Ranch vacations offered horses, trail rides, grassy plains, and sun-drenched skies. For Anne, the ranches represented freedom. Choices.
When she realized what she wanted to do, Anne went to her father.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously when she asked to speak to him late one night.
“I feel pretty good considering.” She sat down across from him in his study. “While I’m feeling so good, there’s something I want to do.” She handed him the letter. “First, read this. I think you’re going to be as surprised as I was.”
She watched as he read, his expression turning to utter amazement. Next, she handed him the check, which he examined closely. “It looks real,” he said incredulously.
“I’m hoping it is real. Do you have any idea who JWC can be? Maybe someone you or Mom once knew?”
“I haven’t a clue. But it won’t take long for me to validate the check’s authenticity. I’ll take it to the bank in the morning.”
“If it’s real, then I know what I want to do with it.” She told him and he started shaking his head before she finished talking.
“I can’t allow you to go play at a dude ranch this summer. You must begin treatments.”
“I will take them, just not right away. All I want is a slight postponement, a reprieve. Let me have a few weeks of fun, then I’ll start right in on the medication. I promise.”
“Don’t you know what you’re asking? Your delay can accelerate the onset of AIDS.”
Anne reached out and covered her father’s hand with hers. “You’ve always allowed me to make my own choices. Please, Dad, let me have this one last wish. Please.”
She saw him warring with his emotions and felt the full brunt of his anguish over giving her what she wanted. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Very sure,” Anne said. “It’s my life, and it’s what I want to do with it.”
Four
ANNE WAS STARTLED by her father’s voice as he pulled open the cabin door and stepped onto the porch. “Why are you sitting out here all alone?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to wake you. Besides, it’s beautiful outside, don’t you think? Look at the sun setting behind the mountains.”
&
nbsp; Her father sat next to her on the steps. “My lungs aren’t used to all this fresh air! It’s going to take some adjusting. Were you able to get close to those smelly horses you like so much?” he asked.
His innocent question reminded Anne of her encounter with Morgan, the cowboy who’d taken an obvious dislike to her. She decided against telling her father about the rude way she’d been treated. “The horses were fine. There was one, a big bay, that I really liked.”
“I thought a bay was a body of water.”
“Oh, Dad, you’re impossible! You’re going to have a good time out here in spite of yourself. Wait and see. And thanks again for allowing me the grace period on taking the medication. This trip together means a lot, more than you’ll ever know.”
His grin faded, and he smoothed back her hair. “All I care about is your having a good time. Whenever I think—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Let’s not depress ourselves.”
They heard the clang of the dinner bell. She hopped up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “Saved by the bell. I’m hungry. How about you?”
“Starved.” He stood up, and together they walked the distance to the rustic-looking lodge. They were joined by other guests in a huge main room, sectioned off into more intimate areas by the furniture arrangement. Along one wall there was a massive stone fireplace, which Anne imagined could be cozy when the winter wind howled outside. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the smells of pot roast and warm bread coming from a long wooden table set with dinner plates and steaming bowls of food at the opposite end of the room.
“Come on! Don’t be shy,” said a tall, brown-haired woman from the head of the table. “Welcome to the Broken Arrow. If you don’t hustle up to the dinner table, my boys will clear it off like a plague of locusts.”
Anne saw a line of cowboys standing behind chairs at the table. She could tell they were workers by the weathered look of their clothes. The guests stood out in their brand-new jeans and store-pressed shirts. Even though her own jeans weren’t new, they had a designer chic about them.
Sixteen and Dying Page 2