Duncan's Diary

by Christopher C. Payne

  I went to the funeral as they both were close friends of mine and played the role of the concerned citizen as was needed. Oddly enough, it was when I was at the viewing and needed to use the restroom that I first saw the spotting on my boxers. It was an odd, green color and appeared sticky. It was somehow coming from the tip of my penis.

  The next day, I called my doctor and since she was not in, I agreed to meet with her father who shared the practice. I had seen him several times before during the 10 years that I had been going to them. He fit me in that day, and I went in to show him what was occurring. I had since looked at other pairs of my boxers and discovered this must have been going on for at least a few days. All of my underwear held that same splotching, staining discoloration that seemed to be permanently scarring my underwear.

  The dirty pairs were worse, as they were stained, but it was much stickier. The clean pairs held only the small, spots of foreign coloring that must now be imbedded in the fabric as some reminder of one of my past deeds. My doctor went through the physical exam ritual, since I had not been there in a while. Even to the extent of having me bend over so he could examine all parts of my body with those latex-gloved hands and that scary lotion gel that is frequently used. He stated that I had a definite problem and lined me up to get the familiar tests for HIV, gonorrhea, syphilis, and chlamydia.

  It was surreal going through the motions and anticipating the worst, as with my lifestyle it was most likely going to hold true. How many women had I been with in the last year? He asked. I honestly couldn’t answer the question. “Ten?” He asked. I said “Definitely.” “Twenty?” he asked. I said, “Yes, at least.” He asked me how many I had been with and not used protectionand I said two which I believed to be close to the truth. I honestly could not be sure.

  When you find yourself drunk on scotch or even beer and in the moment of naked ecstasy, you don’t always think that now should be the time to protect your penis. All those commercials and even the talks I had with my oldest daughter seemed ironic if I couldn’t follow the same basic rules myself. The women that I associated with were the ones most likely to have issues. It would be from them that I should protect myself the most. How stupid could I possibly be?

  I left his office in a trance as I walked down the long hallway to the front lobby that held a couple of couches and some chairs, all of which were filled by ladies and men in their 80’s or 90’s. It was like walking in a dream that I was trying to wake from, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unable to rise from the bed.

  The next two days were long, painful, and slow as I spent the time with my daughters, enjoying my stint of the custody rotation. I had planned on some parent-teacher conferences with my oldest, so I went to those, as well. My ex-wife attended with me and embarrassingly showed how little she knew about what my daughter did in school or how her studies were progressing. She really was out of touch.

  I went through all of the motions, making dinner and helping with homework, reading books and snuggling. My oldest is perceptive and asked me several times if I were okay or if something were wrong. I wear my emotions on my sleeve most of the time; and while I enjoy being transparent, there are times when I wish I could hide them better.

  It was on the third day that I called my doctor to see if he had heard any news. He said he wanted to see me in his office if I could make some time as quickly as possible. I agreed and told him I could be there in 10 minutes. He confirmed that would be acceptable, but he wanted closer to 20 to prepare my file. The ticking of a clock doesn’t change from one second to the next. A minute is a minute, and an hour is an hour. So, how is it possible that some minutes fly by while others move like a snail, inching its way across a busy freeway?

  As a rule, if a doctor agrees to see you on short notice and then additionally wants to see you in person, it will never be good news. I jumped in the Volvo, made the quick drive to San Mateo, and quickly ran up the stairs to his office. I was shown directly in, stopping just long enough in the waiting room to give my name. Again, none of the above can possibly be good. The receptionist simply looked at me in a detached, sympathizing glance that oozed pity and foreboding.

  As I sat down in the small chair in his office with his reviewing my charts, he closed the door. “Duncan, there is no easy way to say this,” he said. “You have tested positive for chlamydia for which there is a cure. Unfortunately, you have also tested positive for HIV for which there is not. There are several drugs that are now on the market that can keep the virus at bay for years, if not decades, but….”

  I started to lose track of what he was saying at that point. The entire room instantly became engulfed in a fog, and I drifted in and out of reality. I pushed my way forward, trying to understand the words that were being directed toward me.

  I was in his office for about an hour, but I can’t remember what was said after the initial news. How many new cases of HIV are reported per year in the United States alone? I was now simply part of that statistic. I was one of the percentages that had drawn the short straw and would now have to face the future that was unknown. I had felt so invincible just a short time ago, and now I was face to face with what most likely would be the cause of my death. Did I not reference myself to God? God doesn’t catch HIV, does he?

  There were so many things that I didn’t know and would have to learn quickly. Were my daughters safe? How did the disease really spread? You always hear not to fear people with HIV, but is that truly how anyone feels? If you knew that in the office down the hall or in the cube next to you there was somebody with a life-threatening illness and that illness was something that could be contagious, would you not have a twinge of anxiety no matter what you were told?

  Kissing, is that still allowed? Can I kiss my daughters anymore? What about the times they are sleeping at my house and want to spend the night in my bed or snuggle in my lap? Do I have to now tell them no, as Daddy doesn’t want you catching his germs. Daddy’s germs are now fatal, sweetie, and there is no second chance. I went home and sat in the darkness in my favorite chair. I did not watch TV or read a book, but just thought about the price you pay for your actions.

  Everyone knows to wear protection, yet not everyone does. Why is that? Could I answer that question myself? Why had I chosen to take a chance for a few minutes of pleasure with somebody I would never see again and didn’t even know her name? I would now be forever connected in life and, then, in death, to this unknown person. My trips to the Dominican Republic, which I now know has a prevalence of HIV in the women prostitutes, were froth with almost daily encounters. Apparently the government keeps a tight lid on the true statistics in that country, so nobody is sure what to believe in the percentages.

  Homosexuality is frowned upon in the tiny island nation, so they are not as open about their sexual preferences. Who knows if it is more prevalent in that group of people or if it is just widespread? Does it even matter? You hear that HIV is the disease of homosexuality, but what kind of person even says that. I can’t stand other people telling me or anyone else how to live their lives. Who are these pretentious groups that seem to think they can dictate who can and who cannot be married.

  Isn’t it ironic that in the face of my death, I now feel most human? More human than I have felt in a long time. I understand that I have caught the virus early, and that is a positive for me. I also understand that with the knowledge we have today it is possible to hold off the metamorphosis to AIDS for several years. At my age, I might very well die of something else before HIV gets its tentacles in me to the point of turning to AIDS. I could have a heart attack just as easily in my early 60’s.

  Still, it is an odd feeling not knowing what is coursing through your veins, or how your body will change and be affected. How will I live, and will people see me differently? Should I tell my ex-wife, or should I keep it a secret? What about my kids and the stigma that comes with saying I have HIV. Will they look at me differently? Even if I can hold them, will they be too scared to
be held? Will I feel like I have the plague, and my only recourse is to move away in isolation?

  I need some help understanding this, what it means, and how to face the next day. I have to go to a help group and start gathering facts or get some support before I lose my ability to function mentally. The speculation will kill me faster than the disease itself if I don’t stop my thoughts from taking off on these tangents of ridiculous speculative unknowns. The one thing I knew for sure—my life was going to change.

  My trip to the Dominican Republic had opened up a door for me to begin my hobby and start the killing spree that had made me feel alive. The trip had also been the instigation of where I most likely picked up the very thing that would ensure my demise. Life is so closely coupled with death, and the two are intertwined in ways that I will never fully understand. One thing I knew is that the tiny island nation was now an integral part of shaping who I was.

  I sat crying uncontrollably. Crying and reflecting on what kind of monster I had become. I didn’t like myself and didn’t like my path. If my historic demise was known to the public, how would my kids perceive me? Would they remember the father who read them books and snuggled them when they were sick, or the father who butchered and murdered innocent people, calling it his hobby? I was sick in so many ways, and the fallacy that I was in control and functioning normally was a paper-thin veil that was now cut in shreds.

  I couldn’t stop crying. Would I ever be able to stop? Please help me.

  I grabbed my head, as the pounding would not cease. I heard myself screaming, but I had lost control of my body. I threw anything within my grasp in whatever direction it could be hurled. I saw the vase leave my hand. It impacted the flat-panel TV hanging above my fireplace, shattering it to pieces. The chairs were flying in different directions as one squarely hit the glass door to my wine refrigerator, disintegrating it to pieces. All of this happened as I continued to scream.

  I was human, after all. I was being punished for my sins by a God that was merciless. Was it time I begged forgiveness? Should I go outside, grab my gun, and start shooting anyone that came within my sight? Is it fair to take out my pain on random people, or is that not what I was already doing? The screaming would not stop. It could not be stopped. The furniture continued to fly, as pieces were now littering the floor of every room in the house.

  The screaming was continuous. One long scream of death and destruction. One unbroken note that held steady as my head pounded, listening to the scream echoing constantly.

  The screaming kept going.

  The screaming kept going.

  The screaming would never stop.

  Epilogue

  Out of the blue, Sherene called me with a pressing desire to go out for drinks. I had not talked to her now in a long time; and although the call was odd, I welcomed the distraction that going out with a beautiful lady would bring. I had not told anyone of my new predicament, so she was unaware as was everyone else, save my doctors who were focusing on helping me prepare for my changed life.

  I agreed to the request, and on the designated date picked her up at her house. Jason was there watching the kids as we went on our date. I felt a little awkward making small talk with her ex-husband while she placed the final touches on her preparation, but left with no choice, I made the best of it. I had waited outside, not wanting to intrude in the home they had built together for several years, and for some odd reason he waited outside with me.

  He admired my Volvo and asked how long I had it and how much I enjoyed it. He even commented on the small dent I had in the back, and I replied it was from Sudhir’s son one past camping trip. He had dropped a can of something on it causing the dent that never did get repaired. It was an odd conversation; and at one point he mentioned that even though he and Sherene were not together, they were still friends. He personally would kill anyone that ever harmed her. He still loved her very much.

  I didn’t know what I had done to provoke the exchange, but I felt that I was very much in the dark with how he felt about me and what exactly he was trying to imply. Sherene walked through the door, wearing a form-fitting black dress and calf-high black leather boots that matched her dark, kinky-curly hair. She was stunning for somebody her age. She wasn’t in her 20’s anymore, but she was a vision to behold.

  I opened the door for her and walked around to the driver’s side, having to navigate around Jason who was standing very close to the vehicle. He seemed to be threatening me in a non-verbal way. As we pulled out of the driveway, he stared after us with his arms crossed. His eyes never wavered from our direction. It was a creepy feeling, but Sherene and I were now off and the smell of her alone was enough to make me forget the odd beginning.