Tainted by Love

by Jones, Gillian

  “I love you, too, you hairy, burly wrench-wielder,” I giggle, and Dex pushes me away from him in jest. I always tease him like that, both because he’s a talented mechanic and also because he’s somewhat of a hefty fellow. Also, the majority of his face is hidden behind an unruly beard, a beard I’ve watched change from brown to grey over the past few years.

  “That’s ‘Silver Fox’, I’ll have you know. Your Aunt Tillie confirmed it just last night,” he winks, puffing out his chest at the innuendo.

  “Eww. Too much information,” I whisper back. “Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that you’re a ‘lumbersexual’! Yuck. Not a good visual, Dex—you and Tillie. I could have done without that.”

  “A lumber-what now? What the hell is that shit?”

  “Exactly,” I hiss, stifling a laugh and tugging on the end of his beard. “Let’s just pretend this whole conversation didn’t happen,” I pause for effect, “okay, Silver Fox?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. But I’m asking your cousins when we get back to the shop about that lumber-shit.”

  “Whatev—”

  “Students of Westdale High, please join me in giving a warm welcome to today’s special guest speaker as we welcome her to the stage: Ms. Trinity Adams.”

  Hearing my name, I lean up and give Dex a quick peck on the cheek, whispering,

  “Thanks for always getting me outta my head. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  “Love ya, kiddo. Go woo ’em.”

  With that, I take my cue and stride out to centre stage, ready to share my story, ready to help fight the stigma associated with HIV and AIDS that still exists today.

  And ready to let them see me.

  8

  Trinity

  “Hi!” I wave. “I’m Trinity. Thank you for having me as a speaker today for your Healthy Life Week. I’m excited to be here,” I say, and begin to relax a little, the mic feeling at home in my hand.

  “Before we start, I want you to do something for me, a warm up exercise. I’d like you to look at me for ten seconds. Yes, stare right at me. Then think of the first word that comes to mind. And don’t worry about hurting my feelings, I’m super tough. I only hope I’m pulling off my new short do,” I say, fluffing my newly-dyed pastel pink pixie cut, earning a few laughs, “and these shoes that maybe aren’t typical for a twenty-seven year old accountant, but I’m a bit of a rebel like that,” I say, lifting my orange Converse-clad foot. “Okay everyone the ten seconds starts…now.” I set the timer on my phone and begin pacing and turning from one end of the stage to the next.

  “Alright, and…time.” I return to the auditorium’s centre stage at the beep sound. “Okay, who’s brave enough to share their thoughts?”

  This is my hook. The way I reel them in and make them want to hear the rest of what I have to say. As always, a bunch of hands bolt up into the air. Looking around, I spot a young girl with glasses to my right in the front row.

  “Hi. You in the pink t-shirt. Tell me what you see.”

  “You’ve got really pretty eyes,” she says, and sits back down.

  “Thank you. Okay, how about you?” I ask a boy a few rows back.

  “You’ve got a nice body. You’re pretty hot, actually, for being older.”

  Laughter erupts from the crowd. “Oh my God, Shane!” a few people call out.

  “Well, thanks. I work out and watch what I eat—most of the time—so I’ll take it,” I nod. “How about you over there in the red hoodie?”

  “Well…you’re kinda short. And I think that the shoes are a bit much on you,” a cute brunette says, as if embarrassed.

  “I love your shoes!” a boy calls out from the back row.

  “Okay. I am only 5’3”, so, yeah, you’re right. I’m kinda short,” I repeat, using her words. “One more,” I say, scanning the theatre where about two hundred high school seniors and faculty members sit listening to me intently, which makes me feel good, reminding me why I love doing this as much as I do.

  “How about you?” I ask a boy sitting alone to one side. He didn’t have his hand up, but he caught my eye. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  “I dunno. This being Healthy Living Week, I guess you look…healthy. Maybe a bit tired, but other than that, you look good.” He shrugs his shoulders, having no idea how he just proved the age-old saying that looks can be deceiving, that looking “healthy” can be deceiving. I’m a prime example of this. On the outside I look and seem like everyone else, but on the inside, my body is fighting daily against the virus that lives dormant in my blood, with medications to keep the proverbial monster at bay.

  “‘Healthy’. Perfect answer. Thanks for letting me call on you even though you didn’t have your hand up.”

  Moving back to centre stage, I place the microphone back in its stand. I take a deep breath and say: “My name is Trinity Paige Adams. I’m twenty-seven years old. And two years ago, when I was twenty-five, I was diagnosed with Human Immunodeficiency Virus.”

  I hear scattered gasps of “Oh my god!” and students whispering, but I don’t stop to acknowledge their shock.

  It’s like this every time.

  “Yes. I have HIV.”

  I carry on, sharing my story. “I lost my virginity when I was in university. I was nineteen, and it was with my first real boyfriend. We dated for four years after that, before we broke up and he moved to Hong Kong for work. I loved him. He was the one and only man I didn’t use protection with, a guy I trusted to be clean because he looked clean and told me he was, who also convinced me that sex would be best with nothing between us. I believed him. Shame on me, right? But, like he said, I was on the Pill. What could go wrong?” I pause, letting it sink in for a minute. “If only I could go back and give my naïve self a smack upside the head. I don’t know which time I contracted HIV, exactly, because we never used condoms. I don’t know how he contracted it, either. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

  Looking around the room, I see the following expressions spread across some of the students’ faces: I’ve done that, too; Holy shit; Oh my God; I need to get tested, plus panic and fear. And, of course, I see the other looks, too. The judgment. The pity.

  “Okay, now that the cat’s out of the bag, let me ask you one favour. I need you to get rid of those faces you’re looking at me with. Don’t drop your smiles. I’m alive. I’m living my life to the fullest. I might have to take my medication at the same time every day like clockwork to help keep me going, but I’m otherwise healthy. I’m here, and I plan to stay here for a long damn time.” I stamp my foot and cross my arms, and feel the tension in the room dissolving as everyone laughs.

  “Anyway, my goal today is to show you an example of how a person,” I point to myself, “can look not at all infected even when they are. I want to open up your eyes, to help you see that HIV and AIDS exists in your community, and that it’s a virus we can defend against when we’re prepared and vigilant. My hope today is to educate you, and to provide up-to-date info to you about what HIV and AIDS are and aren’t. How you can and can’t catch it, as well as to work toward removing the stigma associated with the disease and put a human face to HIV/AIDS.” I finish on a long breath, “Okay, I know that was a lot.” I pause to take a sip of water and to let the information sink in.

  “My biggest goal, though, is to teach you to protect yourself. To be safe if you’re sexually active, and—most of all—to point out that HIV and AIDS do not discriminate. It doesn’t care about your age, race, gender or sexual preferences. HIV and AIDS is an anywhere, anyone, any-one-time-without-protection-you-could-catch-it kind of disease.” Taking the stool from behind the podium, I drag it to the edge of the stage and take a seat, mic in hand again.

  “One of the misconceptions that drives me batty is that you can get HIV or AIDS from kissing or touching. Let’s set the record straight. HIV is not passed through saliva, sweat, tears, touching, feces or urine. In order for HIV infection to occur, two things need to exist. First, a transmissio
n fluid such as semen, breast milk, vaginal fluid or blood. Second, an entry point into the body. Say a mouth, vagina, anus or vein, or skin with micro-tears, abrasions or open wounds. There has never been a documented case of infection of HIV from saliva. So feel free to kiss away…unless you’ve got a significant open wound in your mouth, then you might want to wait as a precaution.” I pause, uncap my bottle of water again and take another sip.

  “I think for me personally, the other misconception I struggle with most is when I hear people commenting that HIV/AIDS is simply a disease affecting gay men. I’m proof that this is not the case.” I wave my hand from my head to my toes. “Sure, it began showing up as an epidemic within gay communities back in the early-1980s, but we learned very quickly that HIV and AIDS was actually a worldwide epidemic, one that didn’t discriminate based on age, sexual orientation, or gender. I’m a living example of a non-intravenous drug-injecting heterosexual female living with HIV, which was transmitted from a heterosexual relationship.”

  I stand, then pace from one end of the stage to the other. This part of my talk is a bit heavy with facts, but it’s important that the students hear it.

  “Does anyone know how many people in the world are currently infected with HIV or AIDS?” I ask.

  “Seventeen million,” someone shouts from the back.

  “More,” I answer.

  “Twenty-two million.”

  “Higher.”

  “Thirty million.”

  “Close. Worldwide, unfortunately, there are 36.5 million people infected with HIV/AIDS. 36.5 million. In the US alone, there are 1.2 million people infected, and it’s projected that one out of every eight people living with HIV doesn’t even know it. In 2014, it was estimated that around 16,000 people living with HIV in Canada were infected but remained undiagnosed. Imagine that number. Here in Canada, there were 75,500 reported cases of people living with HIV at the end of 2014. If you research that number, you’ll see that just over 35,000 of those were, in fact, homosexual men. But let’s look at the facts: that leaves about 40,000 spots left for heterosexual males, women, those infected via blood transfusions and birth—and let’s not forget IV drug users, who number around 13,000. Therefore, to say that HIV is just a ‘gay plague’ only proves that you’re uneducated, and could use an afternoon going online at Starbucks getting your facts straight with a latte.”

  I take a breath while the crowd applauds at the end of my little tirade.

  “Here’s a good spot for me to add an important note: hepatitis C is another disease communicable via sex and IV drug use facing many people worldwide, and it’s also potentially fatal. It’s a liver killer. Remember to always play safe, people. Condoms and clean needles don’t just protect against HIV and AIDS, there are many other issues—like hep C and other STDs—to consider,” I say, running my hand across my forehead and sweeping my pinkish bangs off my face.

  “But there’s good news. With proper treatment, people like myself can live a pretty normal life, with the same potential and possibilities as non-infected people, including sexual relationships, marriage and having healthy babies. The world is making extraordinary gains in the fight against this epidemic. And that’s pretty incredible if you ask me.” I raise my water bottle in a toast before taking a drink.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes clarifying a few misconceptions, and telling them about the first part of Blake’s Facebook message that I read, and my disastrous final date with Jared when I told him the news (with their names left out, of course).

  9

  Trinity

  “Thank you for listening to me today. I hope my story pops into your minds in the future when it come time to choose to use protection, or decide whether or not to engage in high-risk activities. We’ve got…” I glance at my phone, “…about twenty minutes left. I know there are a lot of questions, so let’s have a question and answer period. Please step up to the mic in the centre aisle and ask away. I’m an open book. Please feel comfortable asking me anything.” I smile and nod at the clapping. I steal a glance at Uncle Dex, who is beaming at me from the darkness of the wings. “Thank you very much.”

  This part of the presentation is what makes me the most nervous. I never know quite what to expect. I love, though, that the students are free to ask about whatever makes them curious. It’s unscripted and refreshing and changes every time.

  I’ve been visiting schools and universities for eight months now, travelling and speaking on behalf of The AIDS Network, a program located about half an hour from where I now live in Stoney Creek. Lindsey Hosker is the youngest member of the board of directors, and went out of her way to take me under her wing when I first showed up there, panicked and terrified, looking for information and support. Soon after meeting her, I began volunteering and attending many of the group therapy sessions and social activities they have at the Network. I’ve met a lot of great people who, in a short time, have become my pseudo-family. I needed to build a new network of people to count on, especially after my parents’ reaction to my news. The AIDS Network gave that to me and I am forever grateful, so I’m glad to help out in anyway I can. It was Lindsey who got me started speaking at the schools.

  “Hey, my name is Vince. I was wondering, how did your family take the news when you were first diagnosed?” The voice cuts through my thoughts.

  “Hi. Good question. Truthfully? It went badly. I don’t speak to most of them anymore. It’s crazy how some people can’t understand and accept this disease as being something that’s manageable. My mom and dad lost it. Full-on, wanting nothing to do with me, lost it. They can’t get over thinking that I brought this onto myself and to them, that I was ‘tainted by this disgusting gay men’s disease’. That’s me quoting my uneducated mother, by the way. Trust me, I tried to educate her. I even offered to take her to Starbucks with our laptops, so we could open up Google and research the stats together. I even said I’d buy her a latte…” I joke, and there are a few uncomfortable laughs at my dark humour. “Unfortunately, ignorance is bliss and she was happier just to cut me off. That can happen sometimes.”

  I pause, hearing some gasps and a few whispered ‘Jesus’s’. I move on before the pity can start creeping back in again.

  “Don’t feel too bad for me. Honestly, we weren’t that close. Growing up, they were always sending me off to my Uncle Dex and my Aunt Tillie’s house. I think my parents being older and me being a surprise was a huge factor in that. Over time, I came to see Dex and Tillie more like my parents and their kids—my cousins, Nadia and Joe—became my best friends. We’d always been the three musketeers, and after my diagnosis they accepted me with open arms and not an ounce of judgment. I’ve not spoken to my parents since they kicked me out of the family.”

  I give a long sigh. Thinking of my parents and their reaction pisses me off each and every time. “Wow, that was a doozy, Vince,” I smile, looking around the room and seeing a mixture of surprise and shock on many faces. It’s always like this. It’s as if I have the only closed-minded parents on the block. Which, I guess, is a good thing. It shows that attitudes are starting to change as time goes on, but the shocked reactions always catch me a little off guard.

  “Sorry to hear that, that sucks. Sounds like you’re better off.”

  “I am. I’m very lucky. Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s definitely a hard thing to accept. I mean, before I was diagnosed, there was a family. For them to just drop me like that is taking a long time to process and heal from. I’m getting better at accepting that I might lose a few people along this journey of mine, but I’ve gained a few, too.”

  And it’s true. It’s taken quite a few therapy sessions to help me get over losing my parents the way I did. In the end, I’ve come to see it as their loss. A loss I hope they never live to regret, because from what I’m learning, regret is the last thing I ever want to feel, especially if or when my disease progresses. I want to leave this life feeling happy and accomplished. Live life, love, and always get it off your ch
est. That’s been my mantra over the last year as I’ve worked my way through all my crazy emotions.

  A clearing throat brings me back to the present.

  “Sorry, I totally zoned out there for a second,” I admit. “Yes, next question.”

  “Hi. I’m Alisha. First off, this is amazing. I’ve learned a lot and I think you’re pretty great. It’s totally your parents’ loss.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot. What’s your question?”

  “I was wondering why it took so long for you to get diagnosed. I thought technology was more advanced, I guess. I assumed an HIV or AIDS test would be standard.”

  “That’s a really great question, and you’re right, we are far more advanced than we’ve ever been. But if you don’t have a reason to believe you’ve been infected, then it’s not the first line of testing. And with some people, like me, it can take a long time for HIV symptoms to present themselves. Some people have symptoms within two weeks, but for others, it can take years. Like, in my case, it took awhile, and the symptoms weren’t specific to only HIV or AIDS. I’d had the flu on and off more frequently the year before I was diagnosed, but it had been a long cold winter that year, too. I’d been tired, like bone-wearily so, but I’d also just started a new job in Toronto, which I’d moved away from my family for. My stress levels were elevated so I assumed it was all just part of that. And my doctor never suspected HIV based on my sexual history, therefore my symptoms at the time didn’t really warrant that specific blood test. Then two years ago, I broke out in this weird rash, which finally led my doctor to do an HIV blood test, just to be safe. That led to my diagnosis.”

  “That’s scary,” she says, before thanking me.

  “You’re right. It is. I never, ever considered that it could be HIV.”

  “Hi, Trinity. I’m Cassie. I guess what I want to know is: did you ever confront the guy who gave you HIV?”