by Lucas Rocha
I wish it didn’t have to.
+
The following days are a mess, especially because I need to make excuses to justify my coming and going at unusual hours.
The dynamics at home are a little different from traditional families: Adriana, my mom, works extremely odd hours and has meetings left and right all over Rio de Janeiro and sleepless nights during which she draws, calculates, and revises plans for civil engineering briefs. Right now she’s working on three different blueprints, and the dark circles under her eyes are proof that she is way too tired. William, my dad, is more resistant to sleep deprivation and sleeps between four and five hours a night. He teaches math at three different schools in addition to being a math tutor on weekends to help make ends meet, which just barely affords us the overpriced luxury of living near the subway in Rio’s Botafogo district, in a tiny two-bedroom apartment. Vanessa, my sister, goes to school in the mornings and to a college prep course in the afternoons, and when she’s not out, she buries her face in her biology textbooks, committed to her dream of getting into medical school.
“Do you have class today?” my mom asks when she sees me at seven a.m., filling my backpack with things I won’t actually be using that day. It’s Thursday, and I don’t have class on Thursdays.
“I need to drop by school to finish a microeconomics assignment,” I whisper, stuffing the documents that need to be photocopied into a folder and tucking it into my backpack, along with my HIV test result that has Bus Stop Guy’s number scribbled on it and a book that I hope will help distract me in the waiting room.
“Okay,” she says, lost in her own calculations. I realize she’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“Mom, did you get any sleep?”
“Sleep is for the weak.” She grabs her coffee mug and extends it toward me as if she’s toasting, then brings it to her mouth and takes a long gulp. “These plans had to be done two days ago.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
She smiles and looks at me, noticing my expression. “Is everything okay, Ian?”
I try to disguise my dismay. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You look awful. Did you spend the whole night bingeing Netflix again?”
The good news is that she gave me a pretty solid excuse herself.
“Yeah. There were just six episodes left in the season.”
“Just six episodes? Honestly, I would love to know where you find the patience.” She turns her attention back to the blueprints spread on the table. “I hope you get some sleep tonight for a change. Sleep is important, you know.”
“Sleep is for the weak,” I answer with a smile, opening the front door and walking to the elevator.
I wonder if it would be a good idea to tell my mom about my diagnosis. I mean, we have a healthy relationship, even if we’re not exactly confidants. She’s much easier to talk to than my dad, for instance, who hasn’t really accepted the fact that I’m gay and prefers to believe it’s just a matter of time until I get a girlfriend and that one of these days I’ll show up on the doorstep with the mother of his grandchildren.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I spent way too much time crying into my pillow, careful not to make any noise and wake Vanessa—which would have been hard, since she sleeps so heavily that not even her alarm clock on the loudest setting can wake her up in the morning.
When I finally stopped crying, I lay in bed wide-awake, letting the bad thoughts overcome me. What will the HIV take away from me? Will I be capable of being the same person I’ve always been, of taking risks, of falling in love, having a family, traveling, skydiving, studying abroad, drinking—of being happy? Or will my entire life be defined by this virus? Will this gray cloud that seems to overshadow everything last forever? Will I ever again be able to think that things can turn out all right and that life is worth living?
At the same time, I thought about Gabriel, my best friend. I still haven’t told him about my diagnosis. In fact, I haven’t told anybody about it except that guy at the bus stop. It’s not as if I have a lot of friends at school with whom I could have a conversation like this. People say I’m a little averse to friendship, and that might be true. I haven’t even replied to Gabriel’s last message—a simple “What’s up?”—as if, bizarrely, he already knew that things weren’t going well and that I needed someone to talk to.
I don’t know if I want to go through the process of calling him, telling him the truth, and enduring the silence from the other side, even if, somehow, I know that he’ll support me. I don’t want him to look at me differently, or to judge me, or to say anything that could hurt me even more, because I simply can’t handle that right now. But if I’m wrong, and he doesn’t support me, what can I expect from others?
When the sun came in through my bedroom curtains, the only conclusion I could come to was that I needed to get up and set things in order.
+
The nurse’s office is cold from the powerful air conditioner, and it doesn’t look anything like the shabby and claustrophobic office of the therapist who saw me two days ago. This place is airy and sterile, with a cabinet full of medicine locked behind glass, a bed covered in a hospital sheet, a scale, and a small table where a nurse is sitting.
Somehow, she makes me feel calmer. Maybe it’s her perfect smile or her neat hairdo, with not one single strand out of place. It may be the fact that she’s not even thirty, or it might be her immaculately white scrubs. Perhaps it’s her posture, both professional and welcoming, or even the simple fact that she does not seem inclined to treat me like I’m terminally ill.
“Did you bring copies of your documents?” she asks, and I hand them to her. Her skin is black, and her eyes are round and brown, watching as if trying to decipher me before I say a word.
The nurse unfolds the papers, checks to make sure everything is in order, and retrieves a piece of lined paper from a folder. She glues a passport photo in a square that’s meant to serve that specific purpose and jots down some basic information from my ID, and in the meantime, I remain silent. Her handwriting is curvy and careful, very different from the chicken scratch that doctors scrawl on their prescription pads.
When she’s done filling everything out, she looks up at me and smiles.
I smile back mechanically.
“So, Iago … before we start, I want you to know that this facility offers everything you need to ensure you receive proper treatment.”
“Ian,” I say under my breath.
“Sorry?”
“You called me Iago. My name is Ian.”
“Oh, of course!” Her smile widens pleasantly, and she seems a little embarrassed by her mistake. “I’m sorry about that. But you look like an Iago, you know? Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Actually, no.”
“Well, okay, Ian.” She offers her hand, and I shake it. “My name is Fernanda. How are you?”
“I’m okay …”
“Hard for someone to feel okay after receiving the kind of news you got. How are you really?”
“Scared,” I answer, trying to sum up all my feelings in one word. Maybe this is the only word that comes close to the real feeling.
“And that’s understandable. Here’s what I can tell you: From now on, you’ll need to take a few extra precautions and have some different routines from what you’re used to. But it’s no mystery. Brazil has one of the most effective HIV treatment programs in the world.”
I look at the medicine cabinet and notice a bunch of different containers with strange names.
“Are all of these part of the treatment?”
“Yes, but you won’t have to take all of them,” she answers. “Treatment for HIV has evolved a lot over the years, and all these medicines you see here are different options. What you need to understand, Iago, is that every body is different, and the virus manifests differently in each one; that’s why we have so many options. But most patients we treat use that one over there.” She points to a c
ontainer that looks like a vitamin bottle. “We call it the three-in-one, which means it has three antiretroviral drugs in one single pill.”
I ignore the fact that she just got my name wrong again.
“One pill?” I ask. Whenever I’ve heard the expression cocktail therapy for HIV, I thought it would be at least a dozen pills at once.
“One pill, once a day, and that’s the end of it. That’s the basic, most common treatment, unless you experience any unexpected side effects. But that’s a conversation you’ll have with the doctor at Infectious Diseases when you get to meet her. The treatment is simple and very effective, and even though we’re still not very close to a proper cure, strictly speaking, it is still possible to lead a relatively normal daily life. If you follow the treatment, your life expectancy will be identical to that of someone who is HIV-negative. And I’ll also point out, Iago, that people living with HIV who take their medication consistently cannot transmit the virus to others.”
“Ian.”
“Sorry?”
“You called me Iago again. It’s Ian.”
“Oh my God!” She laughs and shakes her head, and I think it’s funny because I know she’s not doing it on purpose. Actually, I’m enjoying the conversation. “Forgive me. But, well, I think this is what you need to know. Do you have any questions”—she pauses for a split second, checks the file with my name, and enunciates emphatically—“Ian?”
“What’s that over there?”
I point to a poster with an infographic of a pregnant woman titled HIV AND PREGNANCY: IT’S POSSIBLE.
“Ah, so you want to be a father someday?” she asks.
“Uh … no. Unless I adopt a kid with my future husband.”
She smiles, and I feel a comfortable warmth in my chest, because it’s not a condescending smile nor one with a judgmental undertone.
“Well, if at any point you change your mind and decide to have a biological child, it’s entirely possible to have one with proper planning, without the baby contracting the virus through either the father’s semen or the mother’s bloodstream. In fact, the treatment is very effective, as long as it’s followed to the letter. Just like every other treatment we offer here.”
It’s not that I had been seriously thinking about having children, but this information somehow makes me a little happier.
“And how do I get the medication?” I ask, changing the subject.
Maybe this is my biggest fear, more than the idea of dying in the near future. I’m not thrilled at the idea of depending on public services, let alone the public health system. Everything I see on TV says that nothing works, that lines go on for miles, that medicine is lacking, and that people are always at the mercy of medical professionals who are often not that concerned with the well-being of others. But this conversation shows me that maybe the news isn’t always right about health care.
“As I said, everything is very effective.”
“How effective?” I ask skeptically.
“Look: Sometimes we might run out of medicine for hypertension at our pharmacy, but in my eight years working here, we’ve never run out of antiretroviral medication.”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
That sounds like good news, at least.
“Any other questions?”
“Not for now, but I’m sure I’ll have more in the future.”
“I hope you do. Well, I think that’s it, then.” She hands me a paper with an exam request. “This is for blood exams so we can confirm the serology, to get your viral load count and level of CD4, which are your body’s defense cells. When you exit, just stop by the lab on the other side of the hall to have your blood drawn. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”
I give her my cell phone number because I don’t want any health-care professionals calling my home, only to have my mom pick up and start asking questions.
She writes down the number and then shows me another, a four-digit sequence in her perfectly round handwriting next to my picture.
“This is your medical record number,” she says, pointing at 6438. “You can use this number for anything that requires an ID here, particularly for the meds at the pharmacy.”
“And do I start taking those today?”
“Not yet. First you need to consult with the doctor and do a blood test to determine your CD4 levels and viral load count, so we can track the medication’s progress and its efficacy in your body. I see you’re having your consultation tomorrow, but I’ll go ahead and schedule the next visit for …” She opens up a yellow notebook and checks the calendar. “Does next week work for you? What time of day is best?”
“In the afternoon is best, if that’s okay.”
She nods and writes down an appointment for two o’clock, five days from now, which works well, because it means I don’t have to skip class or make up a bad excuse, since I can come straight from school and just say that I was at the library studying late.
“So that’s it.” Fernanda gets up and reaches out for a handshake. I grab my backpack from the floor and put it on. “The road ahead won’t be short, nor does it have a clear end, but believe me when I say your life can be as normal as anyone else’s. The difference is that, from now on, you’ll be required to have regular blood work done and take good care of yourself, which everyone should be doing anyway.”
“Right,” I say, shaking her hand and heading toward the door, feeling the hot air rush in when I open it. “Thank you for everything, Fernanda.”
“Take care, Iago,” she says with a smile.
OUR LINGUISTIC ANTHROPOLOGY PROFESSOR is the type who just sits there with a textbook open in front of him for the entire class, pointing things out while he reads a few lines and thinks this is an effective teaching method for a university. Honestly, what the hell was I thinking when I decided that being a film major would be a good idea?
Sandra is sitting next to me, and she wants nothing more than to be anywhere but here. She tries to focus on her Kindle, which is propped behind the chair of the girl sitting in front of her so the professor can’t see what she’s up to. Not that he cares, of course.
Annoyed at all this dull blabbering—the seniors say all you have to do on the exam is write something complicated between quotation marks and attribute it to Lévi-Strauss, since rumor has it that the professor never checks whether the reference is real or not anyway—I get up and leave the classroom, the door groaning behind me.
Outside, dozens of students from other classes are chatting, sipping coffee, and smoking, some cutting class, others waiting for theirs to begin. The Institute of Art and Social Communication at Fluminense Federal University is right across from the most popular square in the city of Niterói, a place well known for its social gatherings abounding with beer, weed, cigarettes, and loud music. It’s a dangerous street, which means students learn quickly to walk in groups in and out of the main gate, even this early in the morning.
The campus’s walls are a kaleidoscope of different colors and art styles, covered in signs for film circuits, live stage performances, and art exhibits, as well as grafitti and artistic depictions of feminism and gender equality. Wood benches are spread out around the courtyard, and I sit down on one of them, checking my phone to see how much more time I have of this torturous class.
“Dear Lord, I didn’t think anyone was going to muster up the courage to leave.” Sandra comes out right behind me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lighting one. She’s five feet tall and one hundred fifty pounds, and she wears a thin layer of makeup on her face at all times, which makes her look radiant. Of course, the purple beret and red hair make her look like Judy Funnie from Doug. She’s a walking film major cliché, holding the cigarette with the tip of her fingers and doling out ironic comments and sharp opinions. “Want one?”
“I quit,” I say, trying to convince myself that burning some nicotine isn’t worth it. Sandra shrugs, puts the pack away, and sits down besid
e me, watching as I stare at my phone.
“Any news from the boy?”
She’s talking about Henrique, but he’s not the one on my mind right now.
It’s been two days since I was at the clinic and gave my number to Ian, the guy at the bus stop, but he still hasn’t reached out to me. I’ve spent way too much time asking myself if he’s okay, if he needs some kind of help.
“He apologized, and I tried to start a conversation, but maybe we don’t have a future together,” I say, talking about Henrique.
“And that’s not your prejudice talking, right?”
“Prejudice?”
“Yeah. He’s positive and you’re not … That prejudice.”
“I’d hardly consider that prejudice, Sandra. I’m just being cautious.”
“You’re avoiding getting to know someone who, if I remember correctly, was the most interesting guy you’d met in a long time. Your words, not mine.”
I brush my blue streak behind my ear, away from my eye.
Sandra smiles.
“I know, but it’s … complicated,” I answer.
“Victor, you’re six feet tall, one hundred fifty pounds, and gay, with blue hair that you say you dyed because you want to express yourself, but you make a point of dressing like a preppy law student who was raised by his Catholic grandmother.” She’s pointing out that I’m the only one here wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and leather shoes. “You’re complicated.”
I roll my eyes, and she leans her head on my arm as I let out a sigh, trying not to think about how true that statement is—I am complicated. Instead, I focus on Henrique and the fact that I don’t know if I want to be just friends with him. He’s an incredible guy, and even though I only met him a few weeks ago, I can’t help but feel that this thing between us is more than just friendship. Call it chemistry, if you will.
I want to say, “I never thought a date from Tinder could affect me like this. I mean, what are the odds?”
But I’d never admit that to Sandra, because in a way, she’s right. I don’t know if the correct word is prejudice, exactly, but the stuff you hear about HIV is so terrifying that I don’t know if I want to live forever in fear that, sooner or later, something might end up happening to me. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to live with the virus, and I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to have it for the rest of my life.