Lucas Rocha - Where We Go From Here

FOR EVERYONE WHO LIVES WITH HIV, DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY

THE FIRST STEP IS ADMITTING to yourself that, no matter the outcome, life goes on.

The clinic is packed with people walking in every direction: To the left, a child is running in circles while an exhausted mother tries to calm her down. To the side, a man in his seventies rocks back and forth on a cane, refusing every courteous offer of a seat. A little farther down, the door to one of the exam rooms is ajar and a doctor is scanning a medical chart for information while a woman sitting across from her waits anxiously. To my right, a tall guy with a blue streak in his hair is staring at his phone, his foot tapping as nervously as mine, and I can tell that even though hes looking at the device, hes not paying the slightest bit of attention to it.

And in the middle of all this hubbub, of doctors and nurses walking this way and that, of people dissatisfied with the long wait time for appointments and a dusty fan that makes more noise than ventilation, I wait.

Ian Gonalves?

A woman with shoulder-length blond hair and the coldest blue eyes Ive ever seen looks at me; a folded piece of paper rests in her hand as she closes the door to the lab behind her. She has wrinkles that shes probably tried to cover up with Botox injections and the full lips of someone whos tried rejuvenating fillers, and theres a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant hanging from her neck.

I press my finger against a cotton ball that absorbs a drop of blood (I had to come back in for a second rapid HIV test because they told me my blood clotted the first time and they needed another sample) and ask myself if those cold blue eyes bring good news or bad.

I nod, and she signals for me to stand up.

This way, please. She turns her back to me and walks to a door at the end of the hallway. She doesnt even look to check if Im following her. Maybe shes just used to the veiled nervousness that comes with getting tested for HIV.

The blue-haired guy next to me waves and parts his lips into a supportive smile, as if wishing me luck. His finger is also pressed against a cotton ball as he waits for his own results.

I go down the hallway, and it morphs into a blur; Im dizzy with anxiety, sweaty from the heat, and exhausted from all the waiting. Its been only thirty minutes but feels like an eternity.

The therapists office, just like the rest of the clinic, isnt in the best shape: Theres a bucket behind her desk, where drops from a leak fall sporadically and monotonously. The desk is made of wood, and the sawdust on the ground points to a termite infestation. The fan spins lazily overhead, spreading dust and making the October heat even more unbearable in this tiny room with nothing but a jammed window to let some air in.

Please have a seat.

My impression of this woman is that its impossible to like her right away. She has a sour taste about her, as if its her job to give bad news on a daily basis and she isnt exactly comfortable with it.

Why did you decide to get tested, Ian?

Good question. I could tell her the truth about my sex life, about the two times I threw caution to the wind and didnt use a condom because I thought it would be a one-time thing; or I could lie and say that I got a tattoo from a hippie, and the needle he used was rustier than a piece of iron cast out to sea. Whatever my answer, the last thing I want is to face her judgment.

I found out you provide rapid HIV testing here. Im eighteen, and Ive never gotten tested before, so I decided I should, I say, half-lying, half-truthful, looking into those ice-cold eyes that wont stop analyzing me.

The truth is, I have no idea why the hell I chose to come here. The only reason Im not 100 percent regretting being here and having to look this woman in the face is that my health is more important than anything else. Do I need a reason to know my status? Every ad I see about this topic says its important to know your status regardless of your lifestyle or what you do in your free time. And the first thing the therapist asks me is Why did you decide to get tested?

Honestly, if the idea here is not to play the blame game, then her technique needs a lot of work.

Hmm she mumbles, looking at the folded paper in front of her. She hands me my ID, and I put it back in my wallet.

Silence fills every corner of the room for a couple of seconds, but in my mind it feels like a whole week has gone by.

Im afraid I dont have good news. She unfolds the paper, and thats indication enough that, yeah, my life is about to change forever.

The paper is marked up in blue ink, and theres an X between two parentheses next to three uppercase letters:

The good news is that the results came back negative for syphilis and hepatitis C. She tries to smile, and I do the same in the face of what shes calling good news. The bad She doesnt finish the sentence but points to the other markings on the paper, showing that the results for the two different blood samples (so thats why they asked for another sample!) are both positive.

I remain silent, and she hands me the paper.

What does she expect me to do? Frame it?

Do you know who might have infected you?

Infected. As if I were an addicts fucking syringe.

No is my answer.

Because its the truth, but its also a lie. I know who it could have been, but theres only a 50 percent chance that Im right. And its not like Im still in touch with either of those guys, or like I can remember their names or know how to find them.

But, hey, this isnt supposed to be about blame, right?

Really? she insists. Its important that you have a conversation with whomever might

No, I repeat firmly.

All right. Are you in a relationship?

No.

Have you had sexual intercourse without a condom in the last few months?

No.

Not even oral sex?

I remain silent, staring at the floor, tired of this interrogation.

Ian, its important that you speak with your past partners so that they can get tested, too. Her voice is almost kind now, as if shes suddenly realized that shes dealing with a human being and not a goddamn wall. The sooner you tell them, the sooner they can make arrangements to get tested. Understand?

Mhm.

More silence.

Where do we go from here? I ask.

We . I try using the plural pronoun so I can feel a little more supported, but in this moment I know I am all alone.

You will be directed to the infectious diseases department, where youll do another round of exams to confirm the rapid test. After that, its typical to start treatment right away. She opens a drawer gnawed by termites and hands me a photocopy. Bring a copy of these documents to the reception desk so we can put all the bureaucracy behind us.

The woman sighs, tired, showing a sign of humanity for only the second time this afternoon.

My ears are buzzing; I feel numb and certain that if I take a deeper breath, Ill start crying. So I focus and stare at the leak in the ceiling.

Look, she continues. People dont have to die from this anymore. If you follow proper treatment, your life can be as normal as anyone elses. But Ill let the infectious diseases specialist discuss all that with you.