I stared into space as she explained reassuringly the procedure
she was about to undertake. A tight knot was slowly forming in my stomach, this
was the first time I was having a HIV test done knowingly.
“I need your details please, name and phone number.”
I shot her a look.
“Why? Isn’t this supposed to be anonymous?”
I formed a mental image of leaked results. HIV-positive
results. My name and phone number on full display.
I looked over at my boyfriend, he chuckled, grabbed the pen and
filled in his contacts.
“Everything will be confidential, we just need the details
in case we need to communicate further with you.” She explained.
I have come across many clinical studies in my line of work… HIV studies. I imagined they might want to recruit me in one of those.
The knot in my stomach grew bigger and blood rushed out of my constricted
heart. Blood.. my blood, oh the thought!
“Was it clear of HIV?” I was clearly in full panic mode.
I thought about my sexual encounters. I considered myself
responsible but truth is I was not always 100% so.The face of a former boyfriend came into my mind.
“Was he always faithful?”
“Why did I allow the illusion of monogamy cloud my judgment?”
“What if he had put me at risk?”
Then another image crept into my mind.
A shameful image.
The image of a man I liked, a man I got into an undefined
relation with. We went on dates, he made me laugh, I was eager for him to think
highly of me. An independent woman. The not-clingy type. So when we eventually
had sex, I did not ask what we were doing, where we were headed. I let it be. I
was caught up in a situationship, lost power to negotiate for better terms.
Then one many nights later, high on beer and drunk in lust,
we let it slip. He did away with the rubber and I did not protest.
Sex without a condom is that slippery slope. When it begins
it becomes a habit. The illusion of trust already created.
“Make a tight fist.” The lady broke into my little regretful reverie.
She was drawing blood from my boyfriend’s arm he looked on
without flinching, my shivers deepened and I looked away. I am terrified of
needles.
It was now my turn, I hesitated, asked my beau to step
outside with me.
“I don’t think I can do it” I muttered.
“The first time is always hard, but everything will be
alright.” He said as he gave me a reassuring hug.
“You don’t know that!” I protested.
It was a new relationship, things were moving very fast, we
were having protected sex but I felt the need to have the test just to allay
any fears. Plus having turned thirty, it was time I took charge of my sexual
health. I needed to know where I stood and being in a new relationship was the
perfect time to do the test.
“You want me to take the test for you? he teased, making a reference to occurrences in my past relationships.
I laughed nervously. And briefly considered the option.
In two previous
relationships, my partners had taken the tests alone. I was too scared to
follow suit and so I assigned myself their statuses seeing that we were having
unprotected sex, a foolish thing to do considering cases of discordant couples.
I finally mustered the courage and we walked into the
phlebotomy room, I laid out my arm, and looked away in terror as the needle
made its way towards a vein.
“This is worse than the fear of the results!” I quipped as
the sharp pain soared throughout my body.
But it was a lie. The next thirty minutes were the worst in
recent memory. I was flooded with regret, remorse and anger. Anger because I put
my life in someone else’s hands, I let frivolous emotions dictate the course of
my life. I had sex with a boyfriend without knowing for sure my status, I put
another human at risk.
I bargained with God to change my status, I promised to
always use a condom, until that was no longer an option, when I finally settled in marriage. My mind could not fathom the idea that I could be negative, I had
trusted too much and been too foolish for far too long. I had to be punished.
“Thirty minutes are over, babe.” He announced as he abruptly
stood up.
He had been trying to sooth me throughout the waiting period
but I was too deep in thought to understand a word. He asked me to wait in the
hospital cafeteria as he went to pick up the results.
“No!” I shouted, creating a small scene.
“If you go alone, I know you will read them beforehand and I
do not want to read the results all over your face!”
I was becoming paranoid and made little sense.
He took my hand and we walked to the clinic. The lady was
thankfully talking over the phone and so I could not “read” the results on her
face. She stapled them and put them in an envelope as she carried on with her
conversation, handing us the results nonchalantly.
The next ten minutes were probably the worst ever. I grabbed
both envelopes, I did not want him to unceremoniously check the results. I had
to be ready, calm and collected. Far from it, the more I waited, the worse the
situation became. I was sweating, stammering, nauseous and crying all at the
same time. My boyfriend was getting alarmed, I was no longer listening to him
and seemed to be completely out of it.
He grabbed my arms and held me still. Looked me in the eyes
and told me either way, it will be fine. If we were both infected we would walk
the journey together and if one was infected, the same remains true. And in his
usual humor, he added that if we were both negative, then that would be a license to
sex like rabbits. I took a deep breath and opened his results first, they were
negative.
I gave him a big hug. He did not seem exhilarated by the
results, he had the composure and self-assurance of a man who knew where he
stood, I quietly envied him. Now it was my turn, another short pep talk later,
I opened the envelope with shaky hands and liquid eyes.
And then I jumped into his arms.
The flood of emotions that had built up the whole day came
rushing down and as he held me tightly I made a quick prayer to God and two
promises to myself.
I will always have a test before and after a relationship and
use condoms throughout consistently. I have to take responsibility over my
health, my life.
I realize now that it was foolish to equate unprotected sex
in a relationship to a deeper love and even more foolish to let it slip whilst
in a situationship.
I grew up with the
message of ‘good girl’ being drummed into me, and good girls do not carry
condoms, promiscuous girls do. All my sexually-active life, I had been terrified
of my mother finding out that I was not ‘waiting’, and because of that, I always
relied on the man to carry the condoms.
This changes now, mum, next time you come to visit and need
some lip balm from my bag, you will probably stumble upon my new ‘permanent-bag-fixture’
and if you ask about it, I will tell you…
I am taking control of my sexual health.
