Friday, June 17, 2005
For the last few years I have been even more “single” than in my college days. As a single gay man I’ve finally been doing what others do: go out, party, meet guys, and try to meet Mr. Right (and have a little fun along the way).
In the process I’m sorry to report that there seems to be more and more people in my community that are HIV-positive. Jean’s informal survey has estimated the sexually-active, bar fly infection rate at 25%. In dating people here, my informal survey puts it at 33%. (Admittedly, though, Jean and I tend to meet some fucked up people, which is for another Opera show.)
Knowing my own status was long overdue. I sucked it up and finally got tested. I really didn’t want to know - ignorance is bliss – but went through it anyhow. Not knowing, and being in a high risk group, has its own torments. So Friday they drew blood and tested me for a number of things.
They told me it would be a few days before I knew the results and, since then, I dismissed it from my mind. That was, of course, until today when I got a message on my cell phone from the doctor asking me “how I was feeling” and telling me to call him back to get the results.
I was mortified. Why would he ask me how I was feeling? And why would the doctor himself call when normally the nurse would? In dialing his number my hands were shaking and my voice wobbled - I nearly had a panic attack.
Of course, I couldn’t get a hold of him and the anxiety continued for several more hours.
Finally, sitting at my desk, he called. In what seemed like an eternity he finally said: “All your tests came back fine --nothing to worry about. Remember, condoms and abstinence are the only way to go.”
The entire free world could have, perhaps, felt my sigh of relief as years of wonder were put at ease (I’ve been thinking about doing this for a LONG time). It was as if the weight of the world was on my back, then lifted.
But, then again, being HIV-positive would have given me a tragic life of a terminally ill person whose life would be cut short just as I finally fell in love, or some shit like that.
But seriously, this healthy existence was easy to embrace. There’s a lot of world out there to explore and I would not want it to be cut short, even if it were the stuff of a great 21st century opera (or bad Broadway play).
Let’s keep the tragedy in the opera house.
In the process I’m sorry to report that there seems to be more and more people in my community that are HIV-positive. Jean’s informal survey has estimated the sexually-active, bar fly infection rate at 25%. In dating people here, my informal survey puts it at 33%. (Admittedly, though, Jean and I tend to meet some fucked up people, which is for another Opera show.)
Knowing my own status was long overdue. I sucked it up and finally got tested. I really didn’t want to know - ignorance is bliss – but went through it anyhow. Not knowing, and being in a high risk group, has its own torments. So Friday they drew blood and tested me for a number of things.
They told me it would be a few days before I knew the results and, since then, I dismissed it from my mind. That was, of course, until today when I got a message on my cell phone from the doctor asking me “how I was feeling” and telling me to call him back to get the results.
I was mortified. Why would he ask me how I was feeling? And why would the doctor himself call when normally the nurse would? In dialing his number my hands were shaking and my voice wobbled - I nearly had a panic attack.
Of course, I couldn’t get a hold of him and the anxiety continued for several more hours.
Finally, sitting at my desk, he called. In what seemed like an eternity he finally said: “All your tests came back fine --nothing to worry about. Remember, condoms and abstinence are the only way to go.”
The entire free world could have, perhaps, felt my sigh of relief as years of wonder were put at ease (I’ve been thinking about doing this for a LONG time). It was as if the weight of the world was on my back, then lifted.
But, then again, being HIV-positive would have given me a tragic life of a terminally ill person whose life would be cut short just as I finally fell in love, or some shit like that.
But seriously, this healthy existence was easy to embrace. There’s a lot of world out there to explore and I would not want it to be cut short, even if it were the stuff of a great 21st century opera (or bad Broadway play).
Let’s keep the tragedy in the opera house.
# posted by otas : 7:19 AM
