Chapter 19 Jamison
Jamison
Hen was bouncing off the walls with anxiety by the time we got home from the doctor’s office the next morning.
The appointment had been anti-climatic in a lot of ways, the doctor reserving judgment on much of anything until the results of the more specific tests came in.
She’d written a prescription for antiretrovirals that he was to begin taking immediately - “as a precaution”, she’d said - and she’d urged him to do some research about living with HIV.
I strongly suspected the hard part would be to get him to stop researching - could you doomscroll research?
By the time we got back to his house, Hen was utterly drained from holding himself together. When he reached for his Xanax bottle, I knew he was just Done, with a capital D. I watched him swallow the pill dry and wished there was something, anything I could do.
And yes, I wished my test results would come in so I knew where I stood, but I wasn’t going to mention that to Hen.
He needed the added stress of my worry like he needed a hole in the head.
So I held it together for him, urging him into bed and stroking his hair and talking soothingly to him as the benzo took effect and he first fell into a doze and then started snoring lightly.
And then I went into the living room, picked up my phone, and started obsessively checking my notifications.
Why weren’t my results coming in? Did the delay mean something?
Probably not, I told myself; different labs just worked at different speeds, and it probably just so happened that Hen’s doctor used a different lab than mine did.
That didn’t help my anxiety much, I mused, and then felt guilty for even thinking the word anxiety in relation to myself when I knew that mine was nothing in comparison to Hen’s or Charlie’s.
Charlie. Should I tell her what was going on?
She was my closest confidant, and she knew we were at risk and testing.
And I really, really wanted to talk this anxiety (ugh) out with someone.
Ultimately, though, I decided that I couldn’t in good conscience tell her about Hen’s results.
It simply wasn’t my story to tell, and if he wanted others to know he’d tested positive, that was his decision to make.
But I couldn’t stop myself from checking in with Charlie to blow off some steam.
Me: How do you live like this?
Charlie: [blink.gif] Huh?
Me: I’m waiting for my latest test results and they’re not coming in and I’m just sitting here anxiously and obsessively checking my phone hoping they do come in and just…how do you live with anxiety as a Thing?
Charlie: Oh my sweet summer child. Anxiety over something distinct and realistic is so much easier to deal with than anxiety for anxiety’s sake. Try being anxious because it’s Tuesday and Tuesday “is just bad, for reasons,” and then we’ll talk about dealing with anxiety as a Thing.
Charlie: But more seriously, and here I give you the advice I truly and vividly hate to receive because fuck that, but try not to worry too much. There’s nothing you can do at this point to affect those test results, no matter how much you worry about them. So there’s no point doing the worrying.
Me: Thanks, I hate it too. That doesn’t help at all.
Charlie: Yeah, it never does. It’s true though. Can you vent to Hen, blow off some steam?
I winced and glanced over my shoulder at the bedroom door, through which I could still hear Hen’s snores.
Me: No, it would just make things worse for him. He’s…already anxious.
Charlie didn’t know that Hen shared her anxiety diagnosis, and now I couldn't tell her that he had tested positive for HIV, either. Sometimes being respectful of others sucked balls.
My sister wasn’t dumb, however, and she showed it.
Charlie: Anxious, or ANXIOUS?
Me: Sigh. Charlie.
Charlie: I’m not asking you to tell me his medical diagnosis, bro. But this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned him being ‘anxious’ or ‘nervous’ or other such words. You know I, of all people, will get it if he has anxiety. And maybe I can give you - or him - some advice for living with it.
I sighed out loud this time.
Me: It’s a thing for him, ok? I’m not saying any more than that because it’s not my place to talk about what he experiences. But it’s been hard for him, these past couple months.
Charlie: I.e. the period in which he’s had you? Are you making things hard for the poor guy?
Charlie: And I swear to god if you make a dick joke right now I will reach through the phone and strangle you.
I backspaced the joke I’d already been typing, wincing.
Me: I mean yes, the same time period, but that kind of goes along with how we met more than it has anything to do with me causing stress. I think. I hope. I mean, he seems happy to be with me.
Charlie: Joking aside, I’m glad of that. You seem happier now that you’re with him, too. But he’s still, you know, anxious?
Me: You know even “the love of a good man” can’t cure that.
Charlie: Ah, so it is a thing.
Charlie: No, no, I know, you’re not going to say. But I’m just gonna proceed as if it’s a thing at this point. You don’t have to confirm or deny or tell me anything you think he wouldn’t want me to know.
Charlie: Of course, if you’d let me meet him, he and I could bond and probably talk this over live, but nooo, for some reason you don’t want your sister to meet your boyfriend because blah blah my forceful personality yadda yadda I’d embarrass you.
I paused, waiting for yet another message to flood in from her, but nothing came, so after a minute I started typing.
Me: Now is not the time, Charlie. Give me the damn advice. I know you have it.
Charlie: Ok, my two-part advice. Part 1, for neurotypicals: Distract yourself. Keep in mind that there’s nothing you can do to change things at this point and worrying will only hurt you and not accomplish anything. Vent to friends if and when you can; a problem shared is a problem halved.
I considered her advice. It was all good points, and I supposed I could try to make use of it, but it all felt a little…beside the point when there was actually a real, existential threat to my health and safety looming over my head.
Charlie: Part 2, for the neurodiverse: Take your meds.
Be in therapy and use the fuck out of your therapist. Then, distractions, whether that’s copious amounts of sex, taking up knitting, or obsessing about brushing your cats.
Let your friends be your supports and lean on them even when it feels like you’re wronging them by doing that.
Don’t drink too much, as tempting as it is.
Charlie: Honestly, Jamie, I know you don’t want to tell me private things about him, and I know you’re afraid of what I’d say if I met him, but like…
if he really has anxiety? He may not have any friends he feels like he can truly vent to that would understand.
Give him my number and tell him I’m happy to talk and I promise that I won’t be weird.
Well, I mean, weirder than I already am. The baseline weirdness is inescapable.
I smiled at that. I loved my sister. She was, yes, weird, and pushy, and overprotective of me at times, but she was a genuinely good person who wanted to help.
I was still wary of her overwhelming my Hen, both with her personality and with embarrassing stories about me, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to put them in touch.
Me: I’ll think about it. I really only know of one close friend he has, and I’m not sure where they are on the polite-friendship to balls-to-the-wall-friendship scale. But you have to promise not to, like, threaten him or anything.
Charlie: As if I would do that to you. Come on.
Me: You scared the fuck out of the last date of mine you met.
Charlie: Not my fault that guy was freaked out by my wearing six-inch stilettos and being able to talk in a baritone when I want. You’re definitely better off without that one.
I cracked a smile at that. Yeah, that guy had been too weirded out by my having a trans sister to be worth my time. Charlie had probably saved me a lot of time and effort on that one.
Me: Yeah, fair. But Charlie…I really like this one. Please don’t fuck it up for me.
Charlie: Oh, hon. I wouldn’t. I just want to help.
A noise came from the bedroom, and I paused my typing as I listened, trying to identify what I’d heard. It came again, more clearly this time: a deep groan. Either Hen was enjoying himself a little too much, or he was having a bad dream.
Me: gg, I think Hen’s having a nightmare.
Charlie: Wait, why is he asleep in the middle of the workday? And why are you with him in the middle of your workday?
Me: Sick day. I’ll explain later. Ttyl.
I pocketed my phone and stood up. If Hen was going to be having nightmares, I wouldn’t leave him to have them alone.
In the bedroom, I found him on his side, twisted up in the blankets, with one hand hanging out of the cocoon he’d made for himself. That hand was flexing and relaxing repeatedly as he groaned and moaned through what appeared to be a most unpleasant dream.
Without hesitation, I climbed onto the bed, wrapping myself around Hen’s larger form. “You’re okay, baby,” I whispered, taking hold of his free hand and urging it back to the surface of the bed. I gently slipped my finger between his and gave a squeeze. “It’s a dream.”
Hen stiffened for a long moment, and then his eyes fluttered open. “Jamie?”
I loved hearing him call me by my nickname. It gave me warm fuzzies. “Hey.” I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You were having a bad dream, I think.”
He sighed groggily. “Yeah.” His eyes drifted closed again. “Scary. You were sick.”