Chapter 20 Henry
Henry
Ihad walked like a zombie through the last week as we waited for my comprehensive re-test to come back.
I alternately felt like I was sure it would come back negative - HIV happened to other people, dammit - and like my life was over.
Jamison hovered over me as much as he could get away with, an air of guardianship surrounding him like he was a mama bear and I was his cub.
Honestly, it got a little stifling. I mean, I appreciated his care, I truly did, and I wasn’t sure how I’d have gotten through the first few days without him taking responsibility for, well, just about everything.
But he was so relentlessly, determinedly upbeat.
He refused to truly consider whether it was a good - or realistic - idea that he would stay with me.
All I kept getting from him was It’s not too much and We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
He didn’t seem to understand that the fucking bridge was looming right in front of us and it had no end in sight.
So here we were, eight days after I got the “positive” message, back in the doctor’s office to receive the results of my re-test. I was simultaneously clutching his hand and trying to fight the urge to smack the calm look off his face.
Yeah, I was a mess.
“Ok,” my doctor said as she opened the file folder in her lap. “So I’m going to get right into it. Your viral load result was -”
Fuck. I sagged into my chair. Jamison’s grip on my hand tightened. I was pretty sure I missed her next sentence as my hearing greyed out.
“- which confirms that you have, indeed, contracted HIV,” she went on, either not noticing or choosing not to acknowledge either of our reactions.
“I want you to know that this is not a death sentence.” She looked up and met my eyes.
“I want you to understand that HIV is a serious chronic illness, but you also need to understand that you can live a long and relatively normal life while having it, the same as with many other chronic conditions. I fully expect you to die, after a long life, with HIV, not of HIV.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. This was nothing I hadn’t read, or had to listen to Jamison recite to me, before. It was easy for her to say; she wasn’t the one who would die if she ran out of medication or, hell, maybe still die even if she kept taking it perfectly.
“Our goal,” her monologue continued, “is to get your viral load to undetectable, since, as you probably already know, undetectable equals untransmissible. Your viral load right now is 250,000, which is typical for early HIV, and your CD4 - immune cell - count was normal, which is good news. I put you on Biktarvy last week; how have you been doing on that?”
Oh, was it finally my turn to talk? How kind of her.
“Pretty ok, I guess?” I ventured, unsure exactly what criteria I was supposed to be using to evaluate that.
“I tend to get nauseous right after I take it, but other than that I feel…normal?” Not like I was carrying a deadly passenger, which in turn just felt wrong.
“Normal is good,” she returned with a smile.
“And nausea is very common and is generally not a reason to change treatment if it’s manageable.
I can write you a prescription for Zofran if the nausea gets to the point of being disruptive.
” She paused, considering. “In fact, let me write that now. It doesn’t hurt to have on hand. ”
The rest of the appointment was a blur. She talked at me endlessly, going on about side effects, dose frequency, viral load monitoring, and therapy.
Therapy?
Therapy.
Should’ve seen that coming, but I honestly hadn’t expected my, you know, physical doctor to give much thought to my mental health. Which, in retrospect, was probably silly, but in my defense, I really still wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Anyway, we left the doctor’s office with two new prescriptions in my hand and Jamison chattering in my ear about finding me a therapist and a support group. Which, I mean, they weren’t bad ideas, but I was exhausted just thinking about them, let alone trying to do them.
To be completely honest, I was exhausted trying to exist at this point. I felt like I was slogging through wet concrete every day. My googling had informed me that depression and shock were totally normal in my situation, which did exactly nothing to make me feel better about living it.
I was a mess, and the messier I got, the more determined to be helpful Jamison seemed to get.
“So I can call the group therapy coordinator for you,” Jamison was saying as we shut the car doors, “and get your intake there started. Researching therapists your insurance covers will be -”
Suddenly it was all too much. I couldn’t take how…bright he was. It burned me, and besides that, I felt like I was a cloud of gloom that was just going to obscure his light if he hung around me too long. “I think we should take a break,” I interrupted him abruptly.
There was a long moment of silence as we stared at each other, both obviously shocked at what had come out of my mouth; him, because obviously he hadn’t been part of my internal monologue, and me, because despite my internal monologue I hadn’t expected to say that out loud.
“What?” he finally said, eyes wide.
I swallowed. “I…I think we should take a break,” I said again, injecting a note of resolution into my voice that I didn’t actually feel. “This is just…too much.”
“Too much for you, or too much for me?”
I considered that. “Honestly, both? I’m overwhelmed -”
“- which is why I’m doing my best to help you accomplish -” he began, but I went on, talking over him.
“- and you’ve done nothing but take care of me for the past week, and I know your work is suffering. And that’s not to mention everything else about your life, which you’ve also put on hold.”
His eyes widened. “Hen, I’m more than happy to -”
“But you shouldn’t have to!” I burst out, startling him into jerking back. “I’m an adult, and I can - should - care for myself. And…” Should I say it? The words were pressing against my lips, fighting to come out, but I knew if I said them, this would get a hundred times worse.
They burst out anyway: “And I feel smothered. I need some time alone. Without you.”
Jamison drew in a sharp breath. “Hen…”
“I know that’s not your intention,” I attempted to soften the blow. “I know you’re trying to help. And you’ve been a help. But I just…I need to be alone.”
“Hen, I don’t think that’s a good choice to make,” he said, obviously attempting to steady the wobble in his voice to no avail.
I firmed my lips. “But it’s my choice. And I should get to make it, not you.” That scored a direct hit, and he seemed to draw into himself. Suddenly claustrophobic, I reached for the door handle. “I’m gonna take a walk or something. You go on; I’ll call an Uber.”
“Hen…”
I was scrambling out of the car before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. “I just need some time,” I told him as I stood. “I’ll call you.”
“Hen, don’t go. I can -”
I didn’t slam the car door. I was careful to close it gently. I didn’t want him to think I was angry, because I wasn’t. Heartsore. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. All of those, but I wasn’t angry. At least not at him.