negativity

First off, the language is all backwards, where a positive result is about as negative as they come, and a negative result is, well... not.

I went in for an HIV test. I was asked if I wanted a rapid test or to wait two weeks for a lab blood test. The only downside to the rapid test seemed to be that a positive result would have to be verified with a lab blood test. Okay, it seemed straightforward enough... I chose to know right away and risk having to confirm a result. Climbing has somewhat thickened the skin on my fingertips, so the finger pricking to pull the tiny amount of blood required for the rapid test was more prolonged then expected, but eventually it was managed, and the volunteer at the clinic took my tiny vial of blood away to run the test. I passed the time while I was waiting for him to come back by hyperventilating. Okay, maybe not that bad. Counting my heartbeat in my throbbing temples, maybe... stuff like that.

Then he came back in, and it was clear. Evident. Frightening. From the way he sat down and looked at me I could tell. There it was. There was a problem. Except that there was only one problem that was possible here... two possible results, one good and one bad. So if there was a problem, then that was it. I felt it run through me like an electric shock. The cold certainty that I was HIV positive.

"Remember when I explained the test results?" he asked. "One dot for negative, and two dots for positive." I nodded, unable to speak. "You have one dot..." he said, showing me the test kit. I looked at the single dot and sighed deeply. I had been wrong! Everything was fine!

"...and a very faint second dot."

I looked more closely, and noticed what he was talking about. Only barely visible was a very faint second dot. The bad dot.

"We call that a 'shadow positive'," he explained, "and it almost never happens." All the fun, always for me. "We have no idea what this result means. We can do another rapid test if you like, but we'll have to do a lab test regardless to confirm." I didn't really see the point of running another rapid test if I had to wait for a lab result anyway, so he pulled a vial of blood, gave me a pamphlet on testing positive to help me prepare "just in case" and I left the clinic to try and continue with my life until I got the result of the lab test.

Really, at this point I was completely convinced that I was positive, even without the lab test. I had incredibly and increasingly wild scenarios running through my head. I would not only never be able to have any kind of sex again, I might be unable to go out in public at all. I wouldn't be able to cook for anyone in case I cut myself, wouldn't be able to have a roommate in case I slipped in the shower, wouldn't be able to climb in case I bled on something or someone, wouldn't be able to hold a baby in case we both somehow fell and suffered some kind of joint and messy damage. Life would, essentially, be over.

I worked through scenarios in my head for sticking to my new drug régime. I embraced the idea of celibacy (as I still couldn't believe that sex would ever again be possible). I worked out what it would cost to join the drug plan at work, and spent some time reviewing my current insurance plan, as I knew that applying for another would no longer be possible. Then I started really getting scared, waking nightmares where I accidentally infected friends and family. I could live, you see, with the idea of being infected myself, but not with the idea of infecting someone else. Then, slowly but surely, I managed to scale back the panic; to get something of a grip. I read the pamphlet, found out more about real risk of transmission, remembered that I rarely hold babies while tightrope-walking over a forest of razor blades, and decided that being positive would be manageable, if still far from ideal. Some part of my life would still be possible.

Returning for the result of the lab test seemed almost pointless, but I showed up regardless, as confirmation was the next step in the big plan. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips as I waited in the waiting room of the clinic. My name was finally called, by the same gentle, calm, reassuring volunteer, and he led me into the office and closed the door. Before even sitting, he turned to me and said, "Your lab result was negative," and handed me the result from the lab. I looked at him, confused, and tried to read the piece of paper in my hands. None of it made any sense, though. He watched, clearly concerned, as I tried to put it all together. "It's all right," I tried to reassure him. "It's just that I... I was really very prepared to hear... another answer."

I went back for another test, 14 weeks after the first test. Had another lab test. Tested negative again.

I might be ready to believe it this time. Maybe tomorrow, even.