DyingIs an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well
-Lazy Lazarus (Sylvia Plath)
Yes, I just quoted Plath, but trust me, things are very far from being that bad. Just thinking about writing after the comment on the last post about journalism. I don't think I should feel guilt for taking opportunities that are offered to me because of my status among other things, I just think it's a slight shift of thinking to go from the virus being something that threatens to destroy everything I have (which it never did, but I think we all have that fear somewhere) to being something that opens up doors for you.
So, with that bouyancy in mind, it was probably a good time to visit a friend of mine in hospital in Hampstead with Hep C (they think) and some other bizarre complications. He wasn't restricted to the ward, his condition having improved quite a bit, but still he was very obviously ill, his eyes were golden irises against whites of lemon. His skin was bronzed even though he's not been in the sun for weeks. The colour of Dettol, I'd guess. He'd lost a lot of weight since I last saw him, and he'd lost a lot of weight then, something like a quarter to a third of his former body weight gone in the last six months or so.
While obviously I'd known he's been ill, he made mention of being on the transplant list and how he was being moved over to long-term benefits, which I'd interpret as meaning that they're not expecting him to get any better in a hurry, which must be hard on anyone. My boyfriend came with me to meet him, but although the three of us were chatting, drinking fattening Starbucks drinks and went to the cinema as a group while I battled jetlag to stay chirpy and my friend battled fatigue to bring humour, I could see my boyfriend was processing a lot while we were all together. I am not particularly phased by people who are ill or disabled, although I was a bit squeamish when a friend sent me a photo of his broken wrist scar this morning, but I'm sure he was struck by it.
It wasn't easy for me, either, to see someone ill, knowing that in part I have the same thing within me. I'm hoping that I can avoid the same fate, although I can't rule out that possibility completely. I've never been so good at towing the line, so I don't know how adherant I'd be to medication, or how responsive to instructions about avoiding possible harm to myself. That said, after diagnosis, I've taken much better care of myself than I was doing beforehand, cutting out the recreationals and the parties and the orgiastic life, walk most of the journeys I make and generally manage my life a little more sensibly than I was doing before, so I can't say my prognosis for life is one of terrible decay and unstoppable doom or anything like that.
And hey, if I get ill, I get ill, it's hardly like I'm going to be kicking myself about it, just like I'm not wagging my finger at my friends who have been ill with this thing. That Good AIDS, Bad AIDS thing really hacks me off, I tell you that for nowt. Besides which I think I have BadGood or GoodBad AIDS because I could either have caught it while recklessly fucking around on drugs (BadAIDS) or from my ex (GoodAIDS) but it's moot. Sure as eggs is eggs, I've got HIV and there ain't a great deal I can be doing about that.
My friend might die. That happens. If you're deterministic enough to say that it's possible for actions to bring specific consequences, then you're deterministic enough to acknowledge that those actions were in themselves consequences, so coulda and shoulda can't really be applied with any sense of meaningful authority.
Barebacking is to HIV what a short dress is to rape?
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