It’s time for another 6 month check up, so I’m doing it here at home.
When it actually got around to booking the appointment for this check-up, shenanigans were had. I tried to book it in Hull, after they had bugged me about it for about a month – so when I actually got round to making the appointment, to see the usual consultant, I was told Usha was to be off on sabbatical for the next God-knows-how-long, so it would be simply impossible for me to come and see her. Helpful, they are. So while I made an appointment to go in and see them (I say them – some random consultant I would have had to wait in the walk-in clinic for), I fobbed it off when an argument over the fate of a can of baked beans pushed me over the edge and on the next train to my partner’s town.
So, I made one here. No mean feat, I’ll have you know. I rang up, just the other day, and after ringing engaged a few times, I got hold of someone.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hi. Can I make an appointment for a 6 month HIV check-up?”
“Do you want the full screen or a partial screen?”
“... no, I already have HIV.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Yeah, so, six month check up?”
“Well I can book you in on the 27th of April.”
“Oh, right... well, I won’t be here... got anything earlier?”
“No, sorry...”
“...Veccy, is that you?”
“Yeah. Oh, shit! Hi! How are you?”
“Fine – it’s time for a check up, though.”
“OK, well... let me see when I can pencil you in. Anna-Louisa finishes at 11:30 on Monday but I just asked her and she says she can see you at twelve.”
“Nice one, see you then.”
Ah, friends in high places. Working there killed me, but now I get all the PAP smears I want.
PosLife.
]]>So all I’m left with now is the usual malaise of being back in this shithole after spending a fantastic five days at my boyfriend’s house. I had a really good time, in all honesty, we ate a lot, we drank a lot, and I even managed to get a modicum of work done. Now, if only we could convince him to move here, I might actually end up living somewhere with more charm than Beirut. But, anyway, I’m home. I’ve spent my day nursing a headache and a stiff neck (that mysteriously materialised following a ‘flu vaccination – I’ll take the Vegas odds on that one), and wandering around the library picking up one or two books on colorectal cancer. Because that’s what I like to do in my free time.
Maybe we’re harking back to a previous entry a little much, but I’d like to point out that I had the least competent needle-nurse available in the shops today. Bent immunisation needle, she couldn’t find a vein. I’ve come back to this place with a lot more holes than I set off with. But lo, I shall keep you updated over the Christmas period if it transpires that my internet connection still works there. I’m on tenterhooks.
PosLife.
]]>More to come when I'm awake.
]]>I took a trip to the doctor’s surgery today – which wasn’t without its charms. It got me out of the house for about half an hour. My reason for visiting was the second chest infection in about a month, courtesy of the more feckless of my two housemates wandering around the house while simultaneously coughing on the washing up and leaving a trail of used tissues behind him. Regardless of the other, less feckless, of the two telling him this was a bad idea with an immunocompromised person in the house, he did it anyway. I’m going to start spitting in his tea.
I was a little early, but I knew that it didn’t matter what time I finally turned up – I still wouldn’t be apportioned to the now legendary Joan Clarke – legendary only insofar as no-one who is registered with her has actually been subject to her consultation. But nevertheless, I would have been happier not to get Dr. Ogunlesi. Dr. Ogunlesi is, in no uncertain terms, completely unsuited to his profession. Now, in Hull, we have recently had a spate of redundancies in many local sectors – the caravan industry for one – and many skilled and able tradesmen have lost their livelihood. Not Dr. Ogunlesi. He’s still employed and making a general nuisance of himself.
I mentioned that I was now suffering from the second chest infection in six weeks. He noted that I have HIV and so decided that it would be a good idea to get the stethoscope involved. Anyway, after the quickest and more futile once-over I have ever been given, he thought it a good idea to give me some more antibiotics, although his records showed I had only come off the last batch about two weeks ago. The records were wrong, of course, but he argued their merits. And then gave me a prescription anyway.
Of course, the course of antibiotics wasn’t going to be enough, oh no. I had to walk four miles to a different clinic where a chest X-ray would be carried it. But it could only be carried out between the hours of 11 and 2. It was already 12, and so I was told it might be a good idea if I get a move on. I then told him the original reason I had gone to the doctor’s that morning – my ankle is fucked. My ankle has now been fucked for the past two months, and some days, I can barely walk on it. I suggested that maybe my recurring ligament injury was playing up. He shrugged it off. Take two ibuprofen for the pain, he said. And off I went, into the great blue, looking for some radiologist or other.
The only upshot is that the 4-mile-distant radiology shack was staffed by a friend today. Who gave me cigarettes – the perfect complement to a chest X-ray. Cheers, Stuart.
]]>Unusually for me, I don’t have a cigarette hanging out of my mouth as I write this, and my humour isn’t in gear tonight to put this entry into a nicely irreverent tone. That’s not to say that this is going to turn into a full on barrage of self-doubt, but damn it, I’m going to try my best. Right now, though, I’m having problems. I know that any Psychology student could turn round to me and tell me that I was transferring my problems into areas of my life that don’t need such due care and attention, and that really, I’m being hugely irrational about everything and that I just need to relax, but I can’t. I’m in trouble. I need help.
Next week, I have the appointment that will determine whether I need to start my first round of anti-retroviral treatment. A simple trip to the house in which I used to live ended up with me receiving a letter that has really thrown me – they’re altered my appointment, to a time two hours later than that originally booked. I don’t know why such a petty thing should bring everything to the fore, but I think having to be on the phone to the place, when the last thing I wanted to think about was my illness, might have had quite a lot to do with it. I rang them, the woman on the other end announced that she had no idea why I had had another appointment pencilled in, but I would be better to take that one as it was a longer slot.
Fair game, Cerys.
And so, it being a Wednesday, the plan was to go out tonight and celebrate what could be my last week as a drinker. But I couldn’t settle in, not even for a second. We sat there, me nursing my pint of Kronenbourg, Tristan knocking back glass after glass of Tetley’s, smoking and trying the best we could to dance around the situation, but it just didn’t work. We even tried wandering over to a troupe of first years and sparking up a conversation, but by the time we were asked politely to leave by the security staff, I had totally lost whatever vibe I had. And so, while Tristan queued for the cash machine, I took it upon myself to dutifully head home and take care of the place.
The crux of all of this is that I’m extremely, extremely unhappy. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life, and I don’t enjoy it. I spend my days traipsing to town and back for no good reason other than it being something to do that constitutes exercise, and it’s something that I can do without eating or smoking (you should never eat out on the street, it’s crass, and smoking and walking were never going to be a great combination.) I’m back at University, it’s Fresher’s week, and while I should be out partying the night away, getting horrifically smashed, and turning up at 6am the next day, I just cannot bring myself to do it. All I can do is worry about how many calories I have had every day (because God forbid I get fat again), how much money I am spending and how much I can possibly save (not that there is a great deal of point, because I don’t spend what I save or put it towards any great venture), and what will happen to me when they put me on medication. And that isn’t even the worst part.
They’re not going to tell me that I NEED to go onto medication – they’re going to tell me that I have the choice to go onto medication or not. And this is not what I need, because with the way my mind is at the moment, I have a horrible feeling I might tell them where to shove their protease inhibitors and walk away to die on my own somewhere in a corner. I mean, God knows that next year, due to my unfortunate selection of housemates who all do courses that require the third year to be spent abroad, I will be living alone. So I might as well be dying alone. Most worryingly, this is the way I have begun to think of myself and my University life, and I’m about ready to pack it all in. What had started out as mild concerns about how the new semester was going to pan out have become mini-despairs caused by my own downward spiral into what could possible be, at the end of the day, the start of something resembling clinical depression. Needless to say, when the term begins, the clashes and the difficulties, any lack of understanding, and the ever present inability to relax by having a pint and a smoke, is going to make life a hell of a lot more difficult for my housemates, my friends, my partner, and I suppose least importantly, me.
I’m just not positive anymore.
PosLife.
]]>It’s Friday afternoon, and after a wonderful week of work at the Yorkshire Cancer research Network (putting in data, watching the clock, and trying to avoid the evil of cake Fridays which I have just recently succumbed to), my time here is coming to an end. I think I’ve worked here on and off for about six weeks now, although, I can’t really be sure, and at some point in the middle of next week, I will be leaving so that I have enough time to pack my shite and head back to University.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am looking forward to going back to University. Own place, usual suspects as a crowd of friends, and the opportunity to do my own cooking again. It should all be great, but there is one thing that has been playing on my mind, so much so that recently, I’ve actually been losing a great deal of sleep over it.
On October the 8th, I’m going to be starting the first course of drugs.
Now, I know for a fact that this shouldn’t really bother me half as much as it does. But the funny part is (hold your breath, it’s so worth it), I still haven’t told my family about the diagnosis. You would have thought, maybe, that it’s the sort of newsworthy nugget that would have taken the headline spot on the monthly familial bulletin. But, of course, being me, it hasn’t. None of them, not my psychotic aunt or my chain-smoking Andy Capp-esque grandmother, are any the wiser. Maybe this is the best way, who the hell knows, because when someone’s first reaction to your coming out is to stab you in the shoulder with a cake knife, you don’t really feel you can open up to them about such a subject.
The most heartbreaking thing about it is that, when I came out, my parents’ main worries were that I wouldn’t be safe - that is to say, something like this would happen to me. Worryingly, they were right. So, needless to say, not a word of the HIV has been breathed to them or anyone even vaguely connected to them.
I am tit, really, aren’t I.
So, anyway, I have told them that I’m going to be going to the doctors when I get back to ask about anti-depressants. This isn’t the whole untruth it seems - I’ve had anti-depressants on and off for a few years now, and while it’s not the sort of thing I like to admit, a little bit of chemical stimulation and intervention has often done my brain some good. And it might keep them off my back when they find me popping daily pills. All a bonus.
So why am I worried? Because outside of the chemical alterations brought about by anti-depressants, I’m not a huge fan of medication in its many forms. I don’t like the idea that something is acting inside me that I have no control over. And more to the point, when it comes down to HIV medication, there are so many things that you have to give up or change in order for them to have their full impact. I know for a fact that, for a little while, I won’t be able to drink. I just won’t physically be able to stomach and/or retain alcohol - and for a student, this will not do. My life hasn’t exactly revolved around drinking while I have been there, but hell, I’ve got drunk with the rest of ‘em, and for the most part, enjoyed it. So there’s one of my joys out of the window.
The second problem is that I will probably have to give up smoking. Now, I realise that most smokers are self deprecating about it, and desperately want to give up. Not me. I enjoy smoking. I enjoy the social side of a quick fag outside the door of a bar somewhere. I also enjoy the fact that sweet lady Nicotine keeps the hunger cravings at bay and helps me concentrate when I need it most. I also like that I have something bordering on a season’s supply of tobacco in the cupboard for when I get back. But of course, with the risks now associated with HIV and cigarettes, I just can’t afford to go adding self inflicted HIV-related cancers on myself. And so said stash may have to be sold on. Good for my pocket. Bad for my soul.
I have a host of other issues with the drugs, though. It’s not just those selfish little lifestyle changes that I resent. What if they don’t work as previously thought - what, if like a friend of a friend who is also unfortunate enough to be in this position, I’m allergic to almost every battery of medications that I’m presented with, thereby severely decreasing my life expectancy? What if they don’t work at all and I have full blown AIDS before the end of the year? And more importantly, what if I panic and turn to them, tell them I don’t want to drugs, and let nature take its course?
I can see I’m going to have to take Col for support.
So, in the meantime, have a good one. Read this and try to stay as positive as possible. I’ll cope.
PosLife.
]]>Leaving the job has made me a much stronger person. As soon as I learned to mind my own business, it made the job a lot easier. I should probably give you a bit of insight into what the job actually entailed, really. I had to create new files for long-term diagnosed people with HIV. Which might seem like it was rubbing it in my face a little bit, and it was, but anyway. My supervisors quickly became aware of my status as I had to attend a couple of routine medicals and check-ups while I was there, and were soon trying to find me other jobs that I could be doing, just to take up a couple of hours. And they did, and so I did, and by the end of it, I had collected myself a glowing reference and a hell of a lot more respect for the service than I ever had before. So that’s nice. I also found out I can work in that sort of environment without losing the plot entirely. That’s nice, too.
So, right now, I’m trying to sort myself out with the Slivers of Time system. Interesting thing, that, selling your free hours to whatever random employers might pass your way. But now I have a lot of free hours to sell, which is nice.
But anyway, I was thinking on the bus today (I know, public transport. How common.). I’ve actually been healthier since I was diagnosed with having HIV. I haven’t had a serious cold (touch wood. Well, touch veneered MDF. It was wood once, so I’m led to believe), and the few small colds I have had, I’ve been able to get over a lot more quickly than I was previously. Having said that, I did go through a period of around a year pre-HIV infection, during which I was constantly ill and had a lymphocyte count of one. Yes, one. One lymphocyte in a titre of blood. Nowadays, we’re floating around the 300 mark, which is a lot better. I’m not recommending this as a course of action, God no, but… it’s a bit strange.
Might have to look into that.
PosLife
]]>Well, I mentioned in my last post that I would either come out of this job a stronger person, or something resembling a gibbering wreck. Having staved off the screaming ab-dabs for this long, I think I can say it’s the former. It took me a hell of a long time to realise that you have to switch off and get on with it, and for long enough, I wasn’t happy at all. But I think maybe it’s helped me to come to terms with things a little bit better.
I know now that I don’t want to work with HIV as a disease, though. I’m not sure I could stand it. In a strange way, I guess I just don’t like the methods in which HIV attacks people. It’s a nasty, opportunistic little parasite of a virus, and from a biological perspective, it’s not something I want to include in my career. I think I might be veering a little more back towards Oncology these days. It’s a nasty disease, don’t get me wrong, but at least it’s nowhere near as terminal. And it’s where my original interests lie, so… might have to finish this course and rethink what I’m going to do. That’ll be fun in a few years’ time. Maybe it comes from not having known anyone who is fully coping and coming to terms with their HIV. I know people who have had the most aggressive forms of cancer and come out of it wiser, happier, and much more thankful to be alive. HIV just fucks you right over.
So, moving on to Monday – I’m not sure where I’ll be stationed, and I’m not sure what I’ll be doing with myself. But if I’m lucky, there’ll be a place at Jimmy’s waiting for me. Working in the STI Clinic hasn’t been fun, but it’s kept me busy, the pay is good, and it’s shown me that working with HIV isn’t something I want to do, unless opening a wrist and listening to Zero 7 albums is my idea of a good Saturday night.
Zero 7. Seriously.
PosLife.
]]>It’s at the sexual health clinic.
So ha! The Universe strikes again. I must have been a real shit in a previous life. I couldn’t turn the job down though, you understand. Job pay, with a good agency, and a chance to get involved in a company where I want to be for the rest of my life. So, I’m biting the bullet and going in tomorrow. It’s just a filing and data entry role, which I will no doubt find unmercifully dull, but I’m determined to do well – not just so I can walk away with a pocket full of green and a good reference with which I can get a job later on. But also because, if I can get through this without going completely insane, I’m probably coping a lot better than I thought I was.
You can’t ignore the Universe.
So while it may be boring, and it may be agonising having to rifle through record after record, with the distinct possibility that I might come across my own and have to garrotte myself with a mouse cable, I’m going to have to go. It’s a job and it’s some money, after all. And maybe it’ll result in a career later. Wish me luck. I shall be filling up with coffee and ginseng. Perkifying.
God, I hope I can cope.
]]>So, with my usual visit mate back in Poland, I managed to rope in another. We sat there, read Real People, commented on the utter pointlessness of the universe, and then watched a bit of Jeremy Kyle. After sitting there for about 25 minutes, I was called in to my appointment. They were only running 20 minutes late, I was quite impressed.
So, I went in, I sat down, and after some ado, I was given my results. I always hate the run up to getting my results. It’s the usual questions. How have you been? Fine. How is everything going at University? Fine. How was your first round of exams? Fine, tell me my results or I’ll jam a speculum down your throat and force them out of you. So, she finally came out with it. My viral load has gone up, expectedly, to around 2140. What was more of a surprise was that my CD4 levels have also gone up, to 361. She looked at me, she looked at my results, she looked puzzled, she looked away… there was generally quite a lot of looking.
After quite some time, it was decided that I didn’t need to go on medication yet. I was elated. She was noticeably disappointed. It was much like sex.
Then, the nurse arrived. It was the same nurse I had enjoyed the company of last time. The one who jammed carrot cake into me while I was semi-conscious. She’s a laugh, but I never caught her name. I was given a physical (I’ve not been given one of those since the last time I started work, in fact I had gone out of my way to avoid them. I don’t like being prodded by someone who hasn’t bought me dinner first.) I was poked, jabbed, stabbed, and hammered until it was decided that I don’t have any kind of reflexes in the right side of my body. This didn’t seem to concern anyone except me, so I was told to get the hell dressed and get the hell out. They’re a polite bunch. And it was over.
So now, I’m home. I don’t have to go on drugs until October. And I was subject of my first racist attack the other day, which was an experience. It’s all going well. At the moment, it’s hammering it down, but I’ll cope.
]]>Being back in Hull, I’ve had the fun of transferring all my documents to the Hull clinic again, from the Leeds clinic where I was posted before. You’d have thought it would have been fairly easy. Email them through, maybe be primitive and fax them. But no, they had to go by post. And that would invariably taken a few days. So after a week of ringing back, I got a response from a particularly excitable employee by the name of Paul. Paul wanted to tell me that everything would be OK. Paul wanted to tell me all about HIV and that my files had been transferred and doesn’t the postal system try your patience sometime.
Paul ran me up a £10 phone bill. Cheers, Paul.
And so forty minutes on the phone, and all I had learned was they had got my paperwork and that Dr Kuchiamani wasn’t in today. That was a nice bit of conversation. And so, they day after my 20th birthday, I was dragged in for another series of blood tests. Of course, before the blood test, Kuchiamani wanted to ask me a few questions about my general health. It went more or less like this.
“Now, I’ve seen your paperwork and your CD4 seems to be quite good, and your viral load fairly low. I assume this all to be correct?”
“Yes, the results there are what I told you about a month ago.”
“Yes, I see. Now, let’s talk about the potential of seroconversion. I would assume you have seroconverted by now?” Have you had any of the following symptoms, do you know?”
“Go for it.”
“Have you had a cough at all, persistent and chesty?”
“No.”
“Have you had a fever or severe flu like symptoms that have lasted for around three days?”
“No.”
“Any skin rashes?”
“No.”
“I notice you have lost weight.”
“That was intentional to a point. I was working as a lab technician, I had a very active job which didn’t give me all that much time to sit down to a full dinner, and I had mononucleosis. So I would put the weight loss down to that, really.”
“I see.”
So have I seroconverted? Hell if I know, she didn’t seem to have much of an idea. She ran through a lot of possible symptoms I may have had, and I didn’t seem to have had any of them. And then I was whisked away into another room by a nurse who weighed me, calculated my BMI, and said that what I needed was buns. Lots of buns. But that’s the NHS for you.
So nevertheless, off I went into another room to have some bloods taken. 13 vials of blood, to be exact. And I hadn’t eaten anything that day, so I was sure it wasn’t going to go well. By vial number 7, I was still feeling OK. By number 9, I was starting to get a little bit dizzy. By 13, I had gone completely sodding blind and felt like I was about to die, so the nurse ran out into the waiting area to consult with the others. There, my friend was waiting for me, and heard this wonderful bit of dialogue.
“Diane, are you going to eat all of that cake?”
“I… I suppose not.”
“Great!”
And so I was presented with a slab of carrot cake and a cup of tea with rather pushy instructions to “eat that, drink that, and stay right still”. So I did, and within a few minutes, I was being ushered to the reception desk to make some more appointments. For one of them, I’m not allowed to eat for 24 hour, then I’m having a blood test. When I regain my sight, I’ll let you know how it goes.
Oh, it’s fun, what with this and exams, but I’ll cope.
PosLife
]]>So, right now, it’s going on for 3am but I’m not sleeping. I suppose maybe I can’t sleep; I’ve had a fair amount circulating through my head this evening. What am I going to do with myself? Have I made the right choice with regards to me life, my health, my degree, maybe even my choice of man? It’s hard to tell. I’m making the best of the situation that I’ve found myself in. I’m working hard, I’m trying to push all doubts I have about my health, future, and relationship to the back of my mind so that I can really slog through the kidneys (renal biology is not my subject of choice).
To top the lot off, I may have to go onto medication next month. On the 6th, which painfully, is my 20th birthday. I cannot quite explain to you how… well, for want of a better word, sucky… that really is. However, if it needs doing, then it needs doing. And I’m going to have to cross that bridge when I come to it. This is my second month of HIV, my 7th month of Hull, and my 19th year of general self-doubt. As you can see, it’s going well, but I’m coping. I can’t really explain how, but I am. I keep going, and even though by now it’s on 3am, I think I can probably get away with four hours sleep and still function fairly well tomorrow.
So the only advice I can give you is to make the best of what you have, try to be happy, change your mind whenever you have the chance, and above all, to survive. Because when you stop surviving, then you stop doing anything.
PosLife
]]>From this weekend, I will be back in Hull for a good long while, which is going to make everything that little bit more difficult. Having been given an ultimatum by the people at the clinic, I now have to choose whether I want my treatment to continue at their Leeds or their Hull branch. This is not helpful, as I split my time throughout the year in both centres, and they seem to be going out of their way to make my life that little bit more difficult. Therein lies the game… So, as it goes, this last set of titres will let them know if I need to start medication at the moment, or if it’s safe for me to carry on regardless for a little while. I’m hoping for the latter to be the result, because there’s one problem I may have overlooked.
I haven’t yet told my parent.
Yeah, I know, but sometimes I just think that they have enough to worry about without me coming into it. So I would rather not be starting medication just yet, because then questions would be raised as to what I was being medicated for. Oh god, it must be great to be straight. Of course, the need for medication would also imply that the disease is progressing rather quickly, which also stinks, but nothing compares to the wrath of a woman scorned. And she will be scorned. Believe me…
So now? I’m having a fag and surviving. But the next time I see a bus, I’ll try to coax it in my direction with a little treat.
PosLife.
]]>I had a fairly decent physician today, though. She was about mid thirties with a good manner about her. She agreed that my counsellor in Hull is feckless and should be put down, and that my GP clearly has Münchausen’s-by-proxy. Which is nice. So then we got down to some talking, and the results came out. I won’t bore you with all of them, because I had about 13 blood titres taken and it would be a waste of space here, so the two most important ones are down there.
CD4 count – 330 (This is low, and the next result made me wonder why.)
Viral Load – 625 (This is actually very low, which Is why I was wondering about the CD4, but anyway…)
The viral load is worked out on a log system – that is to say, it goes up in multiples of ten. So you have 10, 100, 1000, 10,000, etc. Having said this, 625 is a fairly low count. It also means that I probably haven’t had this very long, which is maybe a good thing. The CD4 count being so low, however, means that the subject of treatment was broached. To be honest, I probably won’t need treatment until my CD4 count is less than about 250, but it’s nice to know that I might need a soon. Do I mean nice? No, I think I mean useful. Of course, it’s hard to make a full assessment of a CD4 count using only one blood titre, as throughout the course of HIV, my CD4 will fluctuate. It will go up, stabilise, then have a rapid drop. Wash, rinse, repeat. But enough of that. The biology of this disease is probably the last thing any sufferer wants to have to read about.
The physical was the usual. I had my eyes checked, throat checked, was pokes and prodded in the chest and abdomen, had my stomach cyst grabbed and twisted. And then I was told I would have to go and have a routine chest X-ray. So off me and Amy toddled to the LGI X-ray department, for another 15 minute wait, followed by possible the quickest “shirt-off-stand-there-we’re-done” procedure I’ve ever been through. And so it was done. And then I had two pints of cider and black.
So I’m feeling… well, just as ambivalent as I always did about it. My heart was in my throat when the CD4 count was read out as I knew it should be in the thousands (not the hundreds), but I suppose for now everything is still alright. I’ve got my medication leaflet to look through and panic over when I have the time and the energy. But that’s not now. It’s later. Now I’m busy ignoring it, and trying to cope a bit more…
PosLife
]]>And so I have booked an appointment to go and see Janet when I get back to Hull, to “give her a good dressing down and forcibly remove her artificial hips.” This is what I actually said, and Jill agreed and gave me a time. We like Jill. But seriously, this is meant to be an update, and so I’ll do my best to let you know what’s going on.
I’m still fairly numb, but I know that any day now, it’s going to hit me. By keeping myself unfeasibly busy, I’ve managed to prevent myself from sitting down and really thinking about it because I’m a worrier at the best of times. I wouldn’t recommend this to anyone, but it’s just how I’m doing it at the moment. But I know that any day now, maybe a week or a month down the line, it will sneak up on me and club me round the back of the head. So I think I need to be prepared. Having finally got a chance to talk to one of my friends about it, it seems that it happens to everyone in this situation. And with this afternoon, I will be calling round a few more people I did a bed-share with, seeing if they have had a test recently. I know it’s not right to apportion blame right now, but it would sure as hell make me feel better.
So, what to do in this situation – keep on top of your counsellor – he or she might be great, but in the case of a lovely Janet, you need to change, sharpish. If you don’t like them or can’t seem to get along with them, they aren’t worth your time. Try to keep on top of test results. And stay calm, unless it has already hit you. And if it has, start to come to terms. Most importantly, try to cope. It’s all you can do.
PosLife
]]>Try not to be the mate, it’s not fun.
So yes, I had seven tests taken. 3 for the immunology department, 3 for the microbiologists, one for the haematologists, and one for the sheer hell of it. These have all been sent off to the relevant departments, and within a week, I should have my baseline results back. Basically, this includes your CD4 white blood cell count, your T lymphocyte counts, and many others that they feel will be useful. These are the most important parts for it, and you really do need to make this test. It’s along trek from here on in, and this is just the first step. This time next week, I’ll know if I need medication or not. So I will more than likely keep you informed. If this is helping, please let me know. And do the same.
PosLife.
]]>I just think it’s worth pointing out that this isn’t going to be the kind of blog that rants on, where I let you know how I feel each and every morning. Nor is it the kind of place where I’m likely to go all Emo on your arse and break into self-pitying lyrics every now and then. It’s just something that I might need to get off my chest every now and then and might be helpful for other people. I don’t know. But you know, if you’re still reading, it proves I can write a decent introduction.
So anyway, I’m a 19 year old gay male. I’m also at University, studying what is possibly the worst discipline in my current situation – Immunology and Anatomy. The Universe loves irony, or so I’ve been told. And this is actually the first blog I’ve written, because usually I don’t like to talk about my feelings or exactly what I ate for breakfast. It’s dull. So maybe consider this something more of an advice page.
Well, as for HIV testing, this is how it worked for me. A random test that I had just to make sure came back showing the worst, and unlike most people, I didn’t have any idea that I was ill. Just a routine test. So when I was taken into the counselling room, my heart was in my throat. The first tests you will go through are ELISA tests, routine protein assays that show the presence of antibodies in your blood. When told that, even though the first two ELISAs had come back positive, there was a chance they were showing a false result, I got my misplaced optimism up. Then the phone call came later that night that two more ELISAs had been conducted and they has also come back positive, and so it was decided that the result would be positive. And I was almost sick.
So today, I’m waiting for my Western blot. This test shows that the antibodies they detected really were HIV. And from here, I’ll have to let you know. I’m sorry that at the moment there isn’t anything more I can add to the proceedings, but the first few weeks are really a waiting game. So I know what you’re going through.
PosLife
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