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Survivorby Jude |
| Survivor Jude 1997 Each morning I woke, looking foreword to the day ahead and WHAM: a big black cloud bursts all over, full of HIV and Hep C and all that would change my life. When I got the result, for the first time in my life, I cried unashamedly in very public places. The train ride home was a blur; so many thoughts, anxieties and problems; my head was full. Later that day I went for a walk on the beach. My younger son was surfing, so contented and absorbed. We waved and shouted hello, I smiling to hide the shock, he smiling his beautiful smile back. How to tell my sons, grown-up men, too intelligent to lie to; and if I did, when would I stop? How did they feel then? Shocked? Sad and upset? But always supportive? How do they feel now? Well, we don’t talk about it a great deal. It’s not that it’s unimportant but simply that I can’t quite get my head around my health status, and anything about them in the same sentence. I cannot even write about it in letters. My answers to their question of how I am is usually “fine” — the universal stock reply. 1999 Surprisingly life carried on more or less as usual except in my head there seemed so much to worry about. Like the future: was there one and how to cope. Money, housing and keeping healthy, when Aids become part of my life. Not even if but when. So I continued working as a night sister getting odd infections, having biopsies: the usual stuff. Energy was in short supply. It was work, rest and sleep — lots of sleep. After three years my ill-health forced me to retire. I grieved so much for a long, happy and rewarding career. After a few months sulking I began to look ahead, went to evening classes and looked forward towards a goal. The same year a phone call invited me to take on a very badly treated old cat. Not only was she scabby, frightened and very sorry for herself, she was angry with a capital A. It took three years to hug her into a still timid but gentle loving sweetheart. We have helped each other’s hurt. I can tell her all my fears and who is she going to tell! Two old girls together. 2002 As it does, life has moved on — I am 17 months into a degree course and have just started combination therapy (something I said I would never do). My tutors know about my health status and are more than supportive. My marks do not send rockets into orbit but I pass, so far. Most of all I want to live and love it. Next year all things being equal, three of us from uni, all over fifty, are walking the London marathon, not running, you note. If you spot us, one looking particularly knackered, it will be me. Grinning from ear to ear proving that anything is possible. There have been many hurdles, rivers of tears, and no doubt, more to come. I am certainly more emotional and still worry about money, secure housing and sometimes about people finding out and judging me. Hey, do I care? Well, actually I do — I have the humility to think “there for the grace of God … ” Many people encourage and enable me; they give me courage and often a big hug too. Sometimes the virus makes me feel dirty and unclean, at other times shiny and fine. If you pass an open window and hear “you must have been a beautiful kitten” sang out of tune to a totally bemused but happy cat, well, you know who it is — so join in! May 2003 Hey, it’s nearly ‘high’ summer again, and so much has happened since my last reflections in this book. The cat is still very hairy, very sleepy and loving. I have moved into long-term accommodation. Relief. No worries about six month lease reviews. And if you are on benefits, asking your son to be a guarantor. Humbling stuff! Very! Two types of combination therapy have been tried and rejected. Many unexpected side effects. And what they do to your head! It is of no comfort to think that they may prolong your life when in fact that life has become a misery of nausea, diarrhoea, body changes and the most alarming nightmares and screaming. Very off-putting and frightening to any weekend visitor. Highlight in March was a trip to New Zealand to see my younger surfer son. He sent the ticket and with a very small rucksack, little energy reserves, but lots of anticipation, off I went. He took it at my pace, and though seeing me with a great difference in lack of energy and weight loss, we saw and enjoyed so much beauty and sorted out some issues. The tears when I left him … This HIV has made me realise that due to distance and finance we simply will not meet again. Yet I remain happy and optimistic all the time, a fact that some people find quite difficult. A member of my family, looking at photographs remarked, “But you look so happy.” My response is unprintable but along the lines of “and why not?” Almost all the positive people I have met just do not fit the stereotype that has been portrayed out there. So anyone reading this and feeling smug, beware: it is silent and it looks totally normal. It’s uni holidays soon and unbelievably they have not sussed me out yet and thrown me off the course. It has been hard work but so stimulating. In October it is final year and I believe that it, and the arrival of a great niece have kept me going. New life and new possibilities for a better informed, educated, aware and healthy generation. So here’s to you Sofia (my niece), bottoms up (well, it usually is at six months) for an exciting life.
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