Yesterday Was
“And so, yesterday was” I wrote in my diary, prepared to document the events of the past days. The exhaustion of working with an indian ngo that was rescuing girls from illegal prostitution was overwhelming and I needed to confide in my little book. Jot down the experiences. The thoughts and the haunting images.
My colleague Sarah and I were allowed to join these nightly operations. Witnessing the chaos and depths of Indias shadows. Into a different heart of darkness. A world of crime and prostitution. It was these trips that I always saved up my money to do. Work for a year to finance these expeditions. A passion project – to do something more meaningful with my life.
Back home I was simply a photographer. Free spirited, Shooting Congresses, fashion editorials and simple advertisments. Never on a financially sound side, but i couldnt complain. I enjoyed the liberties of travel and especially of free love. There were a few women in my past whom I committed to – special women whom I would call best friends until today. But with beginning thirty I simply enjoyed my single life too much to commit. I charmed, I rhymed and seduced with a passion. Curious about everyone, committed to nothing.
My sexuality was always a source of freedom. A liberty that was more important to me than a career or money or any material goods. The freedom to be who I am, to enjoy and to live who I am. It gave me confidence and radiated more attraction than was actually there.
To take a break from the exhausting days that were behind us, Sarah and I had decided to visit the infamous Osho Ashram – a meditation center that prided itself with sexual liberty and attracted western ideas of eastern mysticism at ridiculous prices.
“And so, yesterday was” – was the last thing i wrote at the breakfast table, when Sarah interrupted and we would embark to the ashram. A sentence fragment that would freeze time and would act like a reminder. Foreshadowing the end of a chapter.
The Osho Ashram – that horribly expensive, westernised idea of meditation. I was disgusted at seeing the contrast between the floating maroon robes in black marble halls, and the impoverished indian streetdwelling family in front of it.
In hesitance I would enter, only happy to see a beautiful, raven haired persian receptionist. I was mesmerized – and defiant to enter for her sake.
To keep its mystic aura of sexuality, the Ashram insists on an HIV test, to which i said yes and completed with ease. I used to do them when my father was alive. As a doctor he included them in my yearly checkup. Yet after he passed, they faded out slowly. Yes, I had a lot of sexual partners, but I never considered myself at risk – the older I got, the more conscience I was with my condom use; admittingly more out of fear of impregnation.
The flirtation with the beautiful persian had caused a static atmosphere. We were fascinated by one another. Looking forward to get the registration process over with to exchange more information, more glances and more scents. Sex was in the air. Sarah just smiled, rolled her eyes and walked into the blood screening room. I had already donated my needleprick of blood, now I could focus on getting lost in those beautiful brown eyes.
A thick dutch accent interrupted the magnetism from behind me...”excuse me are you Christopher” the old woman asked coarsely.
“Yes yes” I replied impatiently, “everything alright?”
“Could you come with me for a moment please? There has been an issue with your test...” Her expression was grave. Serious.
“Uh yeah sure” I got up, lightheartedly. I followed her lead into a glass cubicle. Into the prism that would swallow this version of me.
Unknowingly, I turned around to catch the persian womans eye. There it was; the laugh of the eyes that communicated chapters of passion without saying a word – that anticipating desire of wanting to melt into one another. I smiled at her. She smiled back.
It is the last memory of my previous life. The last time i would flirt in years.
The womans words cast a spell. “Your results came back positive”.
A haunting few words that pierced every part of my body and mind, clenching every muscle. That tossed me into a stormy sea. I was drowning there in front of her. Frozen in shock. Unable to move. My eyes must have conveyed terror.
For years to come, the thought of “this cant be happening. This cant be true.” Would return in waves. Incredulous I sat there, listening to her speak, but not hearing a word.
My mind was rattling a thousand thoughts a second. What does this mean? What would my life be like? Will I die of this? Can I have children? What will people say? What will my family say? How will I tell them? How did this happen?.
A waterfall of questions filled my body with chaos and fear. I was terrified of what this means, simply because I didn’t know anything.
And yet my incredulity and ability to emotionally distance myself from horrible situations provided me with the mask I needed. That I would need to research. Tense, focused I pressed out the questions that I needed to know answers to. The dutch lady still told me that we’ll take more blood. About the Elisa test method, and that in 24 hours we will know for sure. I spoke as if it didnt concern me - but someone sitting beside us. My journalistic mind activated itself.
She escorted me to the marble gates. I saw Sarah, I briefly mentioned, I cant go inside. I’m not allowed to. She understood, smiled gently. I told her I’ll see her later in the hotel. A mutual sense of understanding, of kindness and friendship bound us then and there.
And I ran. I was on a mission now. And the next 24 hours would be the longest ever lived.
As a child of the 80ies my preconceptions of HIV were simple. Freddie Mercury, Philadelphia, Aids and the horrific picutres or people dying. Mostly homosexuals. And Lady Di shaking someones hand. My fear spat out my purest ignorance in thinking that I was sure they made a mistake. I couldnt be positive. Its impossible. How was that possible?
I would have to face 24 hours of horrible uncertainty. A pendulum, swinging heavily over my head. And I had homework to do. I would research the hell out of HIV.
Find out everything. Symptoms, prevalence...every little thing there would be to know. Within the next 24 hours I would become an expert.
I tried to put all the fear and terror away. But it continuously resurfaced in the shapes of questions. How will I tell my family? What will they think? What will my life look like?
I couldnt do this on my own. Calculating the time difference to Europe, I threw out the rescue lines to my brother and Mona, my best friend. I knew that I was beaten, and would need support.
The message; "Can you talk? I think I was just diagnosed with HIV?" flew over timezones and continents.
And they answered quick. The red alert was given, and like the amazing people that they are, they saved my sanity that night. After a few Skype calls, and telling the two of my situation, we schemed a plot to all do our part. Gather all the information there was. And in the next hours my mind would turn into a sponge, soaking up details of Detection limits, Viral loads and ways of transmission.
I followed the virus and its symptoms...and remembered. A few weeks ago – when illness struck me down for weeks. Nobody knew what it was, but I had felt miserable as never before. Malaria-like symptoms – waves of high fevers coming and going, accompanied by a drained weakness and loud, heavy breathing. Death at the doorstep. That was it. That was the virus and its venomous claws draining my life from me. Remembering the sensation of dying filled me with panic. Until today those weeks of illness run shivers down my spine.
Ever since I had that dry cough. That cough I thought was caused by the pollution in delhi. The chest pain, that I thought was from bad posture – but in reality was my solar plexus pushing my defences to the limit.
All the symptoms I read about; the whole timeline of HIVs attack on my body. Actions and reactions. Attacks and defenses.
It was horrific – and yet had a fascination to it that has captured me ever since.
And yet, the dominant feeling that I tried to ignore the most was pure fear. In its most evil form. The fear of the change my life will go through; the need for medication, fear of the unknown of what will happen. Side effects? Sexlessness? Pain? Agony? Even death?
Panic comes in waves. Every once in a while I called Mona again; crying in uncertainty. She held me over the internet connection.
And yet the research helped. It gave me knowledge of what I could expect. Of what would happen. A glimpse of the future. Even if was abstract and far away, it seemed that a normal life was possible. I somehow had to overwrite all the information that was embedded in my 80ies memory about HIV and aids. Format my cerebral harddrive.
I rememberd a South Park episode where two of the kids get infected – and watched it online. I laughed a lot.
For months to come, I could still not grasp the idea that i was HIV positive. But I knew that I was. My research simply added one and one together. It made sense. Acceptance is different – that would still take years – but the knowledge was there. And I couldnt run away.
Having slept very little, anxiously waiting for the Ashram to call me, I smoked two million cigarettes the next morning. Sarah went ahead, did a meditation course, while i paced up and down. I knew the result. I knew what would happen. I knew I was positive. And yet I wanted to have it in writing. I already contacted the Aidshilfe back home; to let them know I’ll be coming, to ask basic questions. I started preparing for a life with HIV. And yet there was still the 1,5% hope that it could all be a mistake. That it was all wrong. That I was negative all along. A hope i held on to for weeks until i returned home; to recheck everything.
That afternoon I picked up my result.
I had a long dinner with Sarah. It was her first time in India, and she was afraid I might just head out back home. I reassured her I wouldnt.
We would be here for another 12 days – working on our stories.
12 Days that would be my last in this life. Before I would have to open a new chapter. 12 Days that would be filled with worries about the future and a new life I didnt want or I simply couldnt imagine. 12 days in which HIV was still a theoretic part of my life.
I knew that going home, back into a cold winter with the tasks at hand, would make everything real. Too real. At least I wanted to postpone it.
And slowly but steadily a thought crawled into my mind.
A thought that krept its way to dominance... who gave this to me?
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