Long ago and far away, there lived an unbelievably naive woman. . . .
Oops. Wrong story. This one is definitely not a fairy tale.
Haven't written much about this yet, but The Wasband had cancer when we were first married. In fact, he was released from the hospital after surgery on our first wedding anniversary, another horrible and funny story I promise to tell soon. One of the first things the doctors told us (right after they told us he had cancer) was that radiation was necessary and it would leave The Wasband sterile.
We had been trying to have children since the day we were married. The idea of not having children was. . .inconceivable. Once we had wits about us again, we resolved to do everything in our power to find a way. And let me tell you, we did.
During the long and difficult sojourn, I endured several rounds of artificial insemination. I say endured because my own reproductive issues made it necessary to have shots, swallow crazy-making drugs, and take my temperature every morning before even raising my head off the pillow. And those were just the preliminaries. The actual process of insemination was clinical and embarassing and sad. Oh, so sad. (Not to mention horrifyingly expensive.)
I did manage to get pregnant once, but miscarried at about 3 1/2 months. Again, a story but not this story.
No, in this story, I begrudingly give up on AI and settle down to simply waiting for our name to rise to the top of the list at an adoption agency. And, happy, happy; joy, joy, it eventually did.
On the 29th day of May in the year 1982, The Boy arrived to grace our home and our lives. No baby in the history of the Universe was more wanted or more loved.
We put our names on the list for another child and settled down to raise our son. Life went on in a semi-normal fashion for almost four years before The Phone Call.
Compassionate Nurse from Infertility Clinic: Hello, Jerri. It's been a long time. I'm glad to talk with you, even though I wish it weren't about this.
Me: Glad to talk to you, too. How are you and Dr. Wonderful?
Compassionate Nurse: We've been better.
Me: Sorry to hear that. What's wrong?
Compassionate Nurse: I'm calling because you need to come in for an AIDS test. Right away. WAAAH WA WAAAAH WAH WAAAAH Wa WAAAH.
Whatever CN was now saying sounded like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Indecipherable noise. Remember, in 1985, AIDS was raging throughout the gay communities and little was known about it. Also, it was a death sentence. Open and closed. When the horn of her voice stopped wailing, I managed to formulate a question.
Me: Why on earth would I need an AIDS test? That's for people who have sex with strangers. I have NOT had sex with strangers. (Please excuse my ignorance. This is what we thought in the early 80s.)
Compassionate Nurse: I hate to say this, but that's exactly what you've done. Many times. You see, sex with a stranger is almost the definition of artificial insemination. And when you were going through the program, we didn't know about AIDS yet. We didn't test the donors. Didn't even screen them. I'm so sorry, but you have to come in for tests. Immediately.
Me: Oh my God.
We agreed on a time for the test and said good-bye. I hung up the phone and slumped to the floor, too shocked to move or think.
When my brain finally kicked into gear, all I could think of was not exposing The Wasband or The Boy if I did have the disease. Not wanting anyone else to worry, I decided not to say a word about the call or the test and set a strategy for not touching anyone I loved until the nightmare was over. Or had begun in earnest.
The test was nothing. A simple blood draw.
Waiting for the results was excruciating.
By the time Compassionate Nurse called with the all clear 7 days later, I was as close to true insanity as I ever care to get.
I had spent nearly every minute of every hour figuring out where I would go and how I would live if the test was positive. Again, remember that no one knew exactly how AIDS was transmitted (beyond the obvious). What they did know was that it was 100% fatal. My constant and overriding thought was that if I had it, I would have to leave my son, would never kiss or even touch him again. The darkness and despair of the 157 hours between the nurse's calls can not be adequately described. At least, I can not adequately describe them.
I can tell you about the joy I felt after, though. I can tell you about the thousand and one kisses I rained on The Boy. On his belly, his sweet little toes, his cheeks. I can tell you that I bathed him and rocked him and fixed his favorite foods from a place of pure love distilled through miles of cold, coiled fear.
I can also tell you that nothing in my life was ever sweeter than those first few hours after I stepped out from under that sword of Damacles.
21 years later, we know AIDS isn't transmitted by casual touch or even by touching DNA-encrusted linens. Yesterday, that knowledge didn't stop me being determined not to expose anyone else to them. It didn't stop me from being very careful as I disposed of the danger of strangers, either.
Looking back, I sometimes realize my life has been like a bad movie. Filled with twists and turns. Punctuated by fear. But, mercifully, it has been directed by God and framed with love and laughter. And joy.
So much joy.
(photo: The precious Boy and me, moments after we met for the first time. In this life, at least.)
4 comments:
Beautiful post. You certainly have been at the top of the list taking life's challenges. And you have met that challenge with grace, dignity and compassion. Your writing mirrors your life. Thank you for letting us look on and share.
You are a very good writer. This captured me.
My firstborn son was born in May 1982, though apart from that we have lived very different lives......
Wow!
Truth sets us free. I am glad you have it! What fear you must have felt!!
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