bedside manner

when I was twenty-three I lived in an old apartment building that had once been a convalescence home for tuberculosis patients. the heating was old boiler furnace heat for the whole building, and I lived on the third floor. I'd unzip my coat in the foyer while I check my mail and shed clothing as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, arriving at my front door stripped down to a tank top. I would lie in bed with the windows open in january wondering how many people had died in that very room.

I drove a tank of a volvo back then with a cd player that played lots of ani and erykah badu. I was working at the group home, the fill-in for the married couple that lived there full-time. My schedule was sporadic at best. I was sort of dating a guy that lived in my apartment building, but "sporadic" would be an apt description of that situation as well. one night while brushing my teeth I noticed white spots in the back of my throat. my tonsils had always been huge (making them touch had been my party trick for years, gross I know), but white spots were something new. when I called to make a doctor's appointment (this was back in the olden days when I had health insurance and was not afraid to use it. if it happened now, I'd probably gargle salt water, take an extra dose of echinacea, and hope for the best.), my wonkity work schedule led me to take an open spot with a doctor I'd never seen before. 

so I stomped around for a few days before my appointment, inconvenienced with having to go to the doctor when I wasn't even really sick and anxious about the possibility of needing my tonsils taken out.  by the time I actually got there I was impatient with anxiety and in no mood for the jokester doctor who was peering into my mouth with his little flashlight.

"spots on tonsils mean one of three things," he said, snapping off his light. "tonsillitis, mono, or an early sign of HIV. you aren't sick, no fever, no aches, no tiredness, so it isn't tonsillitis or mono, which leaves us with HIV. I'm going to call an ENT friend to double check, but I think we need to do a blood draw while you're here today."

surely this guy was absent on the day in medical school when they discuss the importance of gentleness and tact when delivering heavy news like that.

his doctor friend confirmed his theories, so he sent me downstairs for lab work. "I'm sure it's nothing," he said as I walked out the door. "I'd bet a whole dollar that you are not HIV positive."  I stumbled into the lab where a large woman chatted aimlessly while gathering her supplies. she turned and asked for my arm and noticed then that I was sobbing. "oh honey," she said, smooshing my face into her chest in what she must have thought was a comforting hug. it was a friday, so I'd have the entire weekend to ponder my fate until the results were ready on monday.

I was not promiscuous. I had never done any weird needle-requiring drugs. so instead I sat and thought of every bandaid I had changed at camp, every scrapped knee and bloody nose. every pile of puke I'd cleaned up at the group home. all the soiled sheets I'd ever changed. all the kids from all the places I'd ever worked and volunteered. what do you do when you are twenty-three and faced with the thought that you might have HIV? you do not call your conservative parents who would not even know what questions to ask. you do not go to the guy you are sort of dating in your apartment building, the one you only really like because he tells you you are beautiful when he is drunk. you might try to call that boy you've been loving on and off for years now, the one who blows in and out of your life whenever he pleases, but who doesn't currently have a phone or the emotional stamina to deal with you. I felt more lonely than I think I ever have. of course I could tell myself the odds were ever in my favor, that there was no real way those results would come back anything but negative. but the reality was that even if it was all in my head, even if the drama was only for the weekend and life would go back to mediocrity come monday, I suddenly had my relationship statuses thrust in my face in a whole new way. where were the friends you could call for anything? where was the family that could handle all the biggest scariest stuff? and what was the common denominator in all those relationship wastelands? me. 

the results were, of course, negative. but I did need to have my tonsils out. that was pretty lonely, too. who would take care of me? shouldn't a twenty-four-year-old with a grown up job and her own apartment have a network wide enough to have someone willing to take her to the hospital and make her a milkshake afterwards? I did have that person in my network, but it took a lot of pride swallowing to admit to myself that it was my mom. I just felt like I was missing something, that I should have these awesome friends willing to step in for something this huge, that I should be dating someone willing to do this kind of dirty work, that my life was supposed to be figured out and on track enough to handle surgery and recovery. and it was in lots of ways that I just couldn't see because it didn't look the way I thought it should. my mom was willing to come, to stock my fridge, to drive me around, and put up with me-on-pain-medication (not an easy task). the couple at the group home was willing to give me a huge chunk of time off, to give me more time when I realized I was recovering more slowly than I had planned. a neighbor brought me movies and novels and chocolate. and so began (or at least reignited, perhaps) my life-long quest for connected community.   

 

cora, sweet little baby girl cora, is having her tonsils taken out next week. she already has two care packages here, just waiting for her recovery. my mom offered to come up. a friend has promised me a bagel and tea delivery while I sit in the waiting room. jamin and eric have big plans for a balloon bouquet. it is different this time: I am less angsty for sure, and more sure of what to ask for. I know how to see tribe for what it is, even if it isn't exactly what I thought it would be. I know that the network I wanted at twenty-four doesn't always magically appear overnight. I know how to be the friend I want to have. and I know how to trust my family with much more of the biggest and scariest stuff; they are far more capable and willing to live this messy life with me than I ever imagined at twenty-three.

so thank you tribe, near and far, then and now, for making life so much more fun. for doing hard work. for sticking around. and if you stop by our house to visit cora next week, I'm pretty sure erykah badu will be playing in my kitchen, just for old times' sake.