The Waiting Room
I was last tested for HIV at the beginning of June. Suffice it to say that my life has changed quite a bit since then. I have always been a strong advocate of a post-breakup slut phase, and I did enjoy a fair amount of action (documented here) in the months before I met the New Viking. I knew that at least one of those partners was HIV positive. And while I would describe my overall sexual behavior as 95% safe ... that 5% of doubt is pretty damn unnerving.
NV and I have been talking for quite some time now about getting tested. I wanted to quell those tiny little doubts that were nagging me. In theory, I also wanted to find out, as early as possible, if I needed to start treatment. Bad news, however, would probably have made me suicidal. My stomach churned every time I looked up places for HIV testing and their hours of operation. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became.
In the past six months, I have met a great number of people with HIV. Many of them are friends of NV who, eight years older than me, is part of that generation of gay men who were at the frontlines of the epidemic. I had also learned that a few people who I already knew were positive. The number of people I know now with HIV is probably quadruple the number I knew of before. NV, a committed monogamist throughout his life, escaped the plague, something for which I am continually grateful.
We had planned to get tested together. But on Friday, I manage to leave work a bit early, and as I drive home, NV calls to say he has been delayed in traffic, and would arrive at least 45 minutes later than expected to our happy hour. I couldn’t stand it any more. The Spot, one of several locations that offer free testing, was just a block or two from the bar, so I headed over for a 20-minute test.
Welcome to the world’s most nervous waiting room: HIV testing in the heart of WeHo. There aren’t many people there, mercifully, but I recognized one of my waiting comrades from the bars. All eye contact is scrupulously avoided. This is serious stuff. I sign in with my initials and took a seat. In less than a minute, my initials are called out and I am summoned into a small room. A nice young man asks me the last time I had had sex with someone other than NV. My encounter with the (other) Viking occurred on September 30, so I’m past the three-month waiting period and good to go. He asks whether I’d prefer the oral swab or a blood test, both of them equally accurate, he explains. It’s a no-brainer, and I go for the oral swab. I get a receipt with an identification number that matches the number on the test tube, and back I go into the world’s most nervous waiting room.
Except that it’s even more nervous now. I was tense going in, but now, in some back room, my own cells are actually being tested...I will soon know if I’m positive. It is suddenly much more significant, this moment in my life. And it’s all very real. Sure, I could flee the room before the results come back, but the uncertainty would surely drive me insane at this point. I rethink every single sexual encounter I’ve had during the past year, wondering if this or that moment could have caused transmission, if this or that partner could have infected me. That 5% of doubt is fucking killing me.
In just two or three minutes, my initials are called again and I am summoned into a different room by a young woman. They’re smart, I realize, keeping you moving and occupied during these agonizing 20 minutes. She reads out a series of questions about specific sexual activities, drug use, STDs, partners...ugh. I will say that all of the staff there are very warm and reassuring. Thank god for that.
Back to the world’s most nervous waiting room again. This is it. Crunch time. Just a few minutes to go. One of my comrades gets called into a room for his results. It seems like he’s in there forever, at least five minutes. Surely he must be getting some pretty dire news, but when he emerges, he seems clearly undisturbed. Guess it was good news after all.
In a few minutes, the young woman returns, and calls me into her room. I study her voice, her expression, but come to no conclusions as I walk inside and sit down. I steel myself.
“You’re negative,” she says. “Any questions?”
NV and I have been talking for quite some time now about getting tested. I wanted to quell those tiny little doubts that were nagging me. In theory, I also wanted to find out, as early as possible, if I needed to start treatment. Bad news, however, would probably have made me suicidal. My stomach churned every time I looked up places for HIV testing and their hours of operation. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became.
In the past six months, I have met a great number of people with HIV. Many of them are friends of NV who, eight years older than me, is part of that generation of gay men who were at the frontlines of the epidemic. I had also learned that a few people who I already knew were positive. The number of people I know now with HIV is probably quadruple the number I knew of before. NV, a committed monogamist throughout his life, escaped the plague, something for which I am continually grateful.
We had planned to get tested together. But on Friday, I manage to leave work a bit early, and as I drive home, NV calls to say he has been delayed in traffic, and would arrive at least 45 minutes later than expected to our happy hour. I couldn’t stand it any more. The Spot, one of several locations that offer free testing, was just a block or two from the bar, so I headed over for a 20-minute test.
Welcome to the world’s most nervous waiting room: HIV testing in the heart of WeHo. There aren’t many people there, mercifully, but I recognized one of my waiting comrades from the bars. All eye contact is scrupulously avoided. This is serious stuff. I sign in with my initials and took a seat. In less than a minute, my initials are called out and I am summoned into a small room. A nice young man asks me the last time I had had sex with someone other than NV. My encounter with the (other) Viking occurred on September 30, so I’m past the three-month waiting period and good to go. He asks whether I’d prefer the oral swab or a blood test, both of them equally accurate, he explains. It’s a no-brainer, and I go for the oral swab. I get a receipt with an identification number that matches the number on the test tube, and back I go into the world’s most nervous waiting room.
Except that it’s even more nervous now. I was tense going in, but now, in some back room, my own cells are actually being tested...I will soon know if I’m positive. It is suddenly much more significant, this moment in my life. And it’s all very real. Sure, I could flee the room before the results come back, but the uncertainty would surely drive me insane at this point. I rethink every single sexual encounter I’ve had during the past year, wondering if this or that moment could have caused transmission, if this or that partner could have infected me. That 5% of doubt is fucking killing me.
In just two or three minutes, my initials are called again and I am summoned into a different room by a young woman. They’re smart, I realize, keeping you moving and occupied during these agonizing 20 minutes. She reads out a series of questions about specific sexual activities, drug use, STDs, partners...ugh. I will say that all of the staff there are very warm and reassuring. Thank god for that.
Back to the world’s most nervous waiting room again. This is it. Crunch time. Just a few minutes to go. One of my comrades gets called into a room for his results. It seems like he’s in there forever, at least five minutes. Surely he must be getting some pretty dire news, but when he emerges, he seems clearly undisturbed. Guess it was good news after all.
In a few minutes, the young woman returns, and calls me into her room. I study her voice, her expression, but come to no conclusions as I walk inside and sit down. I steel myself.
“You’re negative,” she says. “Any questions?”
posted by M. at 5:05 PM
1 Comments:
I'm glad to hear the good news.
I was at the Mazda dealership this morning having a new mirror installed on the driver's side after a hit-and-run accident. It reminded me of going to be tested for HIV because I'm always nervous about what else they're going to find that needs to be fixed on my car. I wasn't disappointed--they quoted me $1,250 worth that they say needs to be done. I'll be the judge of that.
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