In Medical News ...

I got my latest blood work back last week. It was a mixed bag that led to a flurry of new appointments. Overall, I strong like bull. All the incidentals (cholesterol, HDL, LDL triglycerides, etc.) are almost textbook perfect. Assuming said textbook had HIV. That is as it's always been. The weird part is in the HIV itself. My CD4 (T-Cells) are up. I got 487 of the little fuckers. I had 407 in April. Unfortunately, my viral load topped out at over 111,000. Down from 168,000 last time, but still too high. Current CDC recommendations call for treatment to be offered and encouraged when the viral load is over 100,000. I'm in some kind of HIV limbo. Too healthy to feel sick, but sick enough to be treatable. I feel fine. And while I've made peace with the fact that I will require meds in the future, it still feels silly to do it when nothing feels wrong with me. But here's where it got interesting.

My appointment last week was on one of the two hottest days of the summer (until this week). It was the day after the votive hurling incident. I got a little drunk after my shift and slept a little in. I was up but puttering around and when all was said and done I arrived about 25 minutes late for my appointment. I had walked across town and was covered in sweat and I'm sure a bit flushed. I sat and waited for a few minutes, my shirt wet and clinging to me. After a few minutes they called me back. I sat in an exam room where the nurse informed me that the doctor may not be able to see me because I'm late.

"O.K. That's fine"

"But maybe he'll be able to take you."

"O.K. That's fine, too. Just let me know."

I was hot, I was sweaty, I was still very keyed up from work. Basically, I had no fight in me. After a few minutes she returned.

"He can see you but only to give your numbers. You're late."

*sigh* "O.K. Great. Thank you."

The doctor came in and rushed through my T-cell and viral load. He was a little surprised how they went in the opposite (wrong) directions.

"What's going on in your life? Any stress?"

"I have an enormously stressful job. Even on the easy days it's hard. I work 50+ hours a week. Yeah. I have a lot of feakin' stress."

Which is how I came away with appointments with a mental health counselor, an HIV meds adherence counselor and a nutritionist. All of whom I saw this week. The adherence counselor was lovely but I didn't get a lot beyond some assurances that she would be available before and right after I began treatment to address any problems or side effects I might experience and get them corrected so I can continue to work.It was actually really reassuring.

The nutritionist was an older woman, incredibly fit, as nobody listens to a fat nutritionist. She had some helpful tips for how to supplement my nutrition during my hours at work when eating is banned. We made a chart of what I typically eat on a daily basis, and while of course it would be best if I could manage several smaller meals a day, she was most complimentary on my food choices. The fact that I’m one of those freaky people that really does snack on nuts, fruit and yogurt impressed her. She took a look at the details of my blood work.

“This looks good. This looks really good. I mean, unusually good.”

(I’m a mutant freak)

“Whatever you’ve been doing it’s working great. Keep it up.”

I felt a tad smug.

I saw the mental health counselor on Tuesday. Her name is Cyndi. My new head doctor has the same name as the youngest Brady. I like her. I really do. I tried arranging for some therapy a couple of years ago after I was first diagnosed. I was interviewed and then assigned a counselor. I hated her. First, beyond being gay, what the hell was I going to find as common ground with a fat black lesbian? Our mutual hatred of gay white men? She was the most passive/aggressive (make that aggressive, period) counselor I would think you could encounter. If I was five minutes late she would make me wait 15 and emerge chewing a sandwich. She became fixated on drinking as the root of all my problems and when I discussed someone I know using meth, she left me for 15 minutes and returned with a handful of leaflets and flyers about meth use and meetings. She as much as insinuated that I was using the euphemism “friend” to cover for my own meth use. After about four weeks of trying, and always emerging more frustrated than when I went in, I phoned her up and called it off. Of course, she called me back asking for an explanation. I finally had the upper hand and didn’t give her one. Cyndi, however, is quite different. I have much in common with a well put together white woman. I’ll be seeing her on Tuesday for the next 24 weeks. I have no agenda for what I hope to accomplish with this experience. I’m a firm believer in picking up the box and giving it a shake now and then. And I’m most pleased to finally be in a situation to say what I want about my life, and where it’s come from, and where I want it to go. I finally have someone to talk to. Sure, it’s her job. But even after the first week, when all I did was babble on about The Hellcat, and The Ex and the job and HIV, I really felt someone was listening to me. Only me. And all that day I felt my spirit soar.