Five Years On: My Diagnosis and Mission Living As HIV-Positive

By Scott Foval, Huffington Post. Posted December 29, 2008.

The day of my appointment, I was a wretched, nervous wreck. I was still recovering from the sleep deprivation that the prior 10 days had wrought, and I barely pulled myself together to choke down half of a turkey sandwich, gulped down a full bottle of Gatorade in a single swallow, and headed out the door on time to make it to Howard Brown. En route to the appointment, my cell phone beeped with an SMS text from my new crush, telling me he wanted to be there for me, asking me to please call him afterwards, to let him help me deal with the news, whatever the outcome. I didn't quite believe him, but reluctantly agreed to call, even though I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to get this close to me in my fragile state. I didn't want to be hurt again, and my lack of trust was evident in my response. "OK, sure," I texted back, not knowing what I would actually do after I got the news.

I checked in on time at Howard Brown and was escorted to a closetlike, windowless room with a small lamp, a couple of plants, a narrow writing desk and two chairs within. I watched my wristwatch while waiting, and 30 seconds later a smiling counselor knocked twice quietly on the door, introduced himself, inviting me to sit down with him. He had my file in his right hand and set it on the table along with a couple of pamphlets and an intake form for treatment. He didn't even have to say a word, as the look of concern and compassion foreshadowed the news. "I'm very sorry, Scott. Your tests came back positive for HIV."

I was numb, and my ears rang. I barely remember the rest of the appointment, as the counselor ran down my CD4 and viral-load numbers. He gave me a copy of the results and offered follow-up counseling for my new carry-on baggage that would be with me for the rest of my life. Leaving the appointment, I broke down on the sidewalk just a block away from the clinic, ducking into a nearby alley to sit on the ground next to a dumpster. Sitting there, literally in the gutter, I sobbed uncontrollably, hyperventilating myself into dizziness. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe, as my chest contracted from the combination of cold fall air and psychological shock to my nervous system. I threw up on the ground next to me, and my throat burned with the searing pain of stomach acid receding back into my gut.

I couldn't move. Here I was, frozen in time, going into shock in the cold, hard alley under the Brown Line el tracks along Irving Park Road, with no one around to help me. As I lay there I wondered, "is there anyone who cares whether I live or die right now? God, do you hear me? Why? Please tell me why I deserve this."

I tried to get back up, but my shaky legs would not hold me. I fell back to the bricks, catching myself with my left hand on the way down. Fortunately, the dizziness began to subside, oxygen started returning to my body and brain, and suddenly my vision became razor sharp, as if I was watching a high-definition film at the Navy Pier Imax. My cell phone was vibrating in my pocket and ringing continuously, seven calls in succession had ticked off on my cell while I had been there, and only now was I cognizant that someone was desperately trying to find me.

It was my crush. He had gotten off work and was disturbed that I hadn't called him yet. Two-and-a-half hours had passed since I had texted him back, and he told me that his natural sense of alarm had told him that I was in trouble somewhere and needed help. He had sensed that I needed him, and as I picked myself up and managed to drag my shaking frame into a passing cab, he rushed to meet me at my house, helping me up the stairs and staying to comfort me. As we sat on my bed, I began to cry, and I told him that I was worthless, and that I appreciated his help but that he probably didn't want to get involved with a pathetic loser like me who was emotionally bankrupt and sexually damaged. I told him he should go, that I didn't want to hurt him, or worse, doom him to the same fate of getting this terrible death sentence.

He would not hear of it and put me in a bear hug to whisper in my ear. He said that the instant we met the week before, at the moment our eyes met, he instinctively knew that I was going to be someone significant in his life and that he thought he might be in love with me. He told me that HIV was not a death sentence and that contrary to my self-deprecating evaluation of my own being, he considered me to be one of the most incredible guys he had ever met. He said he believed that I was given the virus for a reason, that I would survive to tell the tale, and that my purpose in life would be shaped by a larger purpose for my experiences surviving this and my previous calamities. He said he believed in his heart that I needed to listen to my soul and take control of my life and being back, to fulfill the promise that was within me. Finally, he told me that it was going to take an army to keep him away from me and that there was nothing that was going to drive him off. He was here to stay, and I "had just better get used to it, because we're not in control of our situation! He is!" and pointed upward.

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Scott Foval is a writer, media host, presenter and producer living in Chicago.

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