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<p>An unassuming doorway lies at the top of Haight
Street. I reach the last step and ring the bell.
I'm jumpy and nervous. The voice on the intercom
asks what I want and after the little game of
trading code words, it buzzes me in.
<p>I step in and climb the stairs. The walls gleam
from a fresh coat of white paint. Bowls of
candy-colored condoms, sitting on the newel post,
catch my eyes. I pocket several, knowing they'll
get put to use in our household of single women.
<p>At the top of the stairs is the waiting room
– once the dining room of this
flat-turned-health clinic. I step inside and find
a spot to sit. I try to relax and take deep
breaths, but the circumstances leading me here are
hard to forget.
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<p>I started high school in Oklahoma, way back in
the early 1980's. I only went steady with a couple
of boys, but spent the requisite amount of time in
the back seat of their cars. No one talked about
sex back then and "safe sex" only meant escaping
pregnancy. Sexually transmitted diseases abounded
in the Bible Belt, but no one dared talk about it.
We just kept our Church Camp mouths shut about the
realities of sex, and practiced it when we thought
God wasn't watching.
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<p>The receptionist comes in and nods hello to me.
I return her smile reluctantly. I don't really
want to be here. That's not exactly true. I don't
really want to wait any more. But I stay politely
seated, reading the posters about prenatal care
and monthly breast exams. A young Latina girl sits
across from me, we've both been waiting here a
while. The bustle from Haight Street finds its way
in through the open windows, rising on the
afternoon breeze.
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<p>I went to a small conservative college in
Southern California. I'd moved to California two
years prior, but still felt hopelessly naive. By
now, the president had mentioned AIDS on tv, but I
didn't think it could affect white, middle class,
suburban me.
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<p>I glance at the clock. Only a minute has
passed. I start squirming in my seat and run my
fingers in the crook of my arm – that's where
my life came to a fork in the road, where the
needle mark from two weeks ago is.
<p>The receptionist calls a name, "Taylor," and
for a moment I forgot that's my pseudonym for the
afternoon. Every clinic has a different system for
naming their clients in order to keep their
anonymity. On the third call I remember and go up
to the desk, just to sign in. She leaves to tell
the counselor that I'm here. I sit down again and
keep waiting.
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<p>Moving north to Oakland after college was when
I seriously started thinking about it. Most of my
sex acts had been low risk, but not all. And I
knew serial monogamy wouldn't save me – my
average relationship was two months long. Hell,
you're supposed to get tested up to six months
after an exposure – I'd be on a second or
third partner by then. And HIV had crept into the
periphery of my life. Two friends became infected.
One was an ex-lover. I started getting nervous.
<p>Nervous because I could get sick, very sick, in
fact, I could die. But, more than that, I was so
worried about who I could've infected, If I was
indeed carrying the virus. I had a walking
nightmare about trying to tell my past partners
that they might be carrying HIV, and I might have
been the one to give it to them. That thought
alone made me nauseous.
<p>Knowing was better than not knowing. It was the
responsible thing to do.
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<p>A name is called and the Latina girl gets up
and walks down a hallway, following one of the
clinic workers. My palms seem clammy and I think
there are a few beads of perspiration perched on
my upper lip. They should've called my name much
earlier – maybe it's a sign. I want to pace
up and down the hall, but it's not allowed, for
confidentiality reasons. The walls and doors
aren't all that thick, and they don't want
patients overhearing conversations between other
clients and their counselors. So, I'm forced to
stay sitting in this ever-shrinking room, and tap
my feet and wring my hands.
<p>I reread the scattered handouts on genital
warts, syphilis and chlamydia for the umpteenth
time, not really paying attention anymore. My
"name" is finally called and I jump up to meet the
woman with the manila folder in her hand. She is
the one who interviewed me last time. They
question you on sex, drugs and blood transfusions
(answer honestly please, this is for posterity,
and CDC statistics). She has a kind, soft face and
small glasses. She appears friendly, but not
overly. I guess she's in her mid-twenties –
in many ways she's a mirror of myself.
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<p>I follow her down the hall to one of the
converted offices. The walking feels good –
I'm literally getting somewhere now. My hands stop
sweating and my breathing normalizes. She asks me
to close the office door. I oblige, then sit down
in front of the desk, and exhale audibly.
<p>"How are you today," she asks?
<p>"I'm tired of waiting. Let's get on with it."
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<p>Her words are few, but it takes longer for
their implication to wash over me. Negative. My
brain struggles to transpose the literal meaning
to the intended one, negative being a positive
result. I exhale again. I'm relieved, but not
elated like I'd expected. There's no
justification, no feeling of being above reproach
from HIV. If anything, I must become more aware,
vigilant and accountable.
<p>On my way out, I dip my hand in the bowl
balancing on the stair railing and pocket a few
more condoms.
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<p align=center><font size="4" face="arial,helvetica"><b>Have <a href="post/" onmouseover="window.status='add your experience';return true" target="_top">you</a> been tested?</b></font></p>
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