Thirty years ago, in 1988, sometime in mid-January, I received an HIV-positive diagnosis. I’ve long since erased the exact date from my memory, but I shall never forget that year as long as I’m blessed to be living on this planet.

In early January of 1988 I was encouraged to undergo an HIV test by a former lover (that’s what we called our boyfriends back then) who told me via telephone that he had tested positive for HIV six months prior. We had remained friends after our one year relationship ended in 1986. It was only a month after his call that I found out he had late stage AIDS. My dear Larry died of AIDS on July 8, 1989. His was one of hundreds of deaths from HIV that week in America. And the pandemic continued unabated.

I was informed of my diagnosis by a nurse via telephone while at my office. Working in an affluent internist’s office, I think she was completely unprepared to deliver this news to me. I was equally unprepared to hear it. I actually felt bad for her.

Thankfully this was in the pre-cubicle era, and I could at least shut my office door before laying my head on my desk in complete shock. This diagnosis in 1988 was a death sentence. There was no drug “cocktail,” no cure, and very little hope. I don’t know how much time passed before I gathered the strength to open my door to face my co-workers and leave for the weekend.

I went immediately to Larry’s house where I huddled in a spare bedroom for the next three days, emerging only to eat or use the bathroom. There was a lot of the latter and not much of the former. I needed to be with someone, anyone who could remotely feel what I was feeling and provide the tiniest bit of comfort. It was truly the lost weekend.

Incredibly, from that weekend forward, there was no denial, anger, or blame on my part. Searing sadness and fear, yes. Never the victim, I just accepted the facts. I don’t know where this strength came from, but I made the decision early on that I would do everything within my power to survive. I know other people with HIV who were just as determined and didn’t survive. I don’t feel guilt about that, but I strongly feel I must honor their lives by going on with mine in a way that respects their memories.

The entire year of 1988 was lived in three month sections, awaiting my blood test results to see how quickly HIV was rendering my immune system useless. I didn’t dare to fathom that 1988 would be the first of many years lived in quarterly chunks. Of course the big question remained. What, if anything, could be done if my numbers went lower? Or worse yet, if I developed an opportunistic infection?

The only FDA-approved drug to combat HIV in 1987 was AZT. It was the toxic solution and the only hope. After a year of T-cell monitoring, I was placed on AZT “therapy” in a regimen that consisted of “around the clock” dosing every four hours. This lasted for one year. That could be one of the reasons I suffer from insomnia to this day. Well, that and the PTSD from watching so many of my friends die from the same virus that I carried. That could cause insomnia.

Along the way I grabbed at several “miracle cures”, including drinking “pure” aloe vera juice “imported” from Mexico by the Dallas Buyers Club. The gallon jugs of juice were supposed to boost the immune system and possess all manner of curative powers. I drank about 8 juice glasses a day of this awful tasting, gag inducing, viscous liquid for almost a year. I held my nose, and it didn’t kill me. It’s a memory that still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Having survived a year of full AZT assault and not dying from either AZT or AIDS, I found a new physician named Dr. Alan Hamill. He placed me on a lower dosage regimen and monitored my health closely while we anxiously awaited “the next big thing.” Dr. Hamill used both traditional medicine as well as holistic approaches to treating HIV. If his treatment regime is considered somewhat unconventional by today’s standards, it must be remembered that in those years of the AIDS Crisis before 1996, pretty much all treatments were a stab in the dark. He was a long time member of the Foundation for Human Understanding and was a leader in its AIDS Resource Center and the Nelson-Tebedo Clinic in Dallas. But the next big thing turned out to be that my wonderful new doctor developed AIDS and died a few years later, in 1997. This death thing seemed to be a recurring theme in my young life. I bristle when I hear people talk of dreading birthdays at any age. Consider the alternative. I have a long list of dead friends who would gladly trade places.

In 1991 I came under the care of Dr. Nick Bellos and remained a patient of his until I departed Dallas in 2016. He remains one of my closest friends to this day and saved so many lives in Dalas.

In so many ways my life ended that day in early 1988, and yet it began anew. It was a time of endings and beginnings, death and birth, and even rebirth. I can’t exactly tell you how I made it, how I lived it, how I survived it. So much of the past thirty years remains a mystery to me today. There are thousands of stories like mine, but this is my story.

The story I want to tell is one of love, compassion, understanding, and acceptance. There certainly was an abundance of all these things. But there was also fear, isolation, desperation, depression, stigma, and prejudice. This is life. All these things coexist.

So, here we are in 2018. More than half my life lived with HIV. I’ll be 59 years old in two months, but physiologically my body is closer to 70. And that’s ok. It’s the toll of thirty years of chemical therapy and the price I’ve paid for a life after 30. What do I have to complain about? Not much I can tell you. I live with some residual medical conditions that are not insurmountable.

Now we get to the most important part of my story. Gratitude and survival go hand in hand. I can tell you that it has taken a village and really good health insurance for me to survive. A village of caring medical professionals and loving family and friends. Even kind strangers. Yes, we can still depend upon the kindness of strangers. For all this love that has sustained me, I live in a state of gratitude.

And last, but certainly not least. My foundation and strength. My Michie. My loving, caring, compassionate life partner and dear husband who wakes up every day accepting me exactly as I am and asking if I’m ready for my tea. Truly this is the greatest gift of all and certainly reason enough to live.