No Connection Here

Today, 40 million people are estimated to be living with HIV/AIDS. The overwhelming majority of people with HIV - approximately 95% of the global total - now live in the developing world.

--National Center for HIV, STD, and TB Prevention

I had never really thought about HIV/AIDS having any sort of impact in my life. Sure, I knew that this disease exists, but I did not ever think that I had any reason to be concerned about it. I believed in the myth that HIV/AIDS existed in third world countries, homosexual populations, among injecting drug users, and in high-risk jobs that deal with bloodãthere was no connection to my family.

Going to a small high school, the gossip spread fast. So, naturally, I found out about ten minutes after it happened. In the locker room shower, I could hear voices above the pounding of the water. There had been a fight that morning in the cafeteriaãfence posts as weapons, bloodshed, and two teachers caught up in the middle. I commented about how we should all get along and did not give the fight any more thought at the time. I would rather get the details of the latest hook-ups and break-ups.

As I walked to class, a friend stopped me with a concerned look on her face. ≥Is your dad doing okay?≤ Puzzled by the question and the expression on her face, I said he was fine and continued down the hall. As soon as I sat down in class, my curiosity found its answer.

≥Man, your dad took a beating,≤ said the kid in front of me as he turned around in his desk. I stopped unpacking my backpack, and let my jaw drop. He smiled at my shock realizing that he was the first to fill me in on how my dad and another teacher tried to break up the fight that morning. He played out the entire scene for me, reiterating the violence and the blood, trying to get my reaction.

If the toilet is broken, Dad is there dissembling it. If something is wrong with the air conditioner, there is no need to worry, because Dad is already half-way down the hall to fetch his tools. It did not surprise me that he had jumped right in the middle of the fight, thinking everyone would suddenly stop and be friends.

Of course, the rumors had blown the magnitude of his involvement and injuries way out of proportion. By the time I talked with him, he had been beat over the head with the fence post and punched in the face by a bystander. Funny how after all of that, he only had a few cuts and scrapes on his arms. I joked about how he was too old to be joining the fights, and we laughed. This was nothing to be concerned about and life could return to normal.

At dinner that night, my dad indulged us with details in the style that I would associate with a war veteran. He claimed it as heroism while my mom marked it stupidity.

One afternoon later that week, I came in from school to find my mom in the kitchen, pacing the floor. Her face was tensed up, and I could tell she was worried about something. She turned to me and wanted to know why Dad put himself in the middle of the fight and that he should not have been in danger. I looked at her like she was crazy and blew her off. He only had a few scratches. No big deal. She has always been one to worry about everything, so I figured this was another one of those times.

While I was talking on the phone about something that I am sure was oh-so-important, my parents called me into the living room. From the tone of their voices, I knew that something was wrong. I said my good-byes and hurried downstairs expecting the youπre-in-trouble-for-something look, but instead received saddening stares. The TV was turned off and the newspapers were folded up on the floor, a clear indication that they had been talking. A weird silence hung in the air as I enter the room. After a moment of my silent confusion, my mom indicated to sit down. ≥We need to talk with you about something.≤ I lowered myself into the chair furthest away from them thinking that the impact of what they said might not hit so hard.

My mom looked down at the floor and started, ≥Your father is going to have to undergo some tests.≤ I furrowed my brows and stared over to my dad. ≥Heπs been in contact with some possibly contaminated blood.≤

I remember wanting to fall asleep in health class my freshman year of high school. Geez, didnπt everyone know about the spread of disease. I could not believe that I had to take notes on how HIV/AIDS can be contracted by sex, drugs, and blood-to-blood contact. It seemed like such common knowledge.

As the information sunk in, my thoughts began to override the sound of their voices trying to explain what might happen. AIDS, my dad could possible have AIDS. I focused on his arm and the so-seemingly minor cuts. I began to imagine little spider looking viruses that we studies in biology invading my dadπs body. A wave of nausea passed through my body.

When I was a child, the daughter-in-law of a family friend contracted AIDS. She worked in a blood clinic and accidentally fumbled with a used needle one day. It pricked her, and she became infected. My parents asked about her every time we saw our friend. She only became sicker and sicker until she could hold on to life no longer. At this age, I did not understand AIDS, but I knew that it was bad and made people die.

As I thought about my father, her death haunted me. What were the chances that the needle that pricked her was infected? She dealt with tons of needles in a day, but it happened to be that particular one. Thinking of this incident did not help me to cope with my dadπs situation. I wanted to belittle the probability of my dad being infected, but I could not stop thinking of her situation and of her odds.

Legal issues surrounding the confidentiality of HIV/AIDS hampered the speed to which my dad could get his results and the results of those involved in the fight. No one could be at ease with just his results, since the disease can take time to be detected. So, we waited.

My mom snapped at my sister and I if we gave her the slightest bit of trouble. My dad silently read his paper, watched the news, and went to bed. Nobody talked about it. Nobody really talked about anything, but we all worried. In that time, it was as if a dark, threatening cloud had descended upon our house, and all we could do was wait and prayä.pray a lot.

The school district suddenly became really concerned with my dad. Mr. Bush, are you okay? We want to keep this quiet and get you in for testing as soon as possible. This is ridiculous that this had to happen. Letπs crack down on these delinquent kids and give them real consequences. We are one hundred percent behind our teachers. Please, donπt sue was the underlying message in all of this. To them, my dad had turned into a liability.

When the people at school continued to talk about what a great fight it had been, anger began to grow inside of me. Did they not know that this was not just a stupid fight between two girls over a guy that had gotten out of hand? My dad was not just some teacher that was caught in the middle. The repercussions could be serious.

I felt really alone in my feelings. The family did not want to talk about it, and I couldnπt talk about it with anyone else. HIV/AIDS had serious social taboo in the conservative town in which I lived, and I felt shame that this disease could even be associated with my family.

In the second grade, I was given a set of personalized pencils that I was extremely proud to have. This girl that sat across from stole my pencil, claimed it as her own, and chewed off the eraser. I got mad and went crying to the teacher.

Eight years later, this same girl continued to make me cry, but this time she may done worse than stole and chewed up my pencil. Her decisions to get into a fight and spill her blood could cause my dad his health.

The clinic said that all of the results would be in soon and that they would call as soon as they had them, so we were under strict orders not to use the phone until that call came. I could not decide how to feel about this incoming call. One side of me dreaded it and hoped the phone would never ring, while the other side just wanted to know. I tried to engage myself in my homework but found that my thoughts wandered back to my dad and strings of ≥what if?≤

The phone rang, and my heart jumped into my throat as I heard my dad pick it up. My senses strained to their fullest ability to decipher what was taking place, but they did not have the necessary range. I slammed my book shut and fumbled down the stairs just as my dad and mom smiled with relief.

Afterword

In trying to find an experience to write about, I kept thinking that I didnπt have a story that people would want to read or that I would want to write. My life just seems to have not had any huge life changing events or interesting drama. After quite a bit of brainstorming, I decided that this would be my story.

When I sat down to write it, I found that the events surrounding this story came rushing back. It was interesting to look back on the situation and return to the mind frame that I had at the time. I called my mother for help in remembering details of the story.

Instead of reporting the stories of others, I reported a story of myself. I think that this was a good starting point in learning how to structure a narrative. I learned to use details and elaboration to show how events took place (≥show donπt tell≤ sound familiar!).