There are times when waiting is a such a sweet pleasure. There are occasions when it's a little infuriating. And there are moments when it becomes like death. I am used to the first two having been through them several times already. But for the last one, however, I am not sure if even a thousand journeys will ever make a difference.
I was sweating profusely while I was seated and waiting for my name to be called outside the doctor's third floor-office. It felt so hot the airconditioning seemed useless. I would stand and walk a few steps to the window looking outside how Manila skyline was on early summer afternoon. I whistled a few times hoping some fresh air would squeeze their way through the window panels and comfort me. Up until that time, I never imagined that waiting to get your HIV test results would be so paralyzing. If the attending doctor's not my friend, I would have dashed outside the building not to be seen ever again.
Dr. F. then called me in. He probably saw my nervous look he led to a chair across his desk. I was facing him so there was no way I can hide how agitated I was. I tried to be calm as I watched his every move and observed all his facial expression hoping I'd get a clue on what the results would be like. It didn't work. As a standard procedure, we went through the highlights of the pre-test counseling I underwent a few days back. He made sure I was emotionally ready to face the verdict. Soon after, he took out something from the drawer and handed me a small envelop containing my test results. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I wanted to die.
No amount of prayers can ever make you ready for the time when you finally tear the envelop and find out the results. If it were possible, I would want to buy some more time. For a moment, I started berating myself for ever deciding to undergo the tests. But the doctor friend was there waiting for me to disclose the results so he knows exactly how to intervene.
I skipped breathing for a while when I saw the word negative. I was extremely relieved and thankful. I literally wanted to shout and kiss the heavens. Had my doctor friend asked me to perform Annie as in the musical play Annie, I wouldn't have any problem doing it.
But as I walked out the building, I was consumed by faint feelings of guilt and grief. I thought, I can never imagine how it would be like for those whose results were different from mine. And I can never understand the anguish of having to live knowing that, sooner or later, the end is near. It's so weird how just one word would carry so much meaning at one time that it practically dictates how you would run your life until life itself melts away.
The question is, will you let that happen?
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