overhead, producing a great whirling sky. When I force myself to stand, the wind catches my back and propels me forward.
In my room, I draw my trash can near and lie back and close my eyes. The room spins, my stomach quivers, and my body lightens as sick air against a mattress. I force my head into the trash can and heave until my deep gagging only yanks up sound and green spittle. My thin stomach muscles tighten; my throat roughens. I rest back and again close my eyes, and with my pillowcase, I catch the warm tears spilling from them. This cannot go on. This must stop.
In the night, another spasm wakes me. My left foot cramps like the parabolic arch of a scared cat’s back—an arabesque of pain. To soothe it, I get out of bed and walk it off, hobbling round my room, stepping gingerly and occasionally flexing my toes to stretch my muscle. Outside, crickets sing their last song before the sun will soon rise, and the campus lights blaze in the dark courtyard—feeble orbs in a cloud of night. Eventually, my foot unlocks itself, and the pain fades. I lie down again.
Today it happens at lunch. My skin pales, my body warms, and my throat closes itself while my stomach churns. I push my food away and rush to my suite, where I give my insides to the toilet. Done, I lie down and sleep through another afternoon class, and later, I eat a slice of bread and wait to see that it stays down. Then, on what strength I have, I study. I’m behind in several classes now.
It is early morning, and I feel sick for the seventh time this week. My forehead sweats and my stomach roils. I go to the bathroom, hover over the open toilet, and wait for the spell to pass. I gag lightly, quietly, but nothing comes up. I run cold water over a cloth and press this to my face. It is cool and raises chill bumps along my arms as I sit on the bathroom floor and wait, and when the nausea ends, I return to my bed for a few more minutes of sleep, but soon I wake, dress for class, and swallow my AZT before leaving.
March. It has gone on for far too long. I cannot eat without food later spilling out of me, and I cannot walk without a muscle contraction striking me down. Now at four in the morning, I am bent prostrate in the suite bathroom, throwing my stomach into the toilet again. While the rest of the hall sleeps and while the first cool dew clings to the trees and grass outside, I am sick underneath the fluorescent light and its electric hum. I have no doubts that AZT causes this; research confirms it and my intuition tells me it is so. I wet my face with a cool washcloth. I wash my hands. I rinse my mouth with Listerine. And I return to bed, tiptoeing past my sleeping roommate.
When I wake again in another few hours, I shower, dress, and I then cup a cold glass of orange juice in one hand and palm the obligatory white and blue pill in the other. I hold it to the light, scrutinize the tiny particles encased in its shell, and wonder at it all. Twice a day, every day since I found out about my HIV, I have swallowed this pill unquestioningly. Today I pause. Although I have trusted AZT with my life, I think I can trust it no more. This is no way to live.
I walk into my room, the pill in hand, and I fetch the rest of the bottle, still hidden in my dresser drawer. I shake it and hear the rattle of the tiny, life-saving medicine within. Then, from where I’m standing at my bedside,I make a long free-throw shot to the trash can. The bottle whacks against the concrete wall and banks in, making a tiny thump as it settles atop crumpled paper.
I don’t call to consult Dr. Trum, for I can guess his advice. He has his numbers to believe in. He has his charts and his faith in medicine. I don’t ask my mother or my father what they think, for, just as AZT is my only hope, so it is theirs, and I can’t ask them to give up a thing like that. So for now, I take this upon myself. I am sick of being sick.
I remove the trash
In my room, I draw my trash can near and lie back and close my eyes. The room spins, my stomach quivers, and my body lightens as sick air against a mattress. I force my head into the trash can and heave until my deep gagging only yanks up sound and green spittle. My thin stomach muscles tighten; my throat roughens. I rest back and again close my eyes, and with my pillowcase, I catch the warm tears spilling from them. This cannot go on. This must stop.
In the night, another spasm wakes me. My left foot cramps like the parabolic arch of a scared cat’s back—an arabesque of pain. To soothe it, I get out of bed and walk it off, hobbling round my room, stepping gingerly and occasionally flexing my toes to stretch my muscle. Outside, crickets sing their last song before the sun will soon rise, and the campus lights blaze in the dark courtyard—feeble orbs in a cloud of night. Eventually, my foot unlocks itself, and the pain fades. I lie down again.
Today it happens at lunch. My skin pales, my body warms, and my throat closes itself while my stomach churns. I push my food away and rush to my suite, where I give my insides to the toilet. Done, I lie down and sleep through another afternoon class, and later, I eat a slice of bread and wait to see that it stays down. Then, on what strength I have, I study. I’m behind in several classes now.
It is early morning, and I feel sick for the seventh time this week. My forehead sweats and my stomach roils. I go to the bathroom, hover over the open toilet, and wait for the spell to pass. I gag lightly, quietly, but nothing comes up. I run cold water over a cloth and press this to my face. It is cool and raises chill bumps along my arms as I sit on the bathroom floor and wait, and when the nausea ends, I return to my bed for a few more minutes of sleep, but soon I wake, dress for class, and swallow my AZT before leaving.
March. It has gone on for far too long. I cannot eat without food later spilling out of me, and I cannot walk without a muscle contraction striking me down. Now at four in the morning, I am bent prostrate in the suite bathroom, throwing my stomach into the toilet again. While the rest of the hall sleeps and while the first cool dew clings to the trees and grass outside, I am sick underneath the fluorescent light and its electric hum. I have no doubts that AZT causes this; research confirms it and my intuition tells me it is so. I wet my face with a cool washcloth. I wash my hands. I rinse my mouth with Listerine. And I return to bed, tiptoeing past my sleeping roommate.
When I wake again in another few hours, I shower, dress, and I then cup a cold glass of orange juice in one hand and palm the obligatory white and blue pill in the other. I hold it to the light, scrutinize the tiny particles encased in its shell, and wonder at it all. Twice a day, every day since I found out about my HIV, I have swallowed this pill unquestioningly. Today I pause. Although I have trusted AZT with my life, I think I can trust it no more. This is no way to live.
I walk into my room, the pill in hand, and I fetch the rest of the bottle, still hidden in my dresser drawer. I shake it and hear the rattle of the tiny, life-saving medicine within. Then, from where I’m standing at my bedside,I make a long free-throw shot to the trash can. The bottle whacks against the concrete wall and banks in, making a tiny thump as it settles atop crumpled paper.
I don’t call to consult Dr. Trum, for I can guess his advice. He has his numbers to believe in. He has his charts and his faith in medicine. I don’t ask my mother or my father what they think, for, just as AZT is my only hope, so it is theirs, and I can’t ask them to give up a thing like that. So for now, I take this upon myself. I am sick of being sick.
I remove the trash
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