Color Weak 3 - The First Death Sentence

As he made his way slowly towards nowhere in particular, he silently wondered why he wasn't more affected by this last verification.  He had no doubt the doctors were correct, there was no denial, anger, or regret - nor was there relief, numbness, or even sadness, only his cold calculating thoughts prevailed, his only reliable friends with him 'till the end.  Still he knew he wasn't exactly a sociopath, there had to be feelings buried in there somewhere about all of this, at least a tinge of self-pity hidden deep amongst his other repressed gifts, but he could not unearth them. As he turned a corner slowly past a medical clinic, it struck him clearly why he was not reacting the way he thought he might to his current news - he had faced this before, he had been sentenced to death a dozen years earlier.
The 21st century was ushered in just a few months after he had suffered a two week bout of HIV. Two of the worst weeks of his life, fourteen days of limbo waiting for a new test to clear him of his diagnosis. He had learned more about his own mind in that fortnight than in the forty years before.  It was a strange time and it was an enlightening time, probably as most major changes  seem to transpire.  In the end, he had escaped his one out of a thousand odds, and would never be shaken again by the prospect of his own demise.
It happened in the summer of 1999 as he began the medical and paperwork necessary to leave for a Peace Corps assignment in Africa.  Unlike his two previous experiences, he was now stepping up from volunteer status to that of a supervisor, overseeing some 100 math and science teachers and their native counterparts. His excitement was only partially dampened by the gruelling process of completing the governmental requirements and redtape.  Shortly before his comprehensive physical exam, he had developed a raging upper respiratory infection that eventually left him hoarse. It stuck heavily and stubbornly with him for more than a month, and it was at its worst when he underwent his tests.  The doctor supervising the examination gave him some antibiotics, and he was sure it would pass quickly, and that he had heard the last from it.  Not quite so.
He finished all the federal requirements for the job and left for a two week training retreat in Maryland.  It was a lovely isolated resort, and he enjoyed interacting with the other Peace Corps employees from around the world.  He teased the South African, played basketball with the giant from Mali, laughed with the Russian overwhelmed by the local WalMart, and debated late into the night with the Libyan.  The sessions were bearable, and he was growing steadily more excited about moving on to Tanzania for two years. Near the end of the training, he was involved in some role play with the others when he received a message that he had a phone call up at the office, and that he needed to take.  A bit irritated, he made his way back up the hill to the cabin office about a quarter of a mile away.  Once inside, he was directed to pay phone with its receiver off the hook, swinging gently from side to side a few feet beneath.  It was an odd site, one that could not possibly forecast a positive omen.
He picked up phone gently and realized he had answered in barely a whisper.  The voice on the other end was cold and cryptic as it proceeded through a litany of questions and protocols.  He didn't catch the identity of the caller for several seconds, almost mistaking it for a recording.  Finally, he fell in sync and heard the following words, "and do you remember we agreed on some security questions in case we needed to follow up with you?"  He grunted his affirmation although he did not recall the exercise, then dutifully answered several personal questions.  After the last answer, there was a long pause on the other end of the call before the voice returned, even more distant and said "you have failed both your HIV tests, the ELISA and Western Blot tests", and then there was even longer delay before he continued with "but it might be an error." His knees had almost buckled between the two revelations, and it was another minute before he caught up with the doctor on the other end of the line. He stopped the physician's monotone lecture with "what are the odds these tests are incorrect?"  "Less than one in a thousand between the two tests, but I think there might be an error, we can do a third test to be sure."  By this point the wall was holding him up, and he was barely able to extract the rest of the pertinent information the doctor was droning on about.  He was going home the next day, maybe for the rest of his abbreviated life.
He made his way back to the training activity and half heatedly continued.  One of the American participants who he did not care for came up and chastised him for missing a valuable part of the exercise.  It took every ounce of resolve not to erupt, but he just smiled and said "sorry."  Later, he would pull the training director aside to explain his impending departure.  He had never been so humiliated before, telling the stranger how he had to return home to take a third HIV test before he could continue in his training regimen.  He was embarrassed and afraid, and his world was slowly shutting down all around him.  Ten years later, he couldn't recall the plane ride home.
That first twenty-four hours with the disease were pretty numb - he didn't panic, wasn't angry, just couldn't register much of an emotion at all.  He knew he had to pack and get back home, then find his way to a new clinic to have his blood drawn the following day.  If all went well, he would know his true fate in a few weeks. It wasn't until he found himself sitting in the clinic waiting room that the whole thing became far too real.  He found himself sitting on a flimsy plastic chair face to face with a young woman who couldn't have weighed more than 75 pounds.  She looked like a skeleton, and moved very slowly and deliberately - there wasn't much life left in her eyes when they met his, just a dull acknowledgement of the obvious pathos on his face.  He knew then that this could be real, and that his life as he knew it might be over.  When they called him into the examining room, his head was low, and he felt defeated for the first time in his life.  The technician drew his blood quickly, then dismissed him.  He found his way out into the sunshine, and headed to work to his computer to the Internet.
The next few days were heavy ones, the atmosphere seemed thick and dingy.  He didn't sleep, nor did he eat much.  He could drive away the impending sense of doom for minutes at a time with thoughts like "I haven't had any high risk behaviors" or "no one I have known has been infected", but they returned promptly and he grew tired of  the game of volley. He moved slowly from place to place, almost as if he was swimming through a dense liquid prison. His only concern was to get to his office and to research the disease, to find the statistical anomaly that would save him.  The one constant image though was the emaciated brunette at the clinic, he wondered if he would resign himself as she had, so completely and certainly to his demise.  Years later, he would see hundreds of those vacant eyes as he travelled from village to village in Tanzania - but there was something special, something far more haunting to look into those faces five miles from your own home.
He researched the disease relentlessly on the relatively new Internet, and found little that gave him any comfort, that is until he stumbled on an alternative website.  He was dumbfounded when he read in very large letters, in the very first paragraph of the possibility of certain common ailments like upper respiratory infections creating antigens that mimicked those of HIV.  He had found his answer!  He hurried home to get the phone number of the doctor he could not remember, and after a few minutes reached him on the phone.  The doctor was impatient, and when he finally broke his news about the Internet discovery, the response on the other end was "no, that cannot be it."  And with that, the issue was over - he was to wait another ten days or so for a more advanced test. 
By the end of the first week, he didn't really care anymore, he was just anxious to get the news one way or the other and then get on with his life, whatever was left of it.  By the time he made his way back to the clinic, he was ready to face the disease, and was only mildly surprised when the nurse handed him a slip of paper and said "negative."  That was all the dialogue he got, "negative."  He noticed sadly though, that the brunette was nowhere to be seen.  He walked back out into the day, and drove home to pack for Tanzania.  He had told no one of the ordeal, so there was no one to celebrate with.  Two weeks of life and death hadn't left him with anymore appreciation or zest for life, nor had the entire thing depressed him.  It was merely yet another act, another scene he had witnessed from afar, dispassionately and detached.  He wondered if he would ever feel anything ever again.
Now, twelve years later, he nodded to himself silently registering the fact that no such reprieve would be extended, he had spent his one miracle a decade or so before.
To be continued..........