The day I found out the HIV status of my twins

I was then calculating how I will be giving my twins antiretroviral medication daily to manage their condition. For some strange reason, I feel some consolation that it’s not all over. PHOTO | FILE

What you need to know:

  • Being a counsellor, I have learnt to, when I’m on the “receiving end”, read glances and silences. I have learnt to decode what it means when a counsellor shifts in his seat, sighs or pauses mid-sentence right before he delivers bad news.
  • The doctor settles in his seat, but I’ve already moved past turning the hands of time. I’ve accepted the inevitable. I’m now calculating how I will be giving my twins antiretroviral medication daily to manage their condition. For some strange reason, I feel some consolation that it’s not all over. “The results,” I steel myself, “whatever they are, I’ll deal with them”. As long as I have my boys, the rest, even HIV-sero conversion is water off this duck’s back.  

In our organisation, we like to say that we mend broken hearts. Hearts that have been broken by HIV-infection or affected by it.

When you are in a profession such as mine, you learn, mostly from experience, your own and that of others’, to read and decipher many things.

You learn to read the body language of a doctor when he is about to tell you that your CD4 count is low. Deathly low.

You learn to read a nurse’s body language when you go to visit a critically ill client you rushed to Mbagathi District Hospital the previous night.

You learn to read the tone and body language that tells you your client is no more.

You learn to know, from experience, that an empty hospital bed means death. 

The art of reading glances and silences

Being a counsellor, I have learnt to, when I’m on the “receiving end”, read glances and silences. I have learnt to decode what it means when a counsellor shifts in his seat, sighs or pauses mid-sentence right before he delivers bad news.

Today, as the doctor gets in, I’m with my twins, Gab and Baraka, but I’m reading him as if cramming for a CAT. (Come to think of it, this is one of HIV’s CATs). Then he casts me this glance. And I know this is the big one.

I could be thousands of miles away from home, but, I think, when it comes to breaking news, great or gruesome, all doctors attended the same school.

For instance, I can always tell what Dr Kinyanjui will tell me when he starts with the doctor-ish ice-breaker, “I don’t know how to tell you this…”  

Turning back the hands of time

As soon as the doctor sits down, my mind goes back to events that led us to this day. At such times, many of us wish we could turn back the hands of time. That’s exactly what I do. I wish I could have done some things better. Like managing certain “small” conditions, because when it comes to HIV, nothing’s small.

“Small” things. Small to other parents. Like Baraka refusing to put on weight like his brother. Although they are within the health graphs, I anxiously started looking for the tell-tale signs.

“Small” things like Gabriel’s running nose taking longer to heal. Today, I’m thinking that the recurring flu and cold bouts were all signs of you-know-what, which I ignored.

The doctor settles in his seat, but I’ve already moved past turning the hands of time. I’ve accepted the inevitable. I’m now calculating how I will be giving my twins antiretroviral medication daily to manage their condition. For some strange reason, I feel some consolation that it’s not all over. “The results,” I steel myself, “whatever they are, I’ll deal with them”. As long as I have my boys, the rest, even HIV-sero conversion is water off this duck’s back.  

Courage under fire

As a counsellor, I have seen mothers crumbling when they learn that their child is HIV-positive. I’m crumbling. God help me. 

Finally I get the results. First Baraka…

“He is HIV,” the doctor says, “free”.

I sit up. I inwardly thank God.

“Gabriel is …” the doctor pauses, and I shrink in my seat.

“Gabriel is HIV-free also.” 

I look up. The doctor is smiling at me. If only he knew how this long wait tested every last inch of my courage. I was sweating, although temperatures are reading below zero. 

Release

No word can describe how I feel. No more needle pricks. No more sleepless nights. No more panic attacks.

Baraka and Gab will not be tested for HIV again. They are HIV-free. I feel like I’ve been released from death row. Today, I’m the happiest mother in the world. Many bad things have happened to me recently. But it’s just like God to save the best laugh for last. 

Greatest birthday gift

I have gifts for Baraka and Gab’s second birthday. I’ll throw a bash. There will be cakes, toys and merriment.

But the greatest gift my twins will have, though they are oblivious to it, is that they are HIV-free. And this is not just Baraka’s and Gab’s gift.

It’s mine too. It’s the whole family’s. Heck, it’s for all the HIV community, and it’s a gift to that HIV-positive sister who wants a baby, but is stuck on the what-if-my-baby-turns-HIV-positive gear.

Shift gears, baby. Blessed things happen to those who dare this damn devil.