The Agony and The Ex-tasy (Part 4)

Denial is a bitch that will make you believe anything. 

It started with a weekly fever. Then came the lose of appetite, annoyingly recurring boils that takes forever to heal, frequent cough and colds, and always feeling weak—the kind that strangely makes you hate taking the stairs, long walks, and stops you from going to the gym 'cause you can barely finish any work out routines even for 30 minutes.

Well, it got even worst. I used to work as a Business Solutions Manager and I can't tell you enough how stressful it was. Not to mention the long hours I spent in the office. But I'm never a quitter. And through hard and depressing days for months at a time, the only things that get me going are drugs, liquor and sex.

And, boy! Did getting hook-ups and casual sex from where I used to live couldn't be more easier than scoring one on Flappy Bird—you open up Grindr and gets at least 6 people hitting on you in less than a minute—California Garden Square.

Then shit happened, figuratively and literally.


There was this one time, I couldn't help but stay inside the loo for more than half a day having some kind of large-volume diarrhea that feels like you've been bottomed repeatedly by a bunch of ten-incher guys for two days straight. It was tragic and really painful.

Another time was when I just had to leave everything, hail a cab and head straight home to Alabang. My mother greeted me with surprise. "Wala dad at ate mo." They're both out the country. I went in to my old room and thought of my childhood days, it wasn't so bad. I vomited once, twice, countless times. She was worried. I answered her questions with the medical shit the doctors once told me pre-diagnosis. She cried and offered to take me to the hospital. Her eyes were full of tears and questions. Instead of saying no, I said "This is NOT your fault, ma. It's nobodies... Uhmmmm... okay lang po ako."  Then I smiled, hugged her tight and asked her to go back to sleep.

My staycation at Makati Med wasn't exactly short and sweet but rather tiringly continuous. Why, you ask?

Well, from what I could gathered being rushed in the hospital for countless times, I was diagnosed with a mild pneunomia (PCP, pneumocystis jirovecii pneumonia) and had adverse reaction to cotrimoxazole after taking it three times a day for two weeks.

It didn't stop there. Biliary colic came next and was told that if I'm not careful enough, my liver maybe failing.

My admission record at MMC was over the top that my health insurance was starting to question it, plus my once and two times a week follow up schedules with three specialists. Having to request for a work from home for four months while recovering was the cherry on top of a fantastic year, [insert more sarcasm here].

And the funny thing is that sometimes, no matter how hard you try to fight, life's many ironies can slap you so hard you'd forget what you used to believe in.

Not that I was complaining but it was that kind of moment when I was thinking the best way to commit suicide; Jump off a building, run over by MRT or car crash? Broken bones and blood all over... closed casket, better not. Drug overdose? Not so graceful. Drown myself? Big tummy and blue skin. Hang myself to death? Tongue na!

I was fragile and desperate. I never told anyone about my status, except the vice president for human resource management and four people I'm really friends with at work. I searched online hoping to stumble any help I can get. Lo and behold, I've read about a small support group on Twitter. There I met fellow PLHIVs': Kuya Angel, pozziepinoy, and advocates Phil Tanpoco and Angelo among many others who helped me. I owe all of them my second life and I am forever grateful.

I stayed under Dr. M's guidance for months. Until she finally recommended to have my case handled by her good friend Dr. Rosanna Ditangco. Clueless, I had to ask help from people on Twitter. I left home early (cut-off for newly diagnosed were 10AM, now 8AM) and went to RITM (Research Institute for Tropical Medicine) in Alabang. I was told to look for ARG (AIDS Research Group) which is located at what seemed to be a secret place inside RITM, below an old building at the back. My first impression of the place was... well, depressing. The furnitures and couch had seen better days.

But I thought to myself, I was there for help. So I approached a guy named Marvin. He handed me forms to fill in and another friendly face came close, her name is Shola.

She asked if I already had counselling and I honestly answered I did not had any. She went on with basic things I need to know about living with HIV, what to do and what not to do, and how things worked out for her and how I should always see through things with a stronger heart. She had my attention and I can never forget her.

**Watch as she shares her life story.



And here's part 2.



Of times I thought I was gonna die, it never happened. I lived to tell.

Until one day when I had to refill my ARV supplies, some weiry tall and leanly muscular guy wearing a cap caught my attention as I walk inside the old ARG room. Sat with his tailbone against the edge of the chair, he was distress talking to one of the staff about his CD4. His posture aggressively poor but skin is so white you'd think he had been taking glutathione for years, injectibles you'd guess. I was quite sure I've seen him before.

And then the seconds-short eye contact happened. He looked away, suddenly conscious of what seemed like his myriad insufficiencies. Unfinished, he grabbed his bag and go.

My heart beat was pounding so fast I can barely remember. But it felt like I did, strongly.
What it him?

By then it occurred to me... it was my heart that went out of the room. It was him.


To be continued...