Sorry for the lack of posting, but trust me, I've got a good excuse: In the last week, I’ve had 9 vials of blood drawn. The medical mystery continues. I am weary and worried.
On Monday I got a call from the pituitary doctor, and almost lost it.
Yes, a call from the doctor himself. Guys, nothing will make your heart beat faster than an African drum quite like a personal phone call from a medical professional—especially when that professional sounds awkward and tentative.
“Hi Sojourner, it’s Dr. Cira.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So, I got the results of your endocrine bloodwork and your pituitary seems to be fine. That mass of cells isn’t doing anything harmful.”
“Okay….why are you calling me?”
“There were some other results in your tests that we wanted to share with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your blood counts are very low—and it could be nothing, it does fluctuate from day to day—but I’d like you to go back to your regular doctor for further testing.”
“What about the [mumbling, cause I’m at my desk] test? I checked that box on the form. Did you get those results?”
“What? I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
[I jump up and walk to the elevator.]
“The HIV test!”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten those results back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Guys, it’s never good when a doctor says “I don’t know.” Never good at all. Especially when they call you personally to tell you what they don’t know.
I went in to my regular doc the next day (I’m not fucking around, y’all; we gotta get answers ASAP), and she reviewed the results. She’s a really awesome young Asian woman, and since her last name is Cho, I sometimes call her Margaret when she’s being sassy.
I only met her a month ago, but seeing as we’ve been through so much already, I feel we’re at the nickname level.
Margaret informed me that it’s “quite common for African Americans to have lower white counts, and doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
Wait, so what you’re telling me is that because I’m black I have fewer white blood cells? Is there a “Blacks Only” sign hanging somewhere in my blood vessels?
“Hi Sojourner, it’s Dr. Cira.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So, I got the results of your endocrine bloodwork and your pituitary seems to be fine. That mass of cells isn’t doing anything harmful.”
“Okay….why are you calling me?”
“There were some other results in your tests that we wanted to share with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your blood counts are very low—and it could be nothing, it does fluctuate from day to day—but I’d like you to go back to your regular doctor for further testing.”
“What about the [mumbling, cause I’m at my desk] test? I checked that box on the form. Did you get those results?”
“What? I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
[I jump up and walk to the elevator.]
“The HIV test!”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten those results back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Guys, it’s never good when a doctor says “I don’t know.” Never good at all. Especially when they call you personally to tell you what they don’t know.
I went in to my regular doc the next day (I’m not fucking around, y’all; we gotta get answers ASAP), and she reviewed the results. She’s a really awesome young Asian woman, and since her last name is Cho, I sometimes call her Margaret when she’s being sassy.
I only met her a month ago, but seeing as we’ve been through so much already, I feel we’re at the nickname level.
Margaret informed me that it’s “quite common for African Americans to have lower white counts, and doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
Wait, so what you’re telling me is that because I’m black I have fewer white blood cells? Is there a “Blacks Only” sign hanging somewhere in my blood vessels?
Because of the other immune-system cell counts, more blood was drawn. The lab technician was a really attractive, hip young dude who wore a flannel shirt and had a forearm tattoo. When he called me into the office, I was really confused and wary. “Um, you called my name? What’s up?”
He explained that he’d be taking the blood, and the first words out of my mouth were, “No you’re not. You’re going to go model for the next Urban Outfitters catalogue.”
I don’t know. It was the fear talking.
Up until now, I’ve kept my mom in the dark because I didn’t want to worry her. But now that it seems we’ve got no answers, I had to let my ICE contact know what’s up. When I told her about the tests, her first response:
“Did you take an HIV test?”
What on earth?! My own mother thinks I have the HIV? What kind of supportive, vote of confidence is that?! The woman hears one joke about wintercourse and suddenly I’m one of the leads in Rent.
When I called her out for her "helpful suggestion," she goes she says, “Well, maybe you just have Epstein-Barr.”
Um, thanks.
“It’s not fatal,” she says defensively.
So, with visions of terminal illness dancing in my head, I’ve been sleepless for days. Add to that the high quanitities of blood being taken, I’m practically a zombie. I’d kept Jewboo in the dark—well, not in the dark—more like, in a naturally lit room with the shades drawn. When I told him last night about my low blood counts, his eyes widened.
“I don’t have HIV.” I said.
He sighed in relief.
WHAT IS WITH EVERYONE CLOSE TO ME THINKING I HAVE HIV???
It’s funny how a near-death experience brings the truth out. Apparently everyone thinks I’m an unprotected-sex-having, intravenous-drug-using hot mess of a blacktress. At best, they’re all dramatic hypochondriacs who I can’t lean on in a time of crisis. Either way, I’m on my own.
*******Holy shit, this just in!!!*******
As I was writing this post, I got an email from the doc with my test results!!!
Your blood count and other tests are within the normal range indicating that there is no laboratory evidence of infection. Your HIV test is negative. When you review the results, you might notice some minor abnormalities that I have not mentioned, but please be assured that they are not clinically significant.
I’m gonna live, y’all!
This is the best day ever! I have a new lease on life! When I told my boss why I’d been all over the place, he goes, “Oh, I’ve been there. I wasn’t do anything those other boys weren’t doing those days. I know this is gross, but you know, I think the only way I beat the epidemic is that I was a top.”
Yes. That was said to me by the man who signs my checks.
Happy Friday, y’all!
