The worst day of my life, pt. 1

One would think that receiving an HIV diagnosis in 1986 would be the worst day of my life.

After all, thirty years ago, in the height of the HIV epidemic, HIV was a terminal illness. It was a death sentence.

Sitting there in the doctor’s office at the Hassle Free Clinic in Toronto I was told I had three to five years to live.

My future would be full of stigma and discrimination. My body would deteriorate and waste away. I would develop AIDS and die.

My biggest fear was not that I would die of AIDS. My biggest fear was that I was damaged goods and no one would ever love me.

It was definitely a bad day.

Perhaps it was my youthful invincibility that allowed me to respond to the doctor with defiance, “Well I’m not dead yet”, and I planned my future.

I promised myself that I would not be a statistic, that I would outlive my death sentence, but in the back of my mind I feared that I would not to live to be 35 years old.

I kept my promise.

That three to five year death sentence became five to seven years, then seven to ten years and now HIV, with lifelong treatment and a daily dose of antiretroviral medications, is a chronic manageable illness … and in a week I will be 51 years old!

HIV is no longer a threat to my life, well not the threat it once was.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a bad day and many bad days followed but it wasn’t the worst day of my life.

The worst day of my life came four weeks ago on October 6, 2016.

That was the day I was told I have cancer.