AGEING DISGRACEFULLY
SEX AND THE SUBURBS
This morning I stumble from bed to the sound of my baby shrieking with banshee-like
intensity. I open his nappy and suddenly, inexplicably, diarrhoea shoots from
his bum with such ferocity it splatters all over my legs and arms. As I sit
for a moment, with Korma-coloured shit slithering down my diamond- (and poo-)
encrusted Gucci watch, I contemplate my life and feel like I’m getting
old.
I’m going to be 37 this year. I realise how extraordinarily offensive
it may seem to those over 40 for me to consider being in my mid thirties as
somehow geriatric. But have you tried shopping in Top Shop only to be struck
by an epiphany that most of the other punters are young enough to be your
daughters and are eyeing you with mingled pity and contempt? Am I on the heinous
road of becoming a Jackie Stallone-esque grotesque, deluded that I’m
still oozing sex appeal, when in fact I’m only oozing poop from my incontinence
pants? Am I losing my looks and grip on reality in a twisted parallel?
When I was diagnosed as HIV positive six years ago, I never imagined that
ageing would be an issue. I erroneously assumed that, as the clock struck
midnight on my five year anniversary of being positive, I would collapse dead
(and wrinkle-free) into my cornflakes. But I’m still here with tits
heading south and hips rampaging east and westerly. Sensible things like pensions
and savings somehow never seemed relevant - why have a pension if you’re
certain you’ll never be a pensioner? So here I am, with my only assets:
a collection of shoes, a few decent pieces of jewellery and a pair of breasts
that aren’t quite what they used to be.
Perhaps, more alarming than fear of ageing with HIV, is the grim possibility
of not ageing at all. The D word stalks me sometimes (that’s death,
not doughnuts, although Krispy Kremes could be my ultimate downfall). Before
I had my baby, my goal was to live long enough to see my two oldest sons (now
10 and 12) grow into men. Now I have a three month old baby and I’m
haunted by the possibility that I won’t live to see him grow up. Will
I be there to see his first day at secondary school, to see him graduate and
perhaps have children of his own? Will I be about to help shape the adult
he will become, or will he ultimately be brought up by his father and turn
into a Tory anal retentive?
Another possible concern is that if HIV itself doesn’t get me, the drugs
will. I’m aware of the numerous possible side effects of antiretrovirals.
Am I slowly pickling my liver, harming my heart and bashing in my kidneys
because of my medication? Is the gut that I seem to be growing lipodystrophy,
or simply the KFC bargain bucket I consumed last night?
I realise that I’m extraordinarily lucky to be living with HIV in the
West where I have easy access to antiretrovirals and subsequently a good chance
at a normal life expectancy. I can’t begin to comprehend the anguish
experienced by mothers living with HIV without access to treatment, facing
the probability of dying and leaving their young children. My petty anxieties
pale to insignificance when compared to the experiences of others in resource-limited
settings - and even some living in the UK.
Ageing perhaps isn’t all bad. I’m a lot more confident than I
was in my twenties and, quite frankly, deliriously happy that I didn’t
kick the bucket a couple of years ago as predicted by the doctor who first
gave me my diagnosis. I’m optimistic about the future; I have a whole
heap of living yet to do and can’t possibly slip death into my busy
schedule any time soon. At any rate, I’m the same age as Kylie and she’s
still hot, so perhaps I don’t need to trade in my Agent Provocoteur
thong for Depends incontinence pants quite yet. As for the baby poo, I did
manage to wash it off, although I hear Madonna rates it very highly for ageing
skin issues. I’m currently bottling it and taking orders at an obscenely
inflated price. Let me know if you’d like some, I have an unlimited
supply.
