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It's been one of the hardest journeys as a young woman in the modern
world, to be diagnosed HIV positive, to face the limits of life, the reality
of death and to learn to live again. I have looked into the faces of my
sleeping children and wept with bitter fear that I may not live to see
them grow up, but I have.
With spring just around the corner, it's a good time to reflect on renewal
and rebirth. Year after year, there is a cyclical miracle we all take
for granted. Trees that have stood around like lifeless skeletons suddenly
put forth a flurry of green leaves and blossoms unfurl under the gentle
warmth of the sun.
I remember that in the early days of my diagnosis, life became an instant
nuclear winter. The skies turned grey - spring a distant and hopeless
memory, as my mortality swept in on a wind so forceful and strong that
it stripped my branches bare. The biggest reality of all stood before
me. Every which way I turned, the Grim Reaper lurked in the shadows of
my life.
Each morning as I opened my eyes, holding my breath, I'd quickly scan
the room to see if he was still there. The rapid beating of my heart built
to a crescendo that pulsed against my ribcage and rang like a thousand
death knells in my ears. As I released my breath, I'd gulp greedily at
the air as if at any moment it would run out.
I'd get out of bed and check my reflection in the mirror, the shadow of
death flickered across my face: 'dead woman walking.'
One day, as I lay beneath the cherry tree, looking up at my winter sky,
snowflakes falling softly, Grim lying quietly beside me, a stray sunbeam
stroked my skin and I felt its warmth reach deep below my surface. It
stretched across the skies melting the grey to blue, freeing my vision
and I saw not snowflakes but cherry blossoms raining
down on me.
