It's part of my ritual to be as open as possible about
Aids. That doesn't mean talking about it all the time - though there was
a time when I thought it did. But it does mean openly taking what's inside
the box.
"How many do you take?" the producer asked. That question is
as much a part of the ritual as taking the drugs. So is my "six-of-that,
three-of-those," and "you-don't-want-to-know-what-that's-for"
answer.
It's become one way my illness at work is acknowledged.
I suspect work is what keeps me (marginally) sane. Nine years ago, my
first instinct on hearing my diagnosis was to say, "Of course I'll
have to leave my job." I imagined moving to the south of France and
growing onions or something. Given that I can't speak French and have
trouble keeping a small urban garden (no onions) in order, you'll appreciate
this wasn't the cleverest idea.
The counsellors at the Royal Free, veterans in Aids and its many delusions,
knew that, and told me so. The day after my diagnosis, then, I did the
series of interviews that I'd already arranged, stopping occasionally
for a little self-indulgent cry between appointments.
A talk with Norman Tebbit, one of my tasks that day, set me right about
all sorts of things. For all my angst and worry, I remained just another
pesky journalist. There is life beyond diagnosis. The skills of doctors
and the care of lovers and friends, keeps me alive. But the complete involvement
in something else adds a dimension nothing else can.
So six years ago, the moment the microphone light went on, and I was back
live on PM, was the moment I knew that I'd truly recovered from PCP.
I suppose I think now that whatever lies ahead, there's a life to lead
and experiences to be shared, even if it's sometimes just the irritation
of getting out of bed to the alarm clock.
And so the rattle in my bag of the forgotten drugs in the middle of a
frenetic afternoon at the office will always be, for me, the rattle of
life.
page 6 of 6
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