A year ago I wrote an article discussing whether or not to tell my parents I am HIV positive. In my own mind, there was confusion. Although I had a feeling I wanted them to know, I had been coping well with HIV for over a year, and why should I open a big can of worms now? Is it the right thing to bring trauma to the lives of two loving parents in their late sixties? Knowing the drama my news would bring, I decided to keep quiet. If I told the truth, and the reaction was horrific, there would be no going back, but at least while I didn’t tell them, I still had the choice. Right?
Last week, the choice was taken out of my hands. Thanks to my father’s newfound ‘Silver Surfer’ internet enthusiasm, and a quick trip to google.com, up pops his loving son’s recent Positive Nation column on his screen. To make sure there is no doubt that I am the writer, a picture of me promptly downloads next to the article.
Oops!
So there was my Dad on the other end of the phone, shocked as hell and desperate for information. How could I quickly explain everything that had happened over the last two and a half years?
To let him know how scared I was in the beginning, but how through knowledge and understanding, I had come to terms with the virus, and even felt glad for the wisdom it has brought. To him, it’s simple. HIV means Aids, and Aids means death.
I remember so clearly how I felt as we spoke. I felt like I had been playing truant from school or had broken a neighbour’s window; the schoolboy in me felt guilty for having kept this information from them. Although my dad did his best to conceal it, I could tell he was upset at being one of the last people to find out. I fought with my guilty conscience, remembering that I did what felt best at the time. After all, my diagnosis is my news, to share with whom I deem necessary.
As we talked, I felt a sense of unreality. Physically I feel great - my body is in good shape, I haven’t been ill all year, not even with coughs or colds, I am in a period of personal development and feel like quite a healthy guy. I am lucky. Luckier than many. Yet here was my father panicking down the line, wondering how long I had left to live.
There was another feeling I didn’t expect. After we finished speaking, a wave of relief swept through my body. For two and a half years I have protected my parents from information they would want to know, and deep down I wished they knew too. Now I ask myself why I held back. I come from a loving, typically British family, where we openly discuss the television schedule, or what to cook for tea, but we skirt round anything that involves baring the soul.
Most of all, we do not discuss sex. And we certainly do not discuss gay sex! During my adult life, I have tried my best to change this pattern, but the child in me still finds that difficult too. And so, the truth has become clear. Telling my parents I am positive meant telling them their good son got fucked up the ass without protection. And admitting that this was more than my red-faced British upbringing would allow.
So it’s with a sense of great relief that I write this article. Next week The ‘rents will visit me in London, and hopefully we can overcome more hurdles, and let our relationship grow. I may even take them for a chat with my doctor. I learned a lot from this experience, and was shocked to discover that although I am nearly 30 years old, around my parents I am sometimes still a child. I wonder how many others feel the same. There comes a point in our lives where we have the ability to teach our parents a lot more than we can learn from them. It’s up to us to use that ability. Wish me luck!