Where My Head Lies

WHERE MY HEAD LIES

My last moments creep upon me at lightning speed, a perfect paradox to an end destined with irony….

Tonight the west runs over with the warmest dyes. Its cup overflows with pools of purple, coloring the sky. A lone star find it way in the evening sky. It's early, way ahead of other stars.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky. The color of dusk.The decay of the day into the night. The death of my dream, a lifelong dream. Yet it is beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful.

A noisy street below, people scuttling back home from a long days work, oblivious of my anguish.

These are my only views from the windows of this tomb within thus I lay. I was brought here unconscious…St Catherine's hospital…I can tell from the name inscribed on the drip giving stand. St Catherine's hospital sounds like a lovely place to die.

I've been staring at this ceiling for what seems like eons. I know the pattern of every single crack by heart. I've even named them… the magnificent tortuous one that curves one third of the ceiling, I've named Chidubem. I call it Duby for short. He's nervous and shy, and hates engaging in long conversations. But he's ambitious, that one. He hopes to one day make it all the way across the entire ceiling.Chidubem was the name reserved for the first son I never had.

The quiet beep of my heart monitor is my most treasured companion. I would dance to the beat if I could. But alas I can't. All I can afford is a weary nod and tired flailing hand movements like a hand searching for a light switch in the dark.

I close my eye and I can hear the slow drip of the solution in the drip giving set. It sounds like it's mocking me, counting down to my last breath daring me to stay alive for the next drop.

If I close my eyes long enough and really concentrate, I can hear the blood flow in my vessels. The reassuring bruit of fluid coursing through to my heart. I can see a light at the end of the tunnel… or maybe that's just hellfire.

Eight years ago, I had just gotten enough loan to establisha fairly impressive fashion shop.

Eight years ago, my life came to a grinding halt. My fashion shop, a shallow impression in the sands of time, washed away as an enormous tide suddenly blew in. I was diagnosed with HIV.

I sat there petrified. Eyes of stone glaring at the doctor, willing him to turn to dust. The doctor sat across from me. Back arched forward, armsstretched out at length. Hands waving in a motion to stop me from screaming; as my lips formed a solid "O".

My suspicions had months ago started from the throat infection I had that couldn't be treated and the nasty rash that developed all over my body. I could already tell five minutes ago whilst I waited for the results from the number of times the doctor scratched his beard trying hard to avoid eye contact.

I let out a blood curdling scream that send ripples to my core. The nurses came running like it was a preplanned routine; taking care not to get in the line of fire of my saliva as I spewed curses to God.Firm steady hands gripped me. Perfectly Gloved hands. All I could seewere the gloves, they didn't want to touch me. ME. THE HIV PATIENT.

The bus ride back home was the longest f—o---r---tysi-----x minutes of my life. Each second threading carefully like, it had a tender boil in its anus it was afraid to rupture.

It was Obinna, it had to be.Obinna told me he liked it better without protection. Or maybe it was James. James' cheap condom broke after he was done. He dismissed it with a casually "Baby Geh after youcan goan take contraceptives na".  Where was Bola? Where was James?

The sun shone in through the windows illuminating the entire bus except for the corner where I sat… The sun KNEW and was afraid. I could see it in the eyes of the passengers around me. The pitiful knowing look of the old lady seated in front of me. How could she know? In the dignified sneer on the man's face seated next to her as he kept glancing backwards at me, like I just farted. Or maybe I did. The sun had cast a shadow me. My finger were going numb with cold in spite of the hot sun. They all knew I was HIV POSITIVE and were afraid.

Back at home, I stared at my tear stained reflection on my bathroom mirror. Broken, battered, drained but standing unbeaten still.

"Died of HIV/AIDS":  I saw the headlines of my obituary announcement. FEAR. ANGER. DEPRESSION. And finally ACCEPTANCE. I worked through the stages of grief as I mourned myself alive.

Several hours of seminars and counselling reveal that HIV isn't such a death sentence afterall. With consistent Anti-Retroviral therapy and a healthy diet,people have been known to achieve a normal life expectancy, I was told.

6 months trudged by. After consistent sessions of therapy turns me into a breathing cocktail of ARVS and blood, I felt like I could live a little.But I still feel the virus thriving. Mocking my efforts to stay alive. I was keeping it alive. Feeding off the very essence of my existence. Gnawing away at bits of my soul.

They say ARVs gives you an "almostnormal" life "expectancy". Normal is a relative term. No one "normally expects" to be turned into a "drug chugging maniac", afraid of the consequences of missed doses. "A normal expectancy"!I scoff at the term.

Nobody ever really clearly tell you about all the side effects of ARVs. I've felt my grand buttocks shrink until loose skin is left hanging out like a shrivelled scrotum. Skin and bones are left where my robust cheek should've been. Somehow all the disappearing fat seem to find new residence in my abdomen. Lipodystrophy, my doctors call it. The side effect of Stavudine,one of the drugs in my ART. Unfortunately not much can be done about it. On the bright side I have new folds of skin I can play around with...I can dance around naked and watch it flapping in the wind like a superhero's cape.  "A normal life expectancy", a very impressive phrase.

However, my new found pseudoacceptance was as short lived as the effects of expired paracetamol.

The Doctors hit me with yet a new word. "Drug Resistance". The virus just wasn't responding to treatment, they say. My viral Load was too high and my CD4 count wasn't something to write happy songs about either.

Somehow I managed a lousy smile throughout the hour long counsel. I was going to die...true...but the virus was going to die too. There was a win in there...

I polished the framed picture of my new fashion complex with my tears and try to get used to the idea of saying goodbye to it. It and eight solid years of trying to make a decent business out of fashion designing.

I lay back and let the full blow of my sickness set in. The beautiful brown spots of Kaposi sar comaforming all over my once beautiful body. I just sit there like an empty canvas full of possibility, patiently waiting for the artist to decide what colour he'd start off the painting with….

The slow drip of water jolts me out of my delirium reminding me to count again. I close my eyes and listen for my bloodstream…..it's sluggish and calm. My heart is not responding. The heart monitor goes into a frenzy. From the corner of my eye, I can see the rhythm flat line. The nurse rushes in from the next room. The beautiful nurse, dressed in all white. She could've been an angel. I want to whisper and tell her it'll be alright. A lone tear wanders down my cheek. She yells for assistance as she reaches for the defibrillator.

My last moments creep upon me at lightning speed, a perfect paradox to an end destined with irony.