Sixteen and Dying (2 page)

With a sigh, Anne welcomed the warmth of the sun on her skin, the feel of the breeze in her long, brown hair. Then, with a start, she realized that the beauty surrounding her, the quiet of the June afternoon, even the encounter with Morgan, had distracted her completely. Just for a little while, she had completely forgotten that she was dying.

T
HE THOUGHT OF
her problem left her shaken, as it always did, when it came upon her unexpectedly.
Dying
. That’s what the doctors had told her in April. Anne walked slowly to the cabin but decided not to go inside yet. Her dad was probably taking a much needed rest. She sat down on the porch steps and watched the afternoon shadows grow longer, until shade covered her back and shoulders. Absently, she hooked her arms around her knees and allowed herself to remember.…

Nagging tiredness had drained Anne for months, no matter how much sleep she got. There were other problems too: her vision blurred while she was doing schoolwork, her appetite was poor, and she was losing weight. Eventually, her father noticed and insisted she get a checkup. A routine physical revealed
nothing, but her family doctor suggested she have tests taken at the hospital.

Anne protested, but in the end, she spent spring break in St. Luke’s Hospital while her friends went off on vacations. “We need to find out what’s wrong,” her father had said, trying to console her.

“But I’m missing all the fun!”

“We’ll do something special this summer,” he said.

Anne scoffed. “That’s what you say every year, but then you end up teaching a summer course, and I end up taking enrichment classes.”

“Anne, you should take extra classes. You’re brilliant, and you’ll qualify for a scholarship anywhere you want to go when the time comes. Don’t worry about missing your break. I’ve already told the dean that you and I are going to be in Oxford next summer.”

“Dad, England obviously has a lot to offer, but I’d prefer to go out West, someplace where there’re horses and mountains and wide open spaces.”

“Hang around smelly horses?” He feigned horror. “Wouldn’t you rather walk along the Thames? Walk with Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley?”

Anne shared her father’s love of books and had found comfort in poetry and novels ever since her mother’s death, when she was ten. “You’re not playing fair,” Anne said, half pouting. “You know I look forward to going to England with you, but that’s over a year from now. It seems like forever.”

“The impatience of youth,” her father kidded. “None of you kids can wait for anything. Trust me—next summer will be here before you know it.”

Anne now looked back on that day and remembered it as the last carefree day of her life. That evening, Dr. Becksworth and Dr. Stevenson came into her room. She noticed their serious expressions. Her father, who was visiting with her, took her hand, as if to ward off their foreboding presence.

“Anne, we’d like to ask you some questions,” Dr. Stevenson began without preamble. “They might sound odd, but it’s important that you answer truthfully.”

Wide-eyed, she glanced at her father, but nodded. “All right,” she said, wondering why they’d think she might lie.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Dr. Becksworth asked.

“No. I’m not really into dating.” She felt color rise to her face. The question seemed completely off the subject. She didn’t date at all. Not that she didn’t want to, but the few boys who’d ever asked her out also attended her small private school, and she considered them boring and not really attractive. She’d rather not date at all than spend time with someone who didn’t appeal to her.

“What’s Anne’s social life got to do with her medical problems?” her father asked. “Tell us the results of all those tests you’ve been running.”

Dr. Becksworth gazed at Anne solemnly. “As a hematologist, I specialize in diseases of the blood.”

Anne felt herself growing queasy. The idea that she might have some serious disease frightened her. “Do I have cancer?” she asked. She knew that leukemia was a blood disease.

“No,” he said, giving her a momentary sense of
relief. “But according to your blood test results, you’re HIV-positive.”

Anne strained to make sense of his words and heard them echo in her head. “HIV-positive.” She recalled that a famous athlete had announced that he was quitting pro basketball because he was HIV-positive. The announcement had shaken the country and caused a furor in her school. The administration and faculty had organized an awareness program about HIV and how it was transmitted, as if the kids didn’t know already.

“Are you saying that my daughter has AIDS?” Anne’s father demanded incredulously. “That’s impossible! Absolutely impossible.”

Anne was so taken aback that she couldn’t speak.

“Please, Dr. Wingate,” Dr. Becksworth said. “I’m not making any accusations. I’m simply trying to tell you what we’ve found and then figure out how Anne acquired the virus.”

“I have AIDS?” Anne finally found her voice.

“No,” Dr. Stevenson replied. “You have the virus that leads to AIDS.” Anne couldn’t sort out the distinction. The doctor continued, “I’m sure you know that AIDS is an immune-deficiency disease. The virus, HIV, attacks the body’s T4 cells, which are the master programmers of the immune system. Without natural immunities, infections run rampant. Many illnesses are possible.”

“According to your chart, you went to see a gynecologist a few weeks ago.” Dr. Becksworth flipped through pages on a metal clipboard.

Anne felt her face redden. She gave her father a guilty, sidelong glance. “I didn’t tell you, because it
was … personal.” Despite their closeness, there were some things Anne found difficult to share with her dad. If only her mother were still alive. She looked back at the doctor. “My gyn told me I had an infection and gave me some medicine.”

“You still have the infection,” Dr. Stevenson said. “The fact that it hasn’t cleared up, combined with your other symptoms and blood results, is a signal of HIV.”

“But Dr. Segal never said a word about that!”

“HIV is diagnosed only through a blood test. Very frankly, she would never have considered HIV in your case. There are other ways of getting this type of infection.”

“I don’t like your insinuations,” Anne’s father said quickly. “Your lab has messed up on my daughter’s blood work. It’s that simple.”

Dr. Becksworth shook his head. “There’s no mistake. I wish there were.”

Anne felt tears stinging her eyes. “How could I have gotten HIV?” she asked. She felt trapped in some nightmare, caught in some awful, bad dream from which she couldn’t wake up.

“That’s what we must determine,” Dr. Stevenson said kindly. “We need to figure this out, Anne, for everybody’s sake.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She felt her father’s arm go around her protectively.

“You’re not an intravenous drug user. Sharing contaminated needles is a major cause of transmission,” Dr. Stevenson said. Anne shook her head emphatically. She never used drugs! “That’s why I asked about your boyfriends,” he said. “The virus is also
sexually transmitted.” Anne had a few friends who were having sexual relationships, but she certainly wasn’t.

“Anne doesn’t even date,” her father said defensively.

Anne wished he’d keep quiet; he wasn’t helping. The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. “If there was anyone, Anne, even if it was only once—”

Anne interrupted him. “No one. Not ever.”

Dr. Becksworth cleared his throat. “The other most logical possibility is via a blood transfusion, but you said you haven’t had one.” He glanced back down at his chart.

“But, she has,” Anne’s father interrupted. “It was a long time ago, after the accident.”

“When?”

The horror of the past flooded over Anne. “My mother and I were in an accident when I was ten. She died.” Anne shook her head to dislodge the memories.

“Anne almost died too,” her father added, holding her against his side. “They gave her a blood transfusion in the emergency room.”

Anne scarcely remembered. She definitely recalled the long recuperation in the hospital. She and her dad, alone. Her mom, gone forever.

Dr. Becksworth nodded with understanding. “That was before eighty-five.”

“It was in December. We were going Christmas shopping,” Anne explained. The memory was extremely painful, even after almost seven years.

“It wasn’t mandatory for labs to start screening blood for HIV until January eighty-five. All I can say
is that it’s very likely you received contaminated blood at that time.”

Anne could scarcely absorb what the doctor was telling her. “But that was years ago!” her father exclaimed. “Why would it show up now?”

“One of the longest dormancy cases on record is almost ten years,” Dr. Becksworth replied. “That’s highly unusual, but Anne’s young and healthy. Think back. Did she have any unusual complaints or symptoms in the first couple of weeks or even months after the transfusion?”

“My wife was dead, my daughter was in serious condition. How should I know?” her father snapped.

Anne touched his arm, stopping his explosion of temper. “Dad, I remember, I had a skin rash and my glands swelled up. The doctors thought I might be having a reaction to the antibiotic they were giving me.”

“They should have caught it,” her father stormed. “Why didn’t they diagnose the virus then?”

“The test wasn’t done routinely then,” Dr. Stevenson explained. “There’s no way that anyone would have guessed that someone in such a low-risk category as Anne might have contracted it. She was given the transfusion to save her life.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” she said suddenly, and her tears flowed freely. Blood—the very thing that once saved her life—was now turning her body against her.

“What are you going to do about it?” Her father challenged both doctors, balling his fist at his side.

“How are you going to keep my daughter from getting AIDS? How are you going to cure her?”

Dr. Stevenson took a deep breath and in a soft, troubled voice said, “I’m sorry. We’ll do everything we can possibly do, but there is no cure for AIDS.”

“T
HERE ARE TREATMENTS
—ways of delaying the onset, of stalling full-blown AIDS,” Dr. Becksworth told them. “The drug AZT, especially combined with other drugs, is our most potent weapon in AIDS treatment at this time.”

Anne wasn’t concentrating on what he was saying. She felt as if she’d stepped out of her body and was standing at the side of the bed, hearing medical information about some stranger. It wasn’t Anne they were discussing … it
couldn’t
be. She was only sixteen. She had her whole life ahead of her. This was some terrible mistake. She felt shocked pity for the girl on the bed.

“I want a second opinion,” Anne heard her father command.

She looked up at his face. It was the color of white chalk. “I think I need to be by myself for a
white,” Anne said softly. “I need to think about what you’ve told me.”

“We can talk about it in the morning,” Dr. Becks-worth said. “The important thing is to start you on medication and begin a regimen for you before you leave the hospital.”

“What about her day-to-day life?” her father asked, still agitated. “Is she supposed to drop out of school, stop going places?”

The idea of returning to school seized Anne, frightening her. How could she go back? What would happen when everyone found out she was HIV-positive? They’d hate her, shun her. Why, the administration might not even allow her to return!

“Anne should resume a normal life,” Dr. Stevenson replied. “Once she starts taking AZT, and adjusts to its side effects, she can do the things she used to do.”

“But the people I’m around—”

The doctor interrupted her. “The virus can’t be passed through casual contact. Touching, kissing, even sharing eating utensils and drinking glasses won’t spread the virus. Caregivers of AIDS patients do not contract the illness unless they exchange body fluids with the patients. We know for a fact that the virus isn’t very strong outside the body—a simple disinfectant like chlorine bleach can destroy it. Don’t worry about passing it to anyone, Anne. So long as you don’t have sexual contact or donate blood, the people in your life are perfectly safe.”