Serodiscordancy

"As our first anniversary approaches, I call Melissa for myself. A week later, I take a seat in one of the health departments many windowless offices, where a sweet man talks to me about his partner of 20- (or it may have even been 30-) odd years as he slides a needle into my arm.

It's close to a 10-day wait, the free test. And it's 10 relatively worry-free days, too: I have faith in our adherence, in the precautions we've always taken. I have faith in prophylactics. The way his numbers have been dropping has confirmed to me what I suspected: that it is treatable, that it is quite live-with-able, after a month of vomiting and waking dreams. It wouldn't be that bad, a part of me says. Are you fucking crazy? another replies.

It's something you knew was a risk from the start. If you're smart about it, it's hardly a risk. Yes, but that doesn't mean you can permanently put it out of your head, can you? I don't worry it too hard, no. But now you can't help but worry. Worry is just an irrational byproduct of uncertainty. Keep telling yourself that.

Yes, I knew this was a possibility going in. Yes, I knew.

They don't call, the health department, at all; it's my responsibility to ring and check if the results for number 3948 are back. They are -- when can I come review them? Appointments. Always appointments with these people."

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