Welcome to the Bob Brader Blog!
This blog scares the Hell out of me! However, I have been trying to battle as many fears as I possibly can.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

The Test

My girlfriend Cindy had the monogamy level of a five-dollar hooker; of course I did not find this out until we were breaking up.  As our last fight was ending and she started to read off the long laundry list of men she slept with while we were dating, the only thought that went through my head was that old familiar phrase, “You are not only sleeping with her, but everyone she has ever slept with.”  As it turns out, I was fucking a lot more people then I thought. 
With that in mind, I decided it was time to take the test; the big test, the HIV test.  Now, this was in the summer of ’95, and I had no insurance, no idea where to get this test, and I wasn’t even sure what the test entailed.  After a lot of calling around, I found out that I could get it done, whatever it was, at a clinic in Jamaica Queens, and not only was it free, but it was also anonymous.  I walked into the hospital, it was a Wednesday morning and the place was empty.  I asked at the front desk about the HIV test and the lady  pointed to a large wooden door that had the word “clinic” written on a piece of paper taped to the door.  I walked in and it was a huge space.  They had TVs in every corner of the room looking down from the ceiling held up with brackets, and row after row of chairs except for an aisle that lead to the nurse behind the bulletproof glass that was so thick she had to use an intercom system in order for you to hear her.
“Can I help you?”  Her voice echoed throughout the empty space.
“I’m here to take an HIV test.”
“Fill this out.”
I filled out the card and placed it back through the paper-thin slot under the bulletproof glass.
“Have a seat, the doctor will be with you any moment.”
I sat alone in that huge space thinking about nothing but how much I hated Cindy for making me feel paranoid enough to even take this test. 
The nurse called me into the doctor’s small room.  The exam table was just large enough for you to sit on, and across from it was a metal cabinet crowded with jars of cotton balls, tongue depressors, Q-tips, normal things in a doctor’s office, but there seemed to be no order to anything it was just thrown together.
“Take your pants off and sit up on the table, the doctor will be with you soon.” The nurse was then out of the door in a flash.
I took my pants off and sat on the cold metal table.  Now I am having images of choking Cindy with my bare hands.
The door opens and in walks the oldest doctor I have ever seen in my life.   He has white hair, walking really slow and looking very confused.  The only real way I knew he was the doctor was because he wore a white coat and had a stethoscope.  The image of Tim Conway from “The Carol Burnet Show” jumped into my head and I almost laughed.

“HIV test?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You like to be checked for other sexually transmitted diseases, yes?”
“Sure.”
With that being said, in a flash, the doctor grabbed my dick like some kind of angry lover and very roughly examined ever inch of it.  Now the doctor has ceased to be funny in my mind, he was starting to scare me.  While he still had the stem of my dick in his hand, he reached over and grabbed a long Q-tip out of one of the containers and in one quick motion rams it into my dick.
“OW!”
“Sorry about that.”  Now I am thinking that this doctor just wants to torture me.  He yanks the Q-tip out and releases my dick. 
“I do not see any warts or lesions or puss, so that is good.  The nurse will be in to take your blood, you can put your pants on.”
As he waddled out of the room, I could not help but feel violated.  Now I am thinking no matter what the results, I want to tell Cindy I have something just so she has to go through this hell.
As I am pulling my pants back up the nurse comes in.
“Hold out your arm.”
She grabs my arm and jabs the needle in a vein and fills up a vile.
“So, which test is the HIV test?”
“This one is, the blood needs to be analyzed to find out if you are positive or negative.  I had you take off your pants, because I knew the only reason a white boy like you would come to a clinic like this was because he stuck his dick in something he should not have stuck his dick in.  Am I right?”
“Well, I guess that is true.”
“And nobody will know that you ever came in here to take this test, unlike if you went to your family doctor who would have to put the results in your file.  That’s why I figured you’d want to get checked for everything while you were here.  All finished, you can come back in three weeks for the results.”
She put a label on my blood and I was out the door. 
After I left the hospital I thought about how stupid I was being, worrying over this test.  I am not sick, I feel great, and I am just being very silly.  The day to go in and get my results came and went and I felt no reason to go in and get the results, I am fine.
Then the letter came.  It was from the clinic. 

Dear Mr. Brader,
A few weeks ago, you came into the clinic to take an HIV test.  The results of your test are in and it is imperative that you come into the clinic and get your results.  Please report to the clinic on Saturday, August 22.

It is amazing how only one word stood out in that letter, the word imperative.  Fuck, I knew I was sick.  Christ, I have this fucking disease.  I knew that was not just a black and blue mark on my leg, when did I hit my leg against anything?  My throat has been sore for the last few days, and that is not normal.  I am going to die.
When I walked into the clinic on August 22, it was a totally different scene than when I was there the first time.  All of the seats were full, people were all over the place, and all of the televisions were on.  The noise was deafening.  I went up to the bulletproof glass.
“I am here to get the results of my HIV test!”
“Name!”
“Bob Brader!”
“Have a seat!”
I turned and looked for a seat, it was not easy to find, but I did and started to notice everything that was going on in the room.  All of the television sets were on and two of them had Magic Johnson talking about dealing with AIDS.  One of the other ones had a video on about a man who had an affair with a prostitute and has to tell his wife that he has AIDS and she needs to get tested for it.  The other set had a doctor talking about living with AIDS and the different drugs that are available.  The TVs were freaking me out even more, so I started looking around the room at the people waiting.  Nine gang members were sitting in one corner, all of them crying.  Not just a tear, but openly weeping, loudly.  A mother was holding her baby, crying and screaming.  A family on the opposite end of the room were all looking at their one son and shaking their heads.  The rest of the waiting room was filled with people like me, anxiety-ridden people waiting to get that result. 
Then it hit me, that is why they called me in on this day.  Everyone here has it, this just makes it easy for them.  If you are here on this day, you have the disease.  At this realization, I go into a panic, I am having trouble breathing, I am sweating and I am shaking.  I look over at the gang members who are now hugging each other and wailing.  Who am I going to be able to hug when they tell me?  How do I tell my mom that I am going to die?  How the fuck am I going to be able to afford all of those drugs this doctor is talking about?  The room is spinning, all the blood in my infected body is rushing to my feet and I feel like I am going to pass out.
“Bob Brader.”
“AH!”
A man dressed in all white carrying a clipboard calls my name.  He is the Messenger of Death, and he wants me to fallow him to the doctor’s office.  He looks like a very nice guy, and this very nice man holds the secret to the rest of my life in the palm of his hand.  Once we are in the office and he closes the door, he throws the clipboard on the desk. 
“I guess you want to know what your results are?”
“Yes, I do.”
He takes his pen, puts it under the top page of the clipboard and flips the page up.
The word NEGATIVE was in big bold letters on the center of the page, and nothing else.  The Angel of Death said some more things while I was in the room with him, but I have no idea what they were.  I ran out of that clinic, with the feeling that I had just cheated death.