Transcript
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Dan Kennedy (2:10)
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy and this week we wanted to give our attention to recognizing an important date here on the podcast World AIDS Day, which took place on December 1st. So today we're going to focus on two stories that were shared at our first ever mainstage show in Johannesburg, South Africa. Our first story is from Hail Mary. Here's Mary.
Hail Mary (2:40)
The year is 2002. The month is November. I've been feeling ill for the better part of the month and decide to seek medical counsel. I'm diagnosed with bronchopneumonia and the doctor intimates that I need to get my blood drawn for further tests. He gives me a prescription. I take the medicine and after one week I'm back in his clinic for the results. He motions me to the chair and tells me to sit down. Mary, you don't have hepatitis, you don't have cancer, your titers are low and you don't have typhoid, but you are HIV positive. I am dumbfounded. If somebody had plunged a dagger into my heart, I would not have felt pain as excruciating as the pain that I was feeling right at this moment. My doctor. I screamed at him silently, you have metamorphosed into my judge, my jury and my executioner and you have handed me my death sentence. A curtain of rage comes over my eyes. I want to strangle him. From afar I hear his mumbo jumbo of there are treatments available. You're going to live. I spin out of the room, rush to the door and out into the corridor. I'm so sad, so devastated, so angry, so heartbroken. I raced down the stairs, tears blinding my eyes, cross to the exit, dash across the pavement and into the fast moving traffic. I hear the screech of tortured tires and the driver hurl insults at me. I do not even wait to react. I can't believe it. A few years earlier I had survived a mugging and more recently I had survived a bout of typhoid. But this revelation was too much for me to bear. How was I going to survive this? I suddenly remember I need to tell Lydia, my friend, my news. I stumble to a telephone booth, call her and tell her I need to tell you something and when you hear what I've got to say, you will never see me again. We agree to meet in a restaurant. I go towards a restaurant. I find her waiting for me and I sit down. In a shaken whisper I tell her what the doctor has just told me. She looks surprised and tells me, mary, there is life to be lived. All will be well. I'm taken aback and I wonder for a moment. Is she telling me all this because she's concerned about me? Or does she know more about HIV and aids, a condition which at this time is still shrouded in mystery that has so much shame and stigma attached to it. I'm lost in my thoughts and I hear the gentle pressure of her hands on my wrists, urging me and telling me that we must go to her house because she fears what I will do. I shake my head vehemently and tell her, no, I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm Going to end my life. She tells me, no, you're coming home with me. We go to her house. That night is the longest, most harrowing night I've ever lived through. It's so, so, so sad. And it's so strange how the darkness can make a situation seem 10 times as tragic as it is. Morning comes and I decide to go to another health facility to seek a second opinion. Here, at least, I receive the counseling. But alas, the results are still the same. The next seven months are the longest months that I have ever lived through. The days are long. They are gray. I feel hopeless and useless. I don't want to do anything. I even attempt suicide. And I become a former shadow of myself. Lydia still offers her love and support, but in my heart of hearts, I still feel there are two more people who need to know about my situation. My mommy and my daddy. Ladies and gentlemen, do not even imagine for a minute that I did not feel trepidation at the thought of going to break the news to these two people. What would they think of me? Would they feel that I had let them down somehow? Would my news shatter them and probably eventually destroy them? But I'm convinced that I need to tell them. One cold afternoon in June 2003, I set out for Nakuru, where my parents reside. I meet my mother and greet her. On closer inspection, she asks me, my daughter, what's wrong with you? You don't look your usual cheerful self. To which I respond, mommy, I feel I'm not very well. She tells me, no. How can you tell me this? And you've just traveled all the way from Nairobi down here to Nakuru to see us? I tell her I don't feel very well. She asks me, my daughter, do you have cancer? I say, no. Do you have hepatitis? I say, no, Mummy, do you have hiv? I say, yes. She's taken aback and asks me, do you want me to call this man that you've been seeing and give him a piece of my mind? I tell her, no, mom, do not. God will avenge him for us. Later on, my dad comes home and I tell him my news. And it baffles me up to this day that I start weeping and crying. When telling him about my status, he takes my hands and tells me, mary, we love you. We are going to support you. HIV is not a commodity that you went to the drugstore to buy, that you went to a supermarket to buy. We will love you and we will encourage you with all that we have. And they have. They walked with me from that point on to this day, they continue to walk with me. I swam from the murky depths of that river, slowly, slowly up to the surface. And I regained in me a courage and a fortitude to continue with my life. I still live with my uninvited guest, my friend, who has decided to stay with me and never leave. Ladies and gentlemen, isn't it amazing how the power of love can lift you from one level to another? Thank you.
