Ann's POZ Blog

Three nights ago Foxtrot Charlie appeared at my door bearing food and smiling eyes. I was happy to see him as I saw little of him during April and May. Sometimes I have to leave him to his ghosts. I understand. There are times when my own ghosts demand my undivided attention too. Ten years ago I had no faith in the gossamer thread that binds us. Today I do. If you love someone, let them go free….

As I began to prepare the food he brought, I was taken aback by the familiar, unseen hand which from time to time twists and rips at my intestines. Codeine normally keeps this at bay, but I take breaks from it so my tolerance doesn’t increase. I ignored it at first, not wanting to take any of the opiate, but soon capitulated, sweating and doubled over in pain.

Fox has seen these attacks before, but never one this swiftly intense. “Are you ok?”

“No, but I will be once the meds kick in.”

He takes over the cooking, joking and trying to charm my daughter’s slight distrust.

While things are sizzling away in the kitchen, he joins me at the back door where I sit on a low stool, arms around legs, smoking and willing the unseen hand to stop squeezing my guts. He starts apologising for causing me pain. We’ve been over this ground before many times in the past seven months and I don’t understand why he’s bringing it up now. That’s ten years and more in the past. There’s no longer any need to tell me this; I forgave him a lifetime ago.

This morning a turn of phrase in a book brought his concerned eyes looking into my own again, as they had the other night. Like a knife in my heart I suddenly understood what pain he was apologising for – and it wasn’t from the days of our youth as I assumed. He was apologising because I was doubled over with the pain of what HIV physically does to me sometimes. The true meaning of his words never occurred to me when he said them. I hate that he feels responsible. I hate the pain I see in his eyes.

I hope one day he understands there is no blame directed at him in my heart. Truly understands. When that day comes, there will be one less ghost to demand his attention.

As some of you know, I travel to Liverpool for my hiv care. Clinic day starts early - I'm usually up at 4am, just to make sure I've got plenty of time in case I'm having a "bad gut day".

The taxi arrives at 5:50am to take me to the airport.

My chariot awaits...

I fall asleep as the plane zooms out over the Irish Sea...

...and wake up as we roar over the Mersey.

When I first started going to clinic in Liverpool, the airport (then called Speke) was little more than a shack. My how it's grown!

A taxi firm picks me and other Manx hospital patients up in this mini-bus, which smells like rotten socks inside. Not the best way to travel when one is prone to motion sickness!

Tomorrow I'll post more photos from my day in Liverpool. ~Well, hopefully tomorrow!

I’ve been neglecting a number of things lately, this blog among them.

Weeds are rampant both in my garden and in my personal life. PMs and emails go unanswered. I’ve needed new glasses for about a year now; not only am I unfashionable, but I can’t see more than about ten yards in front of my face. I keep my kitchen and bathroom scrupulously clean, but yet the living room carpet needs attention and my desk is an unruly pile of papers, unpaid bills and books.

Why the neglect? Well, fuck do I know. I’ve neglected to look too deeply into the matter. Or rather I have, but I’ve neglected to acknowledge or act on what I’ve found. Since the beginning of November I’ve gone from the pits of despair, to the height of happiness and back down into the pits. I feel both stupid and silly. Stupid because I knew in my heart of hearts that Charlie would end up being a source of pain, and silly because I know I’ve got it comparatively good.

I also feel frustrated because a combination of Champix and Mirena have caused me to slide into a chemically induced depression – as if Charlie’s antics weren’t enough. If I wanted chemically induced depression, I would have used drugs that I could have had fun with in the meantime. Ah well, shit happens.

Tim Horn and I have recently discussed the inactivity of my blog and what possible directions I might take it in from now on. He suggested I be less autobiographical and focus more on current events - and I like that idea. The problem so far has been that I’ve found I couldn’t move forward into this new direction until I achieved a sense of closure regarding what this blog has been up to now. That’s what I’m doing with this entry in my own cryptic way.

Hey, it’s my blog and I’ll be cryptic if I want to. Cryptic if I want to, cryptic if I want to... oops, singing in my head again. Such is life.

I’ve got an example of the type of “current affairs" I hope to be writing about at a store near you...

On (the UK) C4 this week they’ve had “Embarrassing Bodies week" and one of the case histories involved a woman who presented with large labia minora.

No biggie, if you’ll pardon the pun – but she seemed to think it was a very big deal indeed and thought she was abnormal. She wasn’t. Her labia were completely normal and quite sexy. However, this woman was immediately recommended to a cosmetic surgeon. What??? Why wasn’t she first recommended to a therapist to see if she couldn’t become reconciled with what nature gave her, instead of encouraged to be surgically mutilated? I mean, there are webpages dedicated to ways and means of actively enlarging one’s labia minora - for example through the application of weights. Some men and women regard large labia minora as positively sexy. I do. And why not?

Fair enough, if this woman had a few sessions with a therapist and still didn’t like her large lips, then maybe it was time to go for surgery. But to offer mutilation as a front-line therapy is, to my mind, totally unjustified. Next thing you know, they’ll be recommending African-style clittorectomies just because the darn things tend to stick out a bit when women are sexually excited.

It does my head in. It really does. Why do so many women feel compelled to mutilate their bodies in the name of fashion? I don’t get it. Do you?