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Thirty years ago today I was handed a death sentence. At least that is what an HIV diagnosis meant in 1988. In fact, it meant so much more than just death. It meant shame. It meant stigma. It meant judgement and isolation. It meant pain and disappointment — not just for me but for everyone who loved me. It was hard to imagine that there was any good in it. Any positive morsel or silver lining. In an effort to comfort me on hard days, Mom would say, “Honey, there are no guarantees for anyone. Any of us could walk outside tomorrow and be hit by a banana truck.” True.
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