Writer
View My: Pics |Videos
A DROP OF BLOOD, A FLOOD OF MEMORIES
One of the most recent times I got tested for H.I.V., two Octobers ago, I was given the choice of having my saliva screened or giving a sample of blood from a pinprick. This wasn’t the old test, said the young, nose-pierced counselor at the Chelsea clinic where I had gone. No more tapping a forearm to find a vein. No more requests to make a fist.
Most important, no more two-week wait, which was an insufferably long amount of time to judge yourself and bargain with destiny. Now I’d learn my status in 20 minutes. The test had advanced so much that a single drop of blood could determine whether I had H.I.V. antibodies, just as diabetics check their glucose levels.
My counselor insisted that the pinprick test was accurate. The clinic had used this test to screen more than 4,000 patients, he said as he swabbed my index finger. The puncture was quick and painless. He grabbed what looked like a needle and placed its large eye on the bead of blood to fill it. Dropping the needle with the blood into a plastic vial, he turned to me and said: “The next 20 minutes are yours. You can step outside if you like; just be back in 20.â€
CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST OF MY ESSAY IN THE NEW YORK TIMES.
CLICK HERE TO GO TO "MEX & THE CITY" ARCHIVES
Links to Stories Available Online
Links to Published Books