A Day in the Life of a Legacy Patient

This past week, I did not feel like I experienced anything different than my previous days volunteering at Legacy. My position does not involve much change since I am alone cataloguing x-rays each time I go into the clinic, so for my blog this week I have decided to write the perspective of a hypothetical patient at the clinic going though the process of receiving HIV testing. The following is the account:


Its been months now since I knew I should receive testing. My mind has been going in circles wondering if I contracted the disease, and the pressure is building up to the point of insanity. I know I should get the test, but what happens if the results come back positive? I don't have insurance, and I'm scared to think what others will think of me if I have contracted the disease. My friend told me about a clinic in Montrose called Legacy which does HIV testing, and I have driven past it many times but cannot get the courage to actually go in. Luckily, my friend is in the same situation and has encouraged me to to go the clinic with him for testing.

As I walked up to the clinic, I saw several homeless people waiting outside and began to get discouraged. I wonder how I got to this point. When I was younger, I had so many hopes and dreams for my future, and now all of those ambitions are lingering by a the result on a blood test. I could feel the tears welling up as I stepped through the door. There was a security guard waiting in the lobby which pointing me in the direction of the receptionist. The receptionist seemed unusually warm considering the seriousness of my presence in the clinic. I was handed several forms to fill out which asked about my demographic information, recent drug use, and sexual history. Filling out the forms was a rather strange experience. I realized that my situation was not nearly as bad as it could have been considering some of the questions on the form. As I filled out the form, I slowly glanced across the waiting room and saw another man about my age figiting through the forms as well. Two seats down from him was a man sleeping and across from them sat a woman with a sunken face. The mileu of other people in the waiting room were watching Oprah on the television, reading magazines, and trying to wait patiently until their patient number was called. I suddenly realized that these people from so many different ages and races were all feeling the same feelings of apprehension waiting to get tested. I experienced a sense of happiness for these people that they had the courage to come to the clinic and find out their status. I tried to fight through the nerves and warrant myself this same feeling of happiness, but the nerves were increasingly difficult to control as I returned my forms to the receptionist.

As I sat waiting for my number to be called, I must have folded and unfolded the paper she gave back to me a hundred times. I tried to focus my attention on anything other than the reason I had entered the clinic, trying to calm myself down and remembering that knowing my status would be safer than not knowing, but I found myself getting more and more apprehensive. The urge to leave the clinic had almost reached a pinnacle, when a door opened and a woman yelled out "95316!" My heart sank as I looked at my paper and realized that the time was now or never.

The nurse took me into an exam room and asked which arm I would prefer the blood drawn. I rolled up the sleeve on my left arm and she took four samples. The exam was over just as soon as it started, and I was told to return in one week to receive the results of my test. "One week?!" The words rattled through my brain as I tried to comprehend that this anxiety would be prolonged another seven days. I had thought the tests could have been read immediately, but the clinic did not have the resources to complete the lab work that quickly. My friend had the same reaction, so we left together and went to Ruggles to have lunch. We ate in silence.

The next seven days were a complete blur. The prospect of the results being positive loomed over every action. I felt trapped and terrified. The seconds ticked by, and I found myself doing a constant search for information about the disease and how people handled receiving a positive result. I found that Legacy offers many programs for people who have contracted the disease. Support groups meet weekly, and there are programs which help with the cost of medications. Finally, on the one week anniversary of my tests, I retured to the clinic with my friend. We kindly told the receptionist that we had returned for our results and were once again seated in the waiting room. I gritted my teeth and tried to stop tapping my foot. "95316!" I stood up. The nurse asked me to follow her. We were not going back to the exam room. She walked me up the stairs and asked me to wait in a smaller waiting room and said she'd be with me in just a moment. About five minutes later, my friend appeared in the same waiting room. We wondered what this additional waiting room could be for and prepared ourselves for the worst. At the end of the waiting room a door opened labeled "Therapy." A man walked out and called my number. He took me into a room with my file, asked me to have a seat. He asked how I was feeling today. I said that I was okay. I could hear myself lying.

He asked me several questions before announcing my results. He asked why had chosen to get an HIV test, and what my plans were if the results were positive. He asked me what I could do to put myself at the lowest risk possible for HIV, and he asked me to write down these resolutions. He saved a copy of my responses and gave the original back to me. He assured me that Legacy clinic was not hear only to read the results, but to prevent me from finding myself in this situation again. If I did not have HIV, the clinic wanted to make sure that I was aware of precautions to protect myself in the future, and if I did have HIV, the clinic wanted to help me on this unfortunate journey. He told me that despite whatever I may be feeling, I am not alone. He asked if I was ready to hear my results. My words escaped me. My entire body felt like it had gone numb. It was then that I realized that the next few seconds would change the rest of my life. It took all I had to shake my head yes.

Gathering my things, I walked out of the clinic with my friend. Neither of us said a word. We looked down and walked to our cars. I saw him get in his car as I walked to mine. Just before I ducked into the drivers seat, I looked over at him, and he said that his results were negative. I told him I was happy for him and sat down. I did not have the lucidity to speak yet after experiencing this amount of stress and confusion. He waved goodbye and said to call him later. As he pulled out of the parking lot, I turned on my car, put on my sunglasses and looked out the front window waiting for a gap in the traffic. Just before I made the decision to pull out onto Westheimer, I realized my better judgement and returned to my spot. I turned off the car and with my sunglasses still on I picked up my copy of the results paper and looked at it again. All of that anxiety, all of that courage, all of that apprehension finally manifested itself externally in the most relieving tears of my entire life. A tear fell from my face and hit the paper just barely below the results of my results. I was negative. I was lucky. I made a resolved effort to practice the precautions I had committed to in the therapy office and left the clinic.