I hesitated to publish this story under the rubrik of humor; but there is something ‘awefully’ funny about it. The lesson seems loud and clear: When your doctor says you are terminally ill, do go and seek a second opinion

By JIM MALONE AS TOLD TO PAIGE WILLIAMS

Nearly eight years ago, just after Christmas in 1996, I tested H.I.V.-positive while I was on vacation in Los Angeles. I had gone to the E.R. with chest pains. They did the regular blood work and asked if I minded an H.I.V. test. I didn’t expect it to come back positive, but it didn’t surprise me when it did. My partner had passed away from AIDS. Before that I had been partying for about—well, I’ll be 60 on the 4th of July, so you do the math. Still, I felt as if somebody had hit me in the head with a baseball bat. I took the test results back home to Hayward, Calif., and gave them to my doctor at the V.A. clinic. He treated me for H.I.V. for the next seven and a half years.

In July of this year, the V.A. clinic called because its new computer software had flagged my record for a missing diagnosis. I was asked to come in for another H.I.V. test. I found out that I was in fact negative and apparently had never been positive. At first I was in shock, speechless. Then I was ecstatic that I wasn’t going to die. The more I thought about what I’d been through, though, the madder I got.

I had been seeing my doctor for at least a decade for a bad back, a heart condition, ulcers, and I always trusted him. If he had said the sky was purple with pink polka dots, I would have had no reason to question him. The V.A. clinic eventually did another H.I.V. test. It was negative, but no one told me.

My father drove for a bakery and always believed I should go into the bakery business. When I didn’t, he wasn’t too happy. He was less happy when he found out I was gay. Communication dropped off between us. After my positive diagnosis, I called to tell him. He cut off communication completely. As I understand it, he wouldn’t let anybody mention my name around him. My mother passed away in 1971. But I still had two sisters, one two years younger than me, and the other two years older. The younger one sided with my father; she lived with him, and his word was gospel. The older one, who lives in Texas, said, ‘‘You’re still my brother.’‘

I started telling my friends about my diagnosis because I’d had sexual relationships with many of them. At first, I still dated: dinner, a show, a bar, but the evenings always ended there. The minute I’d say I was positive it would be: ‘‘It’s late. I have to get up early for work.’’ I started accepting that. Eventually I completely shut off. I sold my car. I read or watched TV all day. I stopped going out, even for dinner. I figured, What’s the difference? and made funeral arrangements.

I’ve always enjoyed my privacy, so it wasn’t unusual that I didn’t have that many friends over. At first they didn’t notice that I wasn’t going out as much, and then most of them quit noticing anything at all. My big fear was that I’d have to die by myself. I tried to keep people around, even if it was as close as the telephone. People bailed out who at first said they were my friends and would always be there. You can almost physically feel the stigma when you walk into a room, including church: there’s Jim Malone; he’s got AIDS. There’s even a segment of the gay community that says run the other way, send them home to their parents, put them in a rest home.

I had the symptoms of AIDS—weight loss, diarrhea, no appetite, vomiting. They call it being psychosomatic. I knew about the symptoms from my own lovers, from being right there, from cleaning up the mess. It’s not as if I just got off the turnip wagon. I was never put on any medication because of the high T-cell count and zero viral load. Your T-cells can stay high for years even when you’re positive. But the stress of thinking about it will kill you faster than the disease. The eight years I thought I was positive cost me more than 45 pounds. I take medicine for depression and stress, even now.

Last November I got a call from my sister, saying that my father wanted to see me. I drove up to Sacramento. He had the IV’s and oxygen and was obviously in very bad shape. I said, ‘‘Hi, Dad, how’re you doing?’’ He said: ‘‘Lousy. Got any of those queers out there in the car?’’ I said, ‘‘You asked me to come by myself, and I did.’’ He died in June. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. Even in death, Dad didn’t want his friends and neighbors to know he had a gay son. The very day he learned I was gay, he made an appointment with his doctor to ask if there wasn’t something wrong with him.

Two months after he died, I found out I was negative. My doctor wrote me a letter saying he took full responsibility. It was human error. My lawyers filed a claim, and now we have to wait to see what happens. For years, I received free meals, help with rent, free counseling and therapy from AIDS organizations. It’s going to be very tough financially now, but the relief is worth it. It feels as if somebody took an anvil off my shoulders. I’m planning trips. I haven’t felt this good in 30 years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still mad as hell.

(NYT: Published: October 10, 2004)