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When I found out I had HIV
in 1991, I was ready to cut my wrists. I was infected through
my husband, who until the day he died never admitted that
he had it. My husband wouldn’t let the words “gay” or “bisexual”
touch him with a 10-foot pole.
I was never sick a day after
that, until a year and a half ago when I spent nearly three
weeks in the hospital. I call it my 18 days of rebirth.
I was very sick on Christmas
Day. I almost killed myself in the hospital by not telling
the doctors and nurses about my HIV. I kept it a secret because
I was afraid of being treated badly. My son said, “Ma, tell
them.” After I did, I heard a nurse say, “Oh, my God. Now
we know what to do.” They were so nice. I was the one with
the prejudice I accused others of having, because I thought
they were going to be evil to me.
My T-cells were zero. I had
double pneumonia. They had to experiment with me because every
drug they put in my mouth I threw up.
Now I see that I didn’t start
living until I almost died. Shame. Fear. Hatred. Depression.
Stress. Ignorance. I put that behind when I left the hospital.
I learned those things will kill you. I decided to fight.
I know other women just like
me, who never used drugs or lived the street life. All they
did was marry the wrong guy, or maybe not the wrong guy but
a man who wasn’t sure of his sexuality. There are lots of
women living in shame and fear.
I am a member of the Church
of God in Christ and I had a whole lot of denial. I kept praying
for the HIV to go away. I thought that I must not be a good
enough Christian for this to have happened to me.
Instead, God must have been
preparing me for the illness that was coming. Today I believe
in LOVE. “L” for unconditionally loving your family. “O” for
being open and honest with yourself. “V” for victory in Christ
Jesus. “E” for education. If you know what you’re dealing
with, you know how to fight it.
Before, I thought HIV drugs
were a form of genocide. Then I got involved with the Coach
House [here in Chicago] and one of the workers there, John
Davis, told me, “Why don’t you just give your body a chance?
If you don’t feel better, you can stop.” On January 26, 2001,
I started Sustiva and Combivir, and they worked. My T-cells
are 384 and my viral load is undetectable, less than 50. I
feel good.
So far no one has met me
in the street and spit on me, but I still have a little fear
on the back burner. I lived in so much fear, I was a ball
of fear and hatred until 1996 when I forgave my husband. I
had burning in my chest and when I forgave him that burning
left. I moved him back into my house. When I forgave him,
I knew it… my body was set free.
Shame? I don’t have any.
I don’t care what people think about me. I don’t care what
people say about me. I have no time for it.
My 39-year-old brother died
of a massive heart attack last year. He was not ill or overweight.
I thought, “Why not me, God?” I was already almost dead. One
of my aunts heard me at the funeral. She said, “It wasn’t
your turn, baby, it wasn’t your turn. God has something for
you to do.” That day I made up my mind to do my Father’s work.
I will tell the world how good God is.
With my brother’s passing
and with September 11, I learned you have to live every day
as if it was your last. And you have to enjoy it. I used to
be a procrastinator. Now I don’t put off for tomorrow what
I can do today. Sometimes I do too much. All those things
I want to do—tomorrow is not promised. I have my good days
and bad, but I try to make sure the good days are more than
the bad ones.
My four children and my godchild
never let me forget I have something beautiful to live for.
I can’t tell them to fight if I give up. My grandma used to
tell me life is hard by the yard, but it’s a cinch by the
inch. I have a joke: When Death comes, I’m going to take off
running so hard, he’s going to have to stop to take a breath.
Maybe—just maybe—he’ll decide
to give me another day.
Ida Byther-Smith is a
peer advocate with the Chicago Women’s AIDS Project-South.
She is writing a book on her struggles with HIV, entitled
I’ll Go Down Fighting.
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