Would you still love me if...?

My father-in-law sent out an email to the whole family yesterday, asking if we would be interested in participating in a blood drive this weekend.  A few jokes were made about Andrew's tendency to pass out when even looking at blood, and then I responded, "I'm not allowed to donate blood or plasma again after I was told that I have HIV."

My father-in-law said, "MR, I've never seen that side of your sense of humor before!"  Well, that's because it's not a joke.

***

As an unemployed, broke college student looking for an easy way to make cash, I thought that donating plasma would be just the thing to put a little change in my pockets.  So, off I headed to the plasma donation center.  Everything went down without a hitch, and I left thinking that perhaps I could just become a regular plasma donor in lieu of finding a "real" job.  The girl at the front desk did remind me that the center would call me after they had done some testing to make sure I was a worthy candidate for donating, but at that point, I was already deciding what to do with the extra 80 bucks per week. 

I took my exams and then went home for my first Christmas break as a college student.  About halfway through the month-long break, I received a phone call from none other than the plasma center.

Receptionist: "Hi, is this Mary?"
Me: "Yes, this is she."
Receptionist: "I am calling about your results from the tests we did at the plasma center."
Me: "Yes ma'am..."
Receptionist: "It appears that you have an abnormality in your results."
Me:  "Which is..."
Receptionist:  "I'm sorry, I cannot disclose that information to you over the phone.  You'll have to make an appointment to come in and talk with one of the nurses."

Mind you, I still had about two weeks left of Christmas break, and I would not be coming back to Norman from Flower Mound before then.  I told my mom what the receptionist had said, and we concluded that I was probably anemic.  I still worried somewhat about my test results, but mostly I just enjoyed the rest of my holiday and didn't give much thought to the impending doom.


School started up again, and I made my appointment to speak with the nurse at the plasma center.  She made sure I was firmly planted in a chair in a private room before jumping right in with Question #1.

Nurse:  "I'm going to need you to tell me everything about your sexual history.  How many partners have you had?"
Me:  "..."
Nurse: "Uh, ma'am...?"
Me: "Zero?"  

I know that woman didn't know me from Adam, but I could tell that she thought I was telling a bold-faced lie.  I think she even proceeded to tell me that "now was not the time to hide information" and asked me the same question about five different ways.  She also asked me a slew of other questions before she told me, in a most exasperated tone,

"The reason I'm asking you all of these questions is because your tests came back positive for HIV."

Then it was basically, "Contact your doctor, good luck, and have a nice day."

Have a nice day?!  It was not a nice day.  I couldn't get out of that place fast enough.  I ran to my car and sobbed, not even knowing how what she had just told me was plausible.  I thought through all of the possible, and even the impossible, scenarios in my head.  Could I have gotten HIV from just kissing someone?  Did a doctor once use a dirty needle on me?  I was responsible for the personal care for a lot of boys and men at camp.  Did I get some bodily fluid into a cut one time?  Did I ever forget to wear gloves when changing someone?  There were no other explanations.

I made an appointment to see a family practice doctor in Norman, and I waited for what seemed like ages to even get in because I was a new patient.  Then I waited for more test results.  Every hour of waiting was agony.

As it turns out, I do not have HIV.  Whew.  I don't think the doctor believed me about being a virgin any more than the nurse at the plasma center had, but he did explain that about one in every 10,000+ tests for HIV will come back with a false positive.  I was the one in 10,000.  I would not be allowed to donate blood or plasma again, but by then, an extra $80 per week was so not worth it to me.  I breathed a big sigh of relief and moved on with my life as normal.  Now, almost six years later, I can think about the story without being absolutely horrified.      

***

I haven't told the amazing part of that story, although it is pretty amazing that I don't have HIV.  When all of this took place, I had just started dating Andrew.  I mean, we had known each other for about five months and had been dating for a whopping two, maybe.  After sitting down with the nurse that day, I debated whether or not I should tell Andrew that I might have HIV.  For some reason, I decided that I should.  I remember sitting in his bedroom and just sobbing for about two hours before I could even get the words out.  When I finally did say something, it was probably similar to this:

"IthinkIhaveHIV, IhavenoideahowbutIdon'tblameyouifyoudon'twanttobewithmeanymore."

Silence.  For a long time.  I thought for sure that he was thinking of the kindest way to break up with me.

I don't remember exactly what he eventually said, but he wrapped his arms around me, told me that it was going to be okay, and that he still wanted me.  I knew he knew that staying with me would mean that everything about our future would change if I did have HIV.  And it didn't matter.

At that point, we hadn't said that we loved each other.  But when I look back on it now, I think that moment was the first time I realized that, romantically or not, this guy loved me an awful lot, and that I would be so blessed to get to spend forever with him.  I often think about if the situation would have been reversed.  It would be easy for me to say that I would have been equally as gracious, but I'm not sure I would have.  I don't really understand unconditional love.  Often, I would much rather do what is easy than do what is right.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm incredibly insecure, especially when it comes to my looks.  So lots of times at our house, Andrew gets to hear me ask silly questions like these: "Will you love me as much if I gain 10 pounds?  Will you still love me when I'm not skinny anymore?  Will you love me if I am 300 pounds if/when I'm pregnant?  Do you still love me even though I don't look like that (airbrushed) supermodel on the front of the magazine?  Are you sure you would rather be with me than ___ because I'm not as beautiful as her?"  I need to hear the words of reassurance come out of his mouth, even though I know that the answer is always, "a thousand times, yes."  I think that this is how God must love his people.  And even though my questions to Andrew probably seem a little ridiculous, isn't everyone asking similar questions?  "Would you still love me if..."  And doesn't everyone want to hear, "a thousand times, yes"?    

Our society makes people think that they are only valuable if they look a certain way or do certain things.  There are almost always strings attached to people's acceptance of you.  Has anyone ever looked in your eyes and said, "You're loveable just because I love you?" or "I love you for no other reason, except that you're    (insert your name here.)   "?  I hope that someone has, and I hope that you believed it.