The Two-Lab Tango
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I admit that in the days leading up to this appointment I was very nervous. I knew that pursuing the possibility of biological fatherhood would require me to expose myself in a variety of uncomfortable ways. For example, I knew that I would have to answer probing questions about my health, and medical history – subjects in the past that I tended to keep mostly private. It is impossible to know how different my relationship with my HIV might be if I had contracted the virus in a more socially acceptable way; for example, if I had been forced to undergo a lifesaving – albeit ultimately tainted – transfusion in the aftermath of some unavoidable accident or unforeseeable natural disaster. You see it was never lost on me that I had contracted HIV the good old-fashioned way. And at least partially because of that – for me – there was still a great deal of unresolved shame associated with my status. Nevertheless, I had committed myself to unflinching transparency with the mamas and with anyone who might need accurate information in order to be of assistance in our quest for procreation.
With that commitment in mind, now here I was sitting in a doctor’s office about to intentionally sidestep the truth again. This time of course it was with the consent of all parties involved – including a blessing from The Dark Angel. And even though I was still spinning a bit from the unexpected defensive stance we were forced to assume in round one, I had no doubt that I was up to the challenge. After all, when it came to skillfully sashaying around unpopular topics there were very few whose footwork could surpass my own. So when the white-coated doctor entered and squared himself on the far side of the dance floor – I was more than ready to rumba. Hands were shook, introductions were made, and mommy and I recounted for him a much abbreviated version of our circumstance; basically that we wanted to have a child, but the HIV issue was keeping us from that end.
Mommy was questioned by white coat regarding her reproductive health history; questions that seemed mostly routine. She explained that she was perfectly well equipped for a textbook conception, but we wanted to be sure that precautions were taken to avoid any possibility of infection. I was then asked about the current state of my viral load. I clearly remember that at some point during this meeting mommy placed a reassuring hand on my knee. I choose to recall and recount the gesture at this particular point in the telling because it seems like an apt juncture in the proceedings for it to have actually occurred. Whether the placement of her hand on my leg was for appropriate show or for sincere support, I am not exactly sure. The moment lives in my recollection, however, as equal parts: cunning and compassion. I shared with white coat that my viral load was currently undetectable and had been so for many years. Without much further probing, he proceeded to lay out some of the various options that were available to us. Once again we shared our desire to go the IUI route if at all possible.
At some point during the relatively short conversation the subject of two laboratories was raised. It was explained to us that facilities that handle HIV+ specimens are required to have a separate lab for that purpose – like a kosher kitchen of sorts – and this particular clinic did not have one. The lack of an appropriate lab would mean that my samples would need to be sent elsewhere for analysis and processing. Up to that point I knew that my HIV status precluded me from donating blood or organs, but I had been having lab work done for years. It had never occurred to me that there was legislation in place to prevent the clean samples of uninfected individuals from mixing with the poisonous fluids drawn from my body – especially in a place as environmentally sterile as a laboratory. I’m sure there are probably very sound reasons for the two-lab model, however my newly acquired awareness of its existence only served to underscore some long-held feelings that I already had about being viewed as some kind of societal pariah. Sweeping my delicate insecurities aside, however, I listened as white coat assured us that the two-lab challenge could somehow be circumvented – that is, if we did indeed decide to employ his center’s services.
Almost before I knew what had happened, mommy and I were shuffling out of the office with instructions to call back and schedule the appointments for our requisite, pre-insemination lab-work. We rendezvoused with mama in the parking garage and boasted about how effortlessly we had maneuvered through the dance of deceit with white coat – including the two-lab tango. Carrie Ann Inaba would have been proud, “10!” It certainly seemed that we were one Quickstep closer to that elusive mirror ball trophy. The three of us laughed while we waited for the valet to bring the mamas’ car around, and we began to estimate timelines of trimesters and possible delivery dates. As we parted ways and I walked to my car out on the street, I really began – for the first time – to envision my future as a father. Astounding. It would soon become clear, however, that we had a very willing dance partner that day in the guise of white coat. The lack of any real effort that was required on our parts to dos-si-do around the truth, as we would eventually come to learn, was partly due to the fact that White Coat and The Dark Angel had a secret agenda all their own.