Jeen Morson after giving birth to her baby son
Jenn Morson is a freelance writer from the suburbs of Annapolis, Maryland.
“It must be a mistake,” I told the doctor, confident there had been a mix-up at the lab.
“The test was run nine times,” she declared.
The lab had repeated my HIV test nine times, and my new
obstetrician was lecturing me for endangering her by not disclosing my
HIV status.
My husband found me crumpled on the bed. He took the phone from me
and listened to what the doctor had to say. Then he wrapped his arms
around me, repeating over and over, “Baby, this is impossible.”
I’d only been with my husband and we’d both tested HIV-negative the
prior year as part of a life-insurance exam. So I turned to the man
whose child I was carrying, whose daughter was sleeping soundly in her
crib, and said, “If you cheated on me, you need to tell me now.” I believed him when he told me no, there hadn’t been anyone else.
Was I the first person to catch HIV from a public restroom? Had I
contracted it from a mosquito? Worse still, had I given it to my
husband? To my daughter? To our unborn child?
As soon as my daughter woke up, we took her to my parents and went
straight to a lab for another blood draw. As we took turns in the
stiff-backed chairs, arms tied off with rubber bands, I fell apart. The
phlebotomist awkwardly patted my back, trying to assure me that even
though it seemed bleak, I was going to be OK.
Could I handle a lifetime of precautions and pills? It scared me to admit that I did not know.
A follow-up visit with my OB only ratcheted up my anxiety. I told
her my research had turned up cases of false-positives in pregnant
women, but she was fixated on my failure to disclose my status. When I
asked about HIV-2 — the type I supposedly had — she didn’t even know
what it was. Instead she handed me a prescription for antianxiety pills
and sent me away.
When I got home I called the Centers for Disease Control and
learned that HIV-2 is a rare form of the virus. The CDC employee was
extremely skeptical that I could have contracted HIV-2, but it was hard
to feel reassured in the face of a positive test result. Nine times.
Next I contacted my former nurse midwife in Virginia, who offered
to put me in touch with an immunologist at her hospital. He arranged for
another blood draw, which would be sent to a lab in California, the
only one at the time that could accurately run the PCR test for HIV-2.
Results would take at least a week. In the meantime, I was told to carry
on as if I had a positive diagnosis. If my baby girl were to get cut, I
couldn’t kiss it to make her feel better. I couldn’t let her kiss me on
the mouth, in case either of us had an open sore. I fixated on every
patch of chapped skin — would it open and get blood on her?
Then there was my pregnancy. I had just made it through a hideous
first trimester, including being hospitalized for morning sickness.
Would I need antiretroviral medication? Would I get sick all over again?
I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t slow my heart rate. I knew the
stress wasn’t good for my unborn baby, but I was consumed by thoughts
of not being allowed to breastfeed him, not feeling safe to clip his
fingernails, not being able to smother him with kisses.
Ten days dragged past before the immunologist called. No, I was not
HIV-positive. The test results showed my pregnancy had caused an
elevated antibody count, not HIV. I was free to resume my normal
routine.
My next call was to my OB, requesting that my records be sent to a
new doctor. Her office was surprised I wanted to switch providers and
made no effort to learn why I had received a false diagnosis. (Following
a request for comment, the office said the OB in question retired five
years ago.)
I had spent two weeks believing I was HIV-positive, an agonizing
diagnosis more than a million people in the United States deal with
every day. If the immunologist’s report had confirmed the positive
results, would I have been strong enough to follow the drug regimen?
Could I handle a lifetime of precautions and pills? It scared me to
admit that I did not know. I prided myself on a willingness to sacrifice
for my children, but I was suddenly humbled to consider what that might
have meant had I been HIV-positive. And while I was able to change
obstetricians, how many HIV-positive women were being stigmatized and
enduring judgment from her and doctors like her? I wanted to find these
women and apologize for all the wrongheaded people who made them feel
anything but strong.
And when my sweet baby boy was born, I covered him in kisses, no
longer afraid that I was a danger to my children, but also keenly aware
of how lucky I am.
Source: Jenn Morson
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