The registrar pops out of the room. Five minutes is an eternity when you are in a hospital treatment room and don’t know what’s happening on the other side of that big mauve door.

Imagination kicks in: “Patient thinks his numbers are OK and he doesn’t need to start drugs!” laughs the imaginary registrar on the other side of the door. Or, here’s my favourite: “I don’t think this guy has the right perspective on what these numbers mean; if he doesn’t start treatments soon he’ll be dead inside of a year!” I stare at the back of the computer monitor on the desk in front of me.

He comes back into the room flanked by the specialist and another junior registrar. “Uh oh,” I think, “something’s really wrong.”

Bum!

I have to accept the idea of going on treatments. I must accept the idea that treatments are the way to go.

So, next step: negotiate. We’ve all heard the stories by those who felt treatments were forced on them from the beginning with a hit ’em hard and hit ’em now approach. I had a registrar a couple a years ago who tried that one on me; good thing I’d spent some time talking to the treatments officer at the local AIDS council. I am the one in charge of my treatment, not some new flavour-of-the-month registrar.

Unfortunately, this virus is a clever bugger: it knows how to mutate itself to survive, and in my case it mutates itself to overcome my natural biological protection to the virus. I thought that I was going to be a long term slow-progressor and three years doesn’t appear to be long-term (well not in my book). So, what do I do?

I make the best decision in the moment. It is now time to consider treatments; it is time to discuss medication. Reality check. I have to think about incorporating drugs into my life, not like taking aspirin or paracetamol for a headache, but drugs that are necessary for me to stay active on this mortal coil we call life.

Am I ready? Well, if the truth be known, no.

But I’m also aware of the fact that I recently got married to the most wonderful man in the world and I don’t intend the relationship to be short term. Time to compromise; time to think about how this new stage is to be incorporated into my life.

I spend seven days in hospital and everything seems to go fine. I am discharged from the immunodeficiency unit with a sack of drugs and a letter for my GP. I think everything is going OK.

“Am I ready? Well, if the truth be known, no.”

Reality check: I am just seven days into treatment and, despite reading and re-reading the literature that came with my new drugs, I am still not sold on taking all these medications. I’m awestruck: blinded by medical science.

My house doesn’t run like a hospital ward. There’s enough strain taking all these pills while someone else is carefully monitoring their distribution and recording every dose on a chart. Taking them yourself means adding some thought, getting organised, plus managing all of the emotions that tag along with the issue.

Day 13: everything seems to be going fine. I haven’t missed a dose and the treatment seems to fit into my personal routine. That night I go out for dinner and tell a friend that the treatments seem to be fine. I think I’m handling the drugs really well. I should know by now that you don’t tempt the fates.

Day 14: I wake up to take my hubby to work, throw my legs out of the bed and I can’t believe my eyes: both legs are covered with a rash and both knees are swollen. In the bathroom I discover that the rash is top to toe. Remember I said I read those drug information sheets? I panic — this could be a life threatening reaction to the one of the drugs! I’m no longer driving my hubby to work; he’s driving me into the emergency room.

It turns out that I’ve had a reaction to the efavirenz. We swap for Kaletra and I’m on my way.

Reality check: I’m an emotional mess and I still have a rash from head to foot. Three days and a box of antihistamines later I no longer have the rash, and I’m hoping that this new drug is going to work.

I’m an emotional mess, but I need to maintain an outward appearance of composure. Thank goodness I have a regular counselling appointment or I might be a total wreck.

The good news is that the tests show the drugs are actually working.

*Graham Douglas-Meyer* lives in Perth.