All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [78]
Afterward, we ordered off the room service menu, and she left not a trace on her three plates of food, all of which was typical local fare. I had thought she might choose meat or other rarely accessed delicacies, but she went for the usual rice and pap gravy. When I scooted the bread and butter toward her, she ate that, too. Her hair was wet and fell in ringlets past her shoulders, and as she sat there, gorgeous, clean, in her bathrobe, I saw the change in her demeanor, the understanding in her eyes. She was here among her sisters, who honored her for who she was, the shining star Sahouly, a woman of stunning potential.
When we returned to the red-light district, Sahouly took us to a peer education session in a small room in a brothel. All the women sat on the floor, chatting animatedly, legs draped over one another’s, interrupting, talking over one another, answering one another’s questions before Sahouly or Dr. Rene had a chance to chime in. They had already learned a lot in the program but still had lot of questions, including HIV risks to pregnant women. This topic allowed me to delicately introduce an idea I had longed to bring up: being tested. But I knew I had to handle it with exquisite care or I’d blow it.
Veronica, a prostituted woman who was six months pregnant, was my entrée. Moyra, a mother of two, had picked up on how anxious she was about the health of her baby. Dr. Rene and I talked to her about mother-to-child transmission and how critical it is to know your status, and also about syphilis, which causes birth defects. Then I pounced: “Why don’t you and I go to the public health clinic tomorrow to be tested?” She said yes. On a roll, I asked others. Five of them said they would. I couldn’t believe it. As I sat there trying so hard not to roar with joy, they bickered among themselves about the time and finally settled on three p.m., plenty of time to grab a little sleep after a night’s work and tend to the kids. Our group dispersed into the night, and my satisfaction melted into worry about attrition and who, out of fear, would blow it off and not show up.
To our delight, not five but seven from Sahouly’s group showed up to be tested for HIV, some with their children in tow. While we ate pizza, I asked if the women would prefer to wait to discuss our tests at the center, out of earshot of the café staff, because the taboo was so extreme. Again this remarkable group of strong women surprised me: They didn’t mind discussing it one bit. We talked about Nini, the pregnant homeless woman from the rice tents, whom I was hoping to get tested with us. Even though Dr. Rene had scoured the streets to bring her here today, he had not been able to find her. I was afraid she might have vanished forever.
After eating, we gathered in the waiting room of Dr. Rene’s clinic to have our blood drawn. It was a little awkward when the time came, so I shot my hand in the air like an eager schoolgirl and volunteered to go first. By this time I’d had so much blood drawn at clinics and voluntary testing centers that I should have had a tap attached to my inner elbow. Moyra, who is afraid of needles, declined the invitation, but she dug deep to sit by Veronica’s side and held her hand through the test.
When it was over, I was more than disappointed to learn we could not get the rapid results we expected. There was equipment available that could get results in minutes, but it was not at the clinic that day. The quick test is so important, because 35 percent of all people who are tested do not return to find out the results. But we were forced to wait in suspense for another twenty-four hours. We hugged and kissed and bade farewell again. I wondered if they would all have the courage to come back to face their status.
Meanwhile, a woman named Annie who had AIDS and might be willing to talk about