All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [80]
As the clinicians prepared to give us our results, I sat with one of Veronica’s children on my lap, a precious eight-year-old girl in a fairly clean dress with only one tear, dotted with a sweet daisy print. She had on red patent-leather shoes that did not match but were obviously worn with pride on her special day of meeting me. I braided her long ponytail to keep the sour smell of her hair more confined. Then, as I stroked her, I rested my other hand on Nini’s belly. Finally, the first number was called.
I accompanied the woman who matched the number (all names were kept anonymous) into a small counseling room. She sat in a chair across a desk from a social worker, and I knelt beside her, my arm around her shoulders, eyes fixed on the small stack of papers that I knew were everyone’s HIV test results. The social worker went very carefully over the number on the card the prostitute produced, visually and verbally confirming that the number matched the certificate and that she was the age and gender indicated. The social worker then slid the paper forward with the test outcome validated by an official stamp: NEGATIF. The woman went through a transfiguration akin to Jesus’s on the mount, from grim, fearful stoicism to an outburst of relief and joy. “Negatif!” she kept repeating, shaking the social worker’s hand as if she’d been given a diploma, crying some, but really being far too overjoyed to do any one thing for more than a second. I bawled shamelessly, caught up in the miracle but also knowing that the next woman’s result could be disastrous. We had six more to go before we were done.
The process repeated itself again and again, the frightened but resolute woman in the chair, me on the floor beside her, numbers and details verified, and results presented. They were unbelievable:
NEGATIF.
NEGATIF.
NEGATIF.
NEGATIF.
NEGATIF.
NEGATIF.
A series of miracles and the most eloquent tribute possible to the power of peer education. Seven veteran prostitutes with more than seventy-five years on the streets and thousands upon thousands of tricks turned among them had tested negative for HIV.
We all reacted in our own way. The social worker immediately began reinforcing risk management behavior and correct, consistent condom use. Our stills photographer, squished in a corner, a veteran of some of the world’s grimmest scenes in countries the U.S. State Department might not be able to find on a map, cried openly behind her lens. The VH1 documentary crew openly declared it the heaviest thing any of them had ever been through. Moyra didn’t breathe until pregnant Veronica and the toothless granny—the two we had been most sure would be HIV-positive—were also declared negative. Back in the waiting room, when we realized that all of us were free and clear (this time, at least), jubilation broke out. There was clapping, dancing, singing, and a prayer.
Now I could leave my friends without the sense of panic I had felt a day earlier when we had parted. They were free from HIV, and I fully expected all of them to remain that way. Sahouly and I shared a quiet moment when she said she couldn’t wait to go home to tell her husband, although we both confirmed the importance of them using a condom together. Relief must be tempered by reality.
As we left, I spoke with Dr. Rene about passing him money to pay for all the medical care everyone’s ailments required and in particular what to do about Nini. We agreed that at our farewell gathering that night, we would give him a small fund out of which he would settle prescription costs. It was the least we could do and in fact was very inexpensive. The costs for delivering Nini’s baby at a clinic, plus her medications, her two-year-old’s meds, and the meds for all the other women’s sick babies was less than $100.
We wrapped up our visit to Madagascar with an official press conference to thank the government and our donors, followed by a big party for everyone involved in the trip, which officially kicked off our thrilling collaboration with the Top