The Day Roza Wept

It was a cloudy, rainy day with a cool breeze. Nothing set the afternoon apart from any other; patients and work projects kept the day busy. Late in the afternoon I was sitting at my desk, intently focusing on whatever task stared back at me from the computer screen. I heard little feet on the stairs, and turned to see Ruth’s smiling nine-year-old face as she handed me an envelope from the laboratory. It was securely sealed, marked with multiple purple and red “CONFIDENTIAL” stamps. I had already forgotten the significance of the contents of the envelope, and in my carelessness I spent another 10 minutes finishing the computer job before I copied the papers inside the envelope and walked downstairs. Sitting on the edge of the flowerbeds, Ruth’s mother and another patient were waiting for me. I didn’t stop to notice the apprehensive glance Ruth’s mother Roza cast my way. I called the other lady in and reviewed the lab work she handed me as I wondered how I could quickly treat these patients and lock up for the day.
As I glanced down at Ruth’s results that I had tossed onto the desk, I remembered why the results were significant. On one line at the top of the results there was a simple letter that would dictate the rest of Ruth’s life. N or P? Negative or Positive? Was the demon disease of HIV already coursing through her veins? The day before, her mother had brought her in to see me and my fellow staff nurse. She’d been concerned that Ruth could have HIV, especially since she had been getting sick frequently in the past months. She’d even tried to have Ruth tested at a couple of places, but each time she was told the machines weren’t working and she would have to return another time. The fearful question had been building—what if Ruth did have HIV? Could Roza ever live with the knowledge that it was through her—her mistakes, her desperation, her offense—that Ruth would be infected with the disease? How could she watch her daughter die, knowing that ultimately she had caused her death? How would she deal with telling her daughter, her family, such awful news? The dread would be choking now—she needed to know the truth to the question she never wanted to have to ask.
Suddenly I realized that Roza was waiting on me to tell her what the answer was. I’ve had to tell parents before that their children are HIV positive, and it has to be one of the worst things I’ve ever done in my life. It’s as though you are the instrument, the jury foreman, handing out a death sentence—or at the very least life in prison. All this spun through my head, even as I became conscious that I needed to tell Roza the result. I turned to go to her and saw she was already at the door, not wanting to be impatient, but yet so desperately needing to know. Our eyes met—her’s strong, battle-worn, determined, fearful—and she said, through a strangled voice, “Saryay (my Sara), the result—what is it?”
The words rushed out of my mouth as I moved towards her, “It’s good. It’s very good!” It was N, not P, that stared back at me in bold black type on the lab result paper. Roza’s face crumpled as the reality took hold of her mind—Ruth was negative! The disease was not in her! She was free! She could live! As I reached Roza, she dropped to her knees on the cold concrete floor of my pharmacy room and lifted her hands high into the air. Her face stretched upwards as the weeping sobs took hold of her. Egziaber Yeemesgun, Egziaber Yeemesgun! she cried. Yes, yes, my friend, my sister! my soul replied. I held her arm, grasped her shoulders, and with tears in my eyes lifted my voice with hers to say Egziaber Yeemesgun. God be praised, God be praised!