"You think I am old right? I am only 52 years old! I look old because of this. You want to see Africa? (Proceeds to take off his shirt) This is Africa. (Slowly turns a full circle) This is the body that Africans have. You see bone here, here, and here. (Strokes his torso and vigorously tries to pinch a bit of skin) Everywhere also bones. No need to go to Africa to look at this. This is Africa right here!"
- HIV/AIDS Patient
He stared at me with his piercing eyes, as I tried to cogitate an apt response. I couldn't - I was just left gaping speechlessly. I was glad for the mask this time, which muffled my muffled grunt even more. Then he smiled a satisfied, toothless smile and climbed back on to his bed.
It's not that I have never seen people that skinny. In my two years of working with HIV patients, I have met far too many such people (and sometimes even worse). On many occasions, I have kneaded and massaged bones instead of legs and arms, hoping that even if the relief does not get through, the comfort does. But no one has ever made such a comparison.
It made me realize something that I have always felt but could never quite synthesize cogently. That suffering is suffering, and that is all that matters. A lot of my friends and acquaintances have asked and even passionately argued about placing HIV patients in the same group as other people in need of aid and compassion: "Most of them got the disease on their own accord. Why should we sympathize with someone's sheer recklessness?!" Or something along those lines. I have never felt like my counter arguments were ever convincing enough. Maybe because I couldn't, and I still haven't quite understood my own divergence of thought from theirs on this issue.
I know that it doesn't matter to me personally, but I don't understand why it matters to many. These patients should not be marginalized, just like anyone else out there in need. They are all the same, regardless of diagnosis, prognosis and age - because suffering is suffering. It does not have a quantity or quality attached to it.
I have met patients of varying shades, from various walks of life: There are some who feel remorse, and some who feel anger. Some take it all in with a smile, while some remain disgruntled and bitter. Some of them wish to go back, while some just want the support to move forward. Then there are those who crave a conversation, or a human touch, and others who just wish for everyone and everything to disappear. Yet, they all have something in common - suffering.
Which I think is the only thing I can perceive and comfort them over.
I don't think I am capable of adequately and justly capturing and accounting for their condition, it's causes or even the results. It's not justified - both of us exist on the same plane only just in that moment, and that's all. After that, they continue fighting their own battles, while I continue on my path with mine. There are a few, of course, who divulge their pasts and futures to me, telling endless stories about their infection, survival, and plans, letting me travel with them for a while.
Though I know these people a bit more, I find myself inept at judging them or their actions. What gives me the right to judge someone else's intention and condition? After all, who does not make mistakes? And, who doesn't deserve a second chance at life?
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