ART was late for Márcia, in Memorian
Although I was no longer a resident of the nursing home and, as I could not find a job, I volunteered at CRT-A and the nursing home, taking care of a sadly debilitated person, Waldir, who taught me a lot about humility, because although I am a man, his penis needed to be cleaned and I was not going to have the face of going to call a nurse because "in chick I do not catch".
Thus, I helped people and got two meals a day, one at CRT-A and another at the support house, where I refused to live in that hell. This, in a way, may seem cynical, or even hypocritical, but a person with AIDS, without drugs, without housing, without having to be able to feed himself, will always consider this expedient lawful, especially in the dark scenario of the 90 decade,
ART was late in the second half of the 90 decade of the 20th century
Then the cocktail came and with it, what I called “the end of the first wave” (the triple therapy - the so-called cocktail - had just been implanted and there were still a lot of people in bad health) was not difficult to find what to do.
ARV also arrived late for Waldir
Although I was not part of the target audience, I got a Support House Brenda Lee, my former manager, Elisabete Waldir, who died some 65 days later a victim of something that appeared on the death certificate as miliary tuberculosis and it was clear to me being tuberculosis spread all over the body (one day I cheer myself up and tell this other story). Waldir died of poverty.
But it is not Waldir's story that I come to tell here, on this page, it is Márcia's, which I had the pleasure of knowing while accompanying Waldir.
Waldir's “Delivery”, Already in ART Season
After "handing over" Waldir to receive his care, which was numerous and taking all day, I was free to go home and only come to pick him up in the late afternoon (pick here is to put in the wheelchair and take to the ambulance), which was from the support house, known as pope everything (…); but I would rather stay in the hospital, circling the corridors, going into each room, talking to people, and having a chance to hand a forgotten glass of water or sometimes to feed someone's spirit with some hope that I myself I didn't have it and, as you can see, I was wrong. I Think I gave so much hope that I ended up convincing myself.
So I met Lia, Edna, Peter, Angela (19 hemophilic years), many other ones (like that girl who had complications with toxo and live consciously and in a fetal position, dependent on everyone for everything all the time); these among so many others, Marcia, that brings me tears even now, after so long.
The Fear of Knowing
She contracted HIV from her husband and was taken aback by a positive HIV diagnosis because of a number of opportunistic infections that attacked and killed her husband in a period of 5 months.
Tb It was not good (I always wonder how a person begins to get sick of this or that and no one bothers to make a closer examination, I wonder also how the person is unaware that something is wrong and let it go until the end. Must be the fear of knowing.
But when I met her, she was better, she was back on her feet, like a duckling hatch (I always said that to her, who smiled ...), and was full of hope.
It was not like Ultragas, every other day, ultragas at the gate
But I had to be there every day and get intravenous medication; the bites tortured her, there was no more vein that could be found without a search for 30, 50 minutes… and she cried just seeing the needle (I think it made her veins worse) and I always passed by 8 and a half in the morning to try to help (he hugged her and kept talking nonsense in her ear, sang hairy on the thirty-seven-year-old girl and she laughed like a child. At least distracted.
And she "was discharged"
This lasted a few months 2 and she was discharged.
Months later, I was out of the support house, I entered the CRTA to take care of myself and I came down the stairs 8, passing each of the rooms and I ended up finding Marcia, who slept, eyes open, quite dejected. So depressed that I was frightened. She was also startled by the sudden arrival of a person and woke up. We talked.
The tiredness… .. I know that
Not much to say. I didn't believe in anything else… and she said to me like this:
ClaudioI'm tired, I do not want to live anymore.
Even without hope, scolded her and said she lived, who fought, who would not give now that he was so close (what?), Which go forward one more day.
I stayed with her as much as I could, but I had to leave, it was a Friday and life was calling me outside, demanding obligations and commitments…
One last look
When I was leaving she hugged me and said:
Thanks for everything Claudius.
I cried (as I cry now) and I had no word… It was the last time I saw her in life on Earth… she died at home with her, who were immensely relieved…
It is a normal story, common to any hospital in this world. Only one detail in this story tells me:
On Monday, early in the morning, I rushed to the hospital, still unaware of her fate, and wanted information.
Then Dona Teresa, head nurse of the hospital day, a lady 55 years, gray hair, happy eyes (the image of the grandmother) told me that she had died.
Before my amazement and my sadness she said:
Why is it like this? You know, you people with HIV and people living with AIDS always end up like this…
I was about to throw her off the fourth floor for a second, but I handed her over…
I never spoke to her again. It seems to me utterly absurd that a healthcare professional can be so insensitive…