ART was late for Márcia, in Memorian
Although I was no longer a resident of the support house and, since I could not get a job, I volunteered at CRT-A and the support house, taking care of a sadly weakened person, Waldir, who taught me a lot about humility, therefore, although I was a man, his penis needed to be cleaned and I would not have the stick face of going to call a nurse because "in chick I do not get it".
Thus, I helped people and got two meals a day, one in the CRT-A and the other in 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 medication, without housing, without having to be able to feed himself, will always consider this expedient licit, 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 came the cocktail and with it, what I called "the end of the first wave" (the triple therapy - the cocktail had just been implanted and there were still many people in a bad health situation) was not difficult to find what to do.
ART also came late for the Waldir
Although I was not part of the target audience, I got a Support House Brenda Lee, my former manager, Elisabete Waldir, who died an 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). He died of poverty or Waldir.
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.
The "Delivery" of Waldir, already in the Era of ART
After "delivering" Waldir to receive his care, which was innumerable and took all day, I was free to go home and only come and find him in the late afternoon (look here is to put in the wheelchair and take to the ambulance), who was from the house of support, known as Pope All (...); but I preferred to stay in the hospital, circling the corridors, entering every room, talking to people and having the chance to deliver a glass of water to a forgotten person or sometimes to feed someone's spirit with some hope that I myself did not have and, as you can see, was mistaken. I Think I gave so much hope that I ended up convincing myself.
So I met Lia, Edna, Pedro, Angela (19 hemophilic years), a few others (like that girl who had toxoids and complications live consciously and in a fetal position, dependent on everyone for all the time); among these others, Marcia, who brings me tears, even now, after so much time.
The Fear of Knowing
She contracted HIV from her husband and was taken by surprise by a positive HIV diagnosis because of a number of opportunistic infections that attacked and killed her husband in a period of 5 months.
She was not cool either (I always wonder how a person gets sick of this or that and no one bothers to take a more thorough examination; I also wonder how the person does not realize that something is wrong and lets go until the end. It must be the fear of knowing.
But when I met her, she was better, she was back on her feet, like a little duckling (I always said that to her, she smiled ...), and she was full of hope.
It was not like Ultragas, every other day, ultragas at the gate
But he had to be there every day and receive intravenous medication; the stings tortured her, there was no vein that could be found without a search for 30, 50 minutes ... and she cried just to see the needle (I think this made the situation worse in her veins even worse) and I always went through there 8 and half a dozen in the morning to try to help (she hugged her and kept talking nonsense in her ear, passed hairy chants on the girl of thirty-seven and she laughed like a child.
And she "had High"
This lasted a few months 2 and she was discharged.
Months later, I was outside the support house, I entered the CRTA to take care of myself and I came down the 8 stairs by the stairs, passing through 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 this
There was not much to say. I did not believe in anything else ... and she said to me like this:
CláudioI'm tired, I do not want to live any more.
Even without hope, I scolded her and told her to live, to fight, not to give up now that she was so close (than!), To go on just one more day.
I stayed with her as much as I could, but I had to leave, it was a Friday, and life called me outside, demanding obligations and commitments ...
One Last Look
When I left she hugged me and said:
Thank you for everything Claudius.
I cried (as I cry now) and I did not have a word ... It was the last time I saw her alive, on Earth ... she died at home, next to her, who felt immensely relieved.
It is a normal story, common to any hospital in the world. Only one detail in this story tells me:
On Monday morning, I ran to the hospital, I still did not know what her fate was, and I wanted information.
It was then that Dona Teresa, head nurse of the day hospital, a lady of 55 years, gray hair, happy eyes (the image of grandma) told me that she had died.
Before my amazement and my sadness she said:
Why are you like this? You know, you people with HIV and people living with AIDS always end up like this ...
For a second I was about to throw it from the fourth floor, but I gave it to myself ...
I never spoke to her again. It seems to me absolutely absurd that a health professional can be so insensitive ...