ART was late for Márcia, in Memorian
Although I was no longer a resident of the support house and, because 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 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 came the cocktail and with it, what I called "the end of the first wave" (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.
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.
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 to fetch him in the late afternoon (look here is to put in the wheelchair and take to the ambulance), who was from the support house, known as Pope All (...); but I preferred to stay in the hospital, circling the corridors, entering each room, talking to people, and having the chance to give 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, 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, I was better, I had to walk back, like a duckling hatches (I always said that to her, that smile ...), and was filled with hope.
It was not like Ultragas, every other day, ultragas at the gate
But I had to be there every day and receive medication endovenosoa; bites the tortured, there was no vein could be found without a search 30, 50 minutes ... and so she wept to see the needle (I think it worsened further situation in their veins) and I always drove by the 8 thirty in the morning to try and help (hugged her and kept talking nonsense in her ear, passed sung hairy girl in thirty-seven years and she laughed like a child. Unless get distracted.
And she "had high"
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 this
There was not much to say. I do not believe in anything ... and she told me 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 had to leave, it was a Friday and life called me out there charging me obligations and commitments ...
One last look
When I was leaving she hugged me and said:
Thanks for everything Claudius.
Cried (like crying now) and have not had word ... It was the last time I saw her alive on earth ... died at home, along with their, who felt immensely relieved (...)
It's a normal story, common to any hospital in the world. Just a detail in this story makes me account - it:
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 that? You know, you, people living with HIV and people living with AIDS, always end well ...
I was, for a second, about to play - it's fourth floor, but gave herself ...
Never talked to her. It seems to me to this day completely absurd that a healthcare professional could be so insensitive ...