Racing for my life
I’m only 30. As I envision myself standing on the lane three starting line I feel a bit older than that. I’ve been living with HIV for what feels to be quite a considerable amount of time. It was discovered at such an early age that pinpointing my breakthrough moment—the moment of triumph over my condition—seems more challenging than a sprinter winning the New York City Half Marathon on his first try. I’d say that gray area is due in large part to my condition and my passion for running being symbiotic. It may seem unusual that something as profound as running could complement a medical condition, so I'll tell you more about that.
In my sophomore year of high school, I remember collapsing under a fog of uncertainty as I hobbled out of my trainer’s office, clinging to the bags of ice that were nursing my knees. My friend Brittany had invited me to join the track & field team, and within week one my first injury was already wrapped and ready with a red ribbon. Despite the cold and solid evidence surrounding my medial collateral ligaments, I wasn’t entirely convinced that this single occurrence had put me in an unfavorable position. Even before officially becoming a runner I had adopted the trademark reaction of subconsciously downplaying the severity of injury-related symptoms. That denial didn’t last long. A series of questions ran through my mind: What did I do to deserve this? How could this have happened? What did I do wrong? This was my first time, so why me? These same questions reintroduced themselves when I was presented with another life-changing event following closely behind this one. I sifted through the haze of my ambiguity with the ice nursing my knees, only to discover the truth in that moment of whatever I could become was my choice. My injury was the start of a new journey, and it was this path which led to my clarity the moment I was diagnosed with HIV years later.
The sense of belonging and community came first. The only thing better than finding the perfect pair of running shoes is having the right team to help you break them in. Running was something I could have done by myself, so I didn’t need to join the track team. But, there was something special about having my own lane in the 400-meter hurdles and listening as my comrades cheered me on from the sidelines. My own lane meant that clearing each obstacle was something I had to do on my own but I always had the support of my team. Ten years, in actual time, may not seem like much to some; but in my mind time reposed in aberrant repositories. The passing of one decade took on a manner of rare meaning in the form of clearing ten hurdles in a race. I age as a move along, and although the hurdles may appear to be the same, I am challenged with giving my all each time as I grow more tired toward the end. HIV and aging, as long-term survivors will attest to, are both associated with depression and isolation. Some living with the virus risk becoming more isolated as they age, which can elevate the potency of their condition and aggravate the other maladies that we recognize as opportunistic infections. So clearing the first hurdle is very important! It sets the tone for how the rest of the race will play out. The sense of community, before my diagnosis, eventually grew from depending on my comrades to fuel my passion into a deeper understanding of who I was at the core. I knew that the power I had came from the connection I had with running–the longest relationship I’ve had with any activity.
Sure, I felt like my body was a vessel to anchor unstoppable energies, but it also doubled as a host to a virus that was just as ambitious. I kept running and the virus never stopped working. But, as a runner, I’ve learned to live my life in what we call negative splits, a term used to describe running the second part of a race faster than the first. Runners gain the potential to accomplish negative splits when they break through a certain threshold of pain. As a result of my already being well-adapted to work intensely for long stretches of time, I was equipped with the psychological and physical endurance that one gets from changing his pain response. Because runners have a higher threshold of pain, by the time HIV came into my life, it was seen as just another hurdle to clear. My response to pain disrupted the agenda of the virus to the point where my negative splits were illustrated through living each day better than the last. That worked out well . . . even when things took an unexpected turn.
Being diagnosed with HIV didn’t mean there was no longer any need for me to take care of myself physically and emotionally. As I said before, I felt unstoppable. And so did the virus. When I graduated college I was fresh out of physical hurdles to overcome. However, from overcoming internal hurdles, such as hate, regret, fear, doubt, and mild depression, to medical hurdles, such as HPV, anal warts, gonorrhea, and even the simultaneous extraction of all four wisdom teeth and a fifth tooth to avoid infection, I also became vulnerable from the stress brought on from the growing demand of increasing adult responsibilities. That’s when the virus unleashed the results of its own training and created negative splits in the form of night sweats, loss of appetite, weight loss, and overall physical weakness. Frankly, I would have preferred blisters, bonking, and other running maladies over those things. My running background encouraged me to establish unrealistic expectations for myself to the point where trying to prove my body’s worth was, ironically, the opposite of taking good care of it. The virus was growing in strength and my power was waning. Cue dramatic music! But I was prepared for this.
Every runner knows there’s always one last kick in ’em at the end of a race. My mental muscle memory was my kick. My mental prowess was the spec of hope at the bottom of Pandora’s box. I thought back to my first week on the track team when my knees gave out and I chose to continue my pursuit anyway. With no one to take me to the doctor and my body on the cusp of advancing from HIV to AIDS, I rose to my feet with the last ounce of strength I had in me, as though I were determined to cross the finish line with a personal best, and managed to recruit the aid of antiretroviral therapy (ART). My emotions had more calluses than my feet, but I refused to give up on myself, as I didn’t in the beginning. Along with running being an outlet to earn my right to live, I felt like my running mastery gave me the authority over my condition to make it happen. We run races counterclockwise, which meant that each time I placed one foot in front of the other I felt I was turning back the clock just enough to reclaim the power over my life.
So I guess it was actually the mental toughness that came first. The moment we are presented with a life-changer and we make the choice to rise above it, we are setting the tone for what’s to come. I was determined to recover from the effects of the virus because I desperately wanted to run again. Running was the only constant and normality which existed for me. Running was the one thing I was sure of that would give me in return what I put into it. My body changing in that moment, or even becoming dependent on a drug, wasn’t a shock to me, because prior to my diagnosis, when I first started running, I had no idea what normal was for my body. My baseline was characterized by the way I thought, trained, and thrived. In fact, my system’s equilibrium was shifting so much that I’m surprised the HIV was able to catch up. I guess that’s why it took five years!
Working to become a runner and fighting to stay one empowers me to face the stigma of HIV head on. In a novel way, my race against HIV not only encourages me to be grateful for my running, but it challenges me to get the most out of it. Running is something remarkable that I was able to acquire before my diagnosis; therefore, each stride reminds me that I am worthy and capable of having a fulfilling life in a healthy body. Each day is a breakthrough moment; a triumph over my condition, with gold being my official color of excellence in the life-long competition for my health.