Behind the Door by Kola Tubosun

Why I finally decided to take the test, I no longer remember. There was no compulsion beyond the recurring curiosity that was however never strong enough to overpower all reasonable, and unreasonable, resistance. After about a week in and out of the clinic, getting one immunisation or the other, the last thing I wanted on my arm on this day was another needle jab. No desire for the certitude of my wholesomeness was enough to goad me into the ordeal of venipuncture, and my thoughts dangled for years between unexplainable reluctance and indifference. That was until the soft-spoken doctor who had just completed my medical forms on this particular day hinted quite casually as she handed back to me a sheaf of papers that I could take the test if I wanted to, if only for my own records. Most of these medical forms, she explained, mandated the patient to take the test as well, and it was a wonder that mine did not. “And you could do it just behind that door.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing to a closed room. “And you would have the result in less than fifteen minutes.”

I was intrigued. The last time I came to this place, I had searched all around for the test centre and nobody, not even the nurses, had appeared to know where the test takes place. That seemed odd. Those few who volunteered to direct me paid more attention to why I wanted to take the test than to my sense of urgency and exasperation. They looked at me strangely and asked politely whether I was sick, or whether I had been referred by a trained physician. In the end, they still gave me wrong directions, and I left, dissatisfied, but glad at least to have made the effort. Maybe it was a sign that I was right not to have done it all this while. Maybe I didn’t need to know what was in my blood. Maybe ignorance is bliss after all. But the fact that I could know my status within minutes in the closed room with no label except a bold letter “9” written in faint marker intrigued me beyond reason, so I hopped in there. There was someone already in with the phlebotomist when I entered. It was a young man of around my age who was getting pre-test counselling. I couldn’t tell by the look on his face if he was worried. He surely could not have been able to tell from mine.

“Sit down there,” the woman said after we exchanged greetings. She waved me towards one of the iron seats, and then she returned her attention to the other visitor.

She summoned him to come closer, and he did. He got up to sit by her at the lab table. As he folded the arms of his shirt in readiness for a needle insertion into his veins, I got immediately apprehensive. I had never liked needles, or tablets, but of the two, I liked the needles even much less, and I would have done anything to avoid another insertion, about the third in one week. At that moment, my mind wandered off to a public awareness website where I had read about an alternative method of testing that involves using cell scrapings from the lining of the patient’s cheeks rather than their blood. I liked this alternative, and I began to scheme how best to convey my preference to the woman when my turn eventually would come.

But then she spoke to him, “I won’t need your veins, young man”, and I was relieved from afar. “For this, all I need is a little drop of blood from your thumb. Roll down your sleeves and let me have your left hand.”

Even he seemed pleased enough as she went through the quick process of sucking the droplet of blood with a specialized device from the now expanding crimson jot in the middle of his thumb. She placed it immediately on a strip of coloured cardboard slide on the table right in front of her, and said to him: “All we have to do now is wait. Why don’t you sit outside for a little while?”

He got up and wiped his thumb with a piece of cotton wool while we exchanged a stoic glance for the fraction of a second, just before he left the room.

“You may come now,” she said to me, smiling. “Sit here.”

“Thank you,” I replied and sat down.

She pulled out a long notebook where she had written some information about the previous lad and started to copy out some of my personal information from the little crimson paper that I presented to her, which I had got from the nurses sitting by the reception tables outside.

“So you came here to do the test…”

“Yes, of course. I’ve always wanted to do the test. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Of course, young man. Of course.”

I told myself that she was right. There was nothing wrong with me.

“I’m sure you call it Voluntary Testing.”

She smiled. “Yes”

I looked around as she wrote, wondering what it must be like to work as a hospital phlebotomist, with the distinction of being able to break both the good and the bad news to numerous visitors. On one of the walls is an enlightening campaign poster about the ills of living a reckless life.

She took another look at me and I smiled back, a little uneasily, not being able to tell what she was thinking until she asked quite amiably if I was indeed ready to take the test. She’s a specialist at this, I figured, and she must have been told never to proceed without being sure of the visitor’s absolute consent.

“Yes, of course,” I said, showing little surprise. I had come by myself after all, well prepared to be asked all sorts of questions. “I’m sure,” I continued, “I was here yesterday, looking for this room, but it seemed either that you closed very early, or that there was no one in when I came to the door.”

She ignored my last statement and continued, “What do you know about the virus and disease, young man, anyway?”

“I know everything,” I said, and she looked up.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Betraying no further interest in my ramblings beyond the usual humouring necessary to grant such a conceited response, she smiled. Maybe she saw through the shield, and saw in my straight face a barely disguised defence mechanism against a sad unexpected news, or maybe she was just in the mood to indulge in a little mischief of her own. She put the pen down and said: “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

I knew this for sure, that it could be contacted through sex, and anything that involved blood transfusion, be it a wrong pin prick, a razor wound, a clipper, or things like that. I listed them one after the other, and wondered aloud if there were other points that I was already forgetting.

“Okay, so you know, it seems.”

“Ah-ha,” I continued, “I also know that it has no cure.”

“It can be managed,” she replied.

“That’s what they say.”

“That’s what they say?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “I mean that’s what we hear everywhere these days.”

She smiled, but I was curious. So I asked: “What if someone who tests positive begins to take the drugs, how long would they really have to live from then on?”

“That is not a question I could answer,” she said. “You know, it depends on a lot of things. I mean if someone who is positive gets into a car now, and then has a fatal accident, and dies, would that be the fault of the virus?”

“Of course not, but I’m sure you understand my question.”

“Well, the point I’m making is that the drugs we have now could keep infected people in normal health for as long as they take the drugs correctly and consistently.”

“And the drugs are free?”

“Yes, they are, as is this test. Do you have any more questions?”

I shook my head, although there were many things going on in there at the moment, none of which could immediately manifest as a sensible statement of more than just a tactic of delay.

“So, you are ready for the test then?”

I didn’t know if I was, but I said “Yes.”

A little fly buzzed by and I ignored it.

“What if it turned out that you are positive of the virus? What would happen then? Have you thought about it?”

“Well, if that happens do tell me. I think I can take it.”

“Are you a Christian or a Muslim?”

“What?”

“Which one of them are you?”

Was she trying to confirm that I had sufficient religious background to receive the worst possible outcome? I paused for a second before I said “I’m none of the above.”

“No, seriously,” she said. “I have to fill something in this space.”

“Okay, just write Christian there then. I don’t know what being religious has to do with one’s will to live or die. In any case, Islam and Christianity are not the only religions in this country.”

“Student or worker?”

“This time I have to say both.”

A pause.

“Give me just one.”

“But I really am both. I am a university student, but I also work.”

“Okay then. Come with me.”

I followed her to the lab table and was going to ask her whether she had done the test on herself before, but I decided against it, convinced that she must have, at some point.

“What happens when one tests positive? Do you know?”

The words came out of me by themselves, but her response confirmed that she had heard it many times before. “Well, mostly we will just ask you first to do a few more tests to confirm that it is really the virus, before we know what to do next.”

“So you are telling me that it’s possible that this test shows positive and the other test shows negative?”

Her “yes” came in a firm tone that now got me uneasy. “It has happened before, you know. Sometimes there are some other infections that may manifest themselves on this test, and may not in fact be the virus.”

I was surprised, but more than that I was now scared. I thought back on my life and my confidence wavered. Her latest disclosure was now leading me to consider the possibility and consequences of being wrongly diagnosed. Who would believe me? I did not like where my riotous thoughts quickly went.

“Let me ask you a last question,” I said, after a short pause.

“Alright.”

“What is the rate of infection in this part of the country?”

“Well, it depends on the organization that did the statistics.”

“No. I mean in your hospital. You do this every day, right?”

“Yes.”

“Like how many people, on the average, come here for testing every day?”

“About twelve.”

“Okay. Now about how many of them test positive?”

“I would say about two.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She said firmly.

Oh my God!

“Don’t look surprised. The infection is actually prevalent. With every ten tests I perform, there’s usually one positive person, at least. That is why we encourage people to come out and test themselves so that they can be treated on time. There are actually more infected people roaming the streets than we know.”

I did not smile.

“So how many tests have you conducted today?” I asked.

She was busy writing on the notebook, so she gave no response. The statistics are not in my favour if all the people she had tested today were already negative, I thought. I could be the scapegoat. Oh wait, mathematics doesn’t work that way. Today may be the exception. Or in any case, the day is still too young for despair. The real unfortunate fella may be walking in very soon to receive his news. It is not for me. But even if this woman had already registered three positive people in her inglorious notebook today, is there anything in the world of random figures says that I can’t be another one. Damn, I should have spent more time in the arithmetic classes.

She gave me a wad of cotton wool on one hand, and in a quick movement of a professional punctured my right thumb with the little pin before I could scream for her to stop. She smiled assuredly, and proceeded to transfer the drop of my blood onto the little testing strip of cardboard resting on the table.

“Why don’t you go wait outside?”

“For how long?”

“Well, for just for a few minutes until the result shows on the strip.”

She picked it up, and I saw her apply a drop of some clear transparent liquid to the blood from something similar to an eye dropper, before replacing the strip on the table. I wiped the blood off my thumb and headed towards the door.

“Please call the other guy to come back in.”

“Okay.”

I turned back to peep at the little strip of paper that held the other guy’s blood and tried in vain to decipher what each of the colours meant that had now formed on the strip. I discovered nothing, so I headed out, found the young man and told him he was wanted inside.

A few minutes on the hospital bench in the corridor were the longest ones of my life. They were few, but they contained a range of similar thoughts of gloom that circled my throbbing head like vultures around a dying desert traveller. I panicked. And suddenly, the random glances towards me by passers-by began to carry a previously undiscovered curious significance. How could I have failed to notice that the woman in red shoes giggled for a few seconds before she turned the corner, or that the little boy beside her pointed in my direction and said something to his mother? Random images of a gruesome death competed with my beating heart as twin punches of a ruthless fighter on the fighting ring of my recurring memory, and all my past and future goals were instantly reduced to the now suddenly loud tickling hands of the hospital clock: mis-takes-o-mis-sions-care-less-ness-es-ad-ven-tures-in-dare-de-vil-ry, a grand conspiracy.

Then out of the blue it was my turn to go back in. The young man had gotten his result written on a crimson coloured sheet of paper, and his face retained its staid, unrevealing demeanour. I peeped into the sheet he was holding, but I couldn’t pick out a word out of his result as much as I tried.

As I closed the door behind me and saw the woman smiling, my heart skipped a beat.

“I hope I passed.” I said, softly.

“Let me have your phone number,” she replied.

It didn’t sound like a good sign, but I gave it to her.

“So, what is it then?”

“Don’t be too impatient, young man. That is the kind of attitude that might get you into trouble.”

“Oh my! I really need you to stop scaring me now,” I said, my heartbeat gradually increasing with every new word spoken.

She would not. Instead, she told me this story, deepening an already killing suspense: “There was this man that once came here, a long time ago, who, before the test, confessed to having lived a very rough life, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“But when I gave him the result of his test, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He didn’t believe that he could ever be tested negative. He had to look at the result again and again just to be sure.”

“I feel better already,” I quipped, and she giggled at my attempted sarcasm. In her eyes was incredulity, and a certain firmness that could only have meant seriousness.

“Is there something you are trying to tell me?” I asked, in a voice now slightly raised, then later in a far gentler tone, “I know that I can’t be tested positive, but I just wanted to be sure. Your story is definitely not helping. So what is it?”

“Well, it’s all there," she said, pointing at the crimson sheet of paper on which she then began to write, smiling, "But you may have to come back in six month’s time, you know. It takes that long for the virus to show up on our tests. Thus, if you were infected during the last six month the result would still be negative today.”

“That’s encouraging,” I thought aloud, and she smiled back at me. “So one is thusly never truly free of the paranoia of the unexpected, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Well, the best thing would be to begin to live free of needless risk.” And partly cajoling, she said, “You young children of nowadays should at least consider your parents before you take your stupid risks. If you don’t consider your lives, you should at least consider theirs.”

I laughed. Her tone sounded quite familiar. I looked at her again and I knew that she must be a mother herself. At around her late thirties, she looked like someone with at least one child by now nearing puberty. She must live in the recurring worry of one day having to live with the choices her children would make.

“I’m going to put this in a frame, and hang it on my wall.” I said finally, without waiting for her response which I bet would have been a controlled laughter. I picked up the sheet of paper and mumbled a hurried “Thank you”, while resisting the strong urge to jump and scream.

My curiosity was then immediately aroused, not as much for my own result as for the young man who had just gone before. By now, he would already be out of the hospital, yet I wanted to run and catch up with him to ask all the questions in my head. I delayed however, wondering how easy it would be now to start up a conversation on the subject of his test without being at least a little improper. As I looked at the crimson sheet on which she had written the hyphenated words of the result – “non-reactive”, I knew that I had been given a new blank slate without the strings of a thanksgiving church service that my mother would have recommended, had she known what I had just gone though. I had been reborn, no doubt about it. I threw away in the nearby thrash bin the stained blob of cotton I had used to wipe the drop of blood off from my thumb, and then hopped again this time out of the charming Room Nine. I was just a few steps into the long corridors of the hospital ward when I found him, the young man. He was sobbing gently behind the door.

Behind the Door was written by Kola Tubosun.

Copyright Kola Tubosun 2009.

More Kola Tubosun