No looking back

I was lying next to her bed, separated only by a patient's locker. When I found out I tested positive, I went crazy. I walked into the ward through the old, sliding iron door. Outside, it said "Virus and Parasitology Department." She was lying there, her husband sitting beside her. I smiled and nodded in greeting. She immediately asked:

- Are you new to the department? Didn't your family come with you?

Family? In this crowded city, people meet and cross paths and hardly recognize each other, so how could there be family? She said that if there's anything she doesn't know or wants to buy or eat, she should just ask her husband to buy it for her.

No sooner had I lain down than a group of doctors, nurses, and interns appeared beside my bed. Everyone was covered in masks and gloves, with pens and paper, diligently taking notes on my answers. My doctor was a PhD holder, and I heard he was very skilled. No matter how serious the illness, no one who came here would be discharged within a few weeks. Hearing that, I felt somewhat reassured. Outside, I still had work and responsibilities to my family. When I learned I was sick, I was terrified thinking about my parents. They would look at me with pity or abandon me in my prolonged physical and mental anguish. Neighbors would gossip or isolate my parents for having such a wayward daughter. The more I thought about it, the more desperate I felt, wanting to give up because living now was no different from dying. These negative thoughts tormented me, as if someone were tying me down, making me yearn to live, to live to fulfill my unfinished dreams.

- Patient Lam, 25 years old, had blood drawn for testing.

The nurse's voice pulled me back to reality as I was still tormented by a jumble of thoughts. Because when I accepted to learn, accepted lying here while they poked and prodded every part of my body, it was also when I accepted a new life when I left here.

***

I arrived two days after her, in relatively good condition, my CD4 count was over 400. In contrast, she arrived exhausted from overwork. Her husband said her CD4 count was only 50 at the time. She was asleep, the drops of medication in the IV drip flowing very slowly. Looking at her personal cabinet, six or seven IV bags were neatly arranged. The beeping of the IV machine in my room and other rooms echoed incessantly. The sounds of people laughing and talking, shouts for help, and even the crying of the girl in the next bed made the hospital atmosphere heavy with anxiety.

The hospital had six wards in total. One ward had about 11 beds for male patients. A regular ward for female patients had only 3 beds. There were two elective wards: one VIP ward and one emergency ward. I was assigned to a regular ward. Opposite was the VIP ward with a TV, air conditioning, and a private toilet. Looking over to the men's ward on the right, it was always bustling. Some beds had to be shared by two or three people. They were all tattooed men, probably some kind of gangsters. I thought to myself.

Occasionally, I would ask her husband to buy me a box of rice, a carton of milk, or some fruit. It gradually became a habit. She and her husband became much closer to me. She said that since we both have the same illness, we should support each other. Because even if people out there knew, who would care?

Besides her main illness, she has blood fungus and intestinal fungus that could potentially affect her brain. My condition is milder, affecting my liver and lungs to some extent; I was discharged after about two weeks of treatment. But she seems much more serious and requires long-term treatment, including scans, ultrasounds, and all sorts of tests. Every day, her husband has to take her to the different departments.

She had so much to confide in. Her life had been full of hardships and cruelties. That's what she said when her husband wasn't there. She had many secrets and anxieties that she couldn't share with anyone. She kept them inside, living through the hustle and bustle of the city, the noise of the factory machinery, and the quiet solitude of her home, day after day, month after month, until she broke down completely and went to the hospital to find out she had a disease. She said that if she were still healthy, she would rush home and cleanse herself, down to every single vein. She even felt disgusted with herself and wanted to get rid of it. But she was too tired! Too exhausted! She no longer had the strength to fight against her thoughts. She thought about her husband, about her two children, so small and innocent, how could they understand? And her husband was so kind, so faithful, and so caring, how could she bear to do that? At this moment, she had to look forward and face the situation. She shouldn't look back! Besides her husband and herself, only her mother knew about her illness. Everyone wants to keep it a secret, but who knows how long they can keep it hidden? She sighed.

"And how did your mother react?" I asked her.

- Mom was shocked, of course. But she's strong and resilient, so she accepted the pain. She didn't abandon us. I'm like her in that respect.

- And what about your husband? How are he and your two children?

- All tests were negative. He accepted it calmly. He even teared up when the results were given. I looked at it and quickly turned away, not daring to look for too long, afraid I was too weak to fight the disease. You should do the same, don't be too weak. The sicker you are, the stronger and more resilient you need to be.

The story was still unfinished when her husband came home. I wanted to hear the reason why that disease had struck her...

***

That night it rained heavily. Gusts of wind whipped through the rustling of the acacia trees. The rain poured down, washing away the stifling heat and dust. The rain lashed against the windowpanes incessantly, threatening to shatter them with just a few gusts of wind. Outside, the sky was pitch black.

She had a high fever, nearly 40 degrees Celsius, causing her whole body to convulse. The nurses and doctors were in a frenzy in the ward. "Transfer patient Diem Kieu to the emergency room! Where's the ventilator? Get a stretcher quickly!" Everyone was busy with their urgent tasks. Just last night she was fine, telling me about her youth. And now...

"My name is Diem Kieu. It's a beautiful name, isn't it? But my fate is unfortunate. Even more unfortunate than the hair on my head. Back then, I even asked my mother why she named me Kieu... Later I found out that the birth certificate was written upside down. My parents named me Kieu Diem. Who would have thought it was fate?" She finished speaking and smiled sadly...

My husband was dazed from lack of sleep and exhaustion, but he still stood outside the emergency room, watching me. The doctor wouldn't let family members in, only calling them if necessary. I told him to go lie down and rest for a while to recover, and I would watch over him. I said I would help with the family call, but he refused. He said that even though we had two children and we were together, he had never left his wife's or child's side when they were sick, especially in such a critical moment. A person's life is unpredictable. The line between life and death is so thin. He had lost both his mother and father, so he understood that moment. He said there are things you shouldn't look back on because they will haunt you for a lifetime. I remained silent, not saying anything. Perhaps his memory held too many unexpected and painful things, and he didn't want them to reappear.

She was in a deep coma for three days. The doctor saw him and told him to take her home. The virus had spread deep into her brain because it was detected late. He was furious, beating his chest. When I heard the news, my heart ached. I rushed to the emergency room. She was gone. I couldn't see her face one last time.

I arrived at her funeral after signing the self-responsibility form upon leaving the hospital. Hidden behind tall buildings, her house was in a narrow alley just wide enough for two motorbikes to pass. The blaring funeral horns couldn't drown out the cries of those present. Her two children sat innocently in their father's lap. They were so young and vulnerable. I lit an incense stick for her and then went to where her husband was sitting. Seeing me, he smiled, but his eyes were red and swollen. I didn't know what to say much, only to advise him to try to overcome his grief and raise their two children properly. They were too young to understand this loss.

***

I have four days left for treatment. I'm the only one left in the ward. My sister's husband came to pack his things and then sat with me for a little while longer. His face still betrayed his sadness.

He told me that three days after the funeral, he dreamt of her. In that dreamlike encounter, she looked at him, crying, told him to take care of the two children, and then asked if he blamed her. "What good would blaming her do now?" he asked. "It's done, even if she did something wrong, I can't blame her. As husband and wife, seeing my wife in pain and being interrogated like this is like rubbing salt in my wound. I can't be that heartless." Then he stood up and started packing his things. "Well, you stay here and get good treatment. When you get better, you must take care of yourself. I'll take her things home, leaving the two children with the neighbors, but I'm still worried. Come visit me sometime."

I sat up and watched him through the iron gate until his weary figure disappeared down the hallway. That night, it suddenly started raining, with thunder and lightning flashing across the sky.

Morning. The nurse came into the room, called my name, returned my belongings, and then went upstairs to complete the discharge procedures. I woke up from my drowsiness. I instinctively looked at the bed next to mine. Outside, light blue clouds drifted lazily by. The sun began to filter through, casting small rays of light into this cold room. I stood for a moment by her bed before turning and leaving. Without looking back.

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^(*)CD4 cells are white blood cells produced as a result of the immune system's response; this test is used for people who have been diagnosed with HIV.