Johannesburg, Morningside Hospital, Bed 6 in the ICU ward on the ground floor, at 10:25 on a Saturday morning in early February. My husband Glen has been admitted after contracting a very rare form of meningitis — fungal meningitis — and a TB infection.

NEUROLOGIST: (matter-of-factly) So, when did he start taking the Atripla?
ME: (with a puzzled frown on my face) Which one is that now?
GLEN: (interjecting) Eh, since 2017. Yah 2017. (He steals a glance at me nervously. I pretend not to notice).
NEUROLOGIST: Okay, 2017… (mumbling, then continues writing her notes by the cabinet at the foot of the hospital bed).

Right from that moment I could tell something was amiss. “What the hell is Atripla?” For the rest of the day, I couldn’t get that word out of my mind. As far as I was aware, I knew all of Glen’s chronic medication. Galvus Met, Exforge and so on— I was quite familiar with it all. He’d been on it for years.

When in doubt, Google it! So naturally, as soon as I got home, late that evening from the hospital, I did just that.

And that’s how I found out that my husband was HIV positive.

Holy smoke.

Naturally, what usually follows after such a mammoth revelation is inconsolable tears and untold sorrow. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportion. Disappointingly, for those who love a good show, the scene played out quite differently in my case. Things didn’t quite climax to a “woe is me” tear-jerker of a love-story.

I didn’t flip out. I wasn’t devastated, nor did I feel like I was about lose my mind. None of the emotions you’d expect that a “poor woman” in my situation would go through. Then again, some who know me have often accused me of having quite a lukewarm persona.

But what if I told you the real reason behind my nonchalant reaction? It’s a secret I’ve kept inside me from the moment I met Glen nine years ago.

Well, here goes: deep down in my heart and mind, I already knew it. We shacked up almost immediately after meeting each other. We lived in sin for six years and as a married couple for three. Throughout that time the signs were always there. I’d always suspected that Glen was positive, but I just couldn’t confirm it.

For instance, I would ask myself why he still insisted on using condoms after all these years, even after marriage. Why he would always wriggle his way out of conversations about children and blood tests. Then lately there was the TB and meningitis — as the cool kids say on social media, “if you know, you know”.

Thanks to the neurologist’s slip-up, in a moment of complete and utter negligence, she’d unwittingly leaked a piece of highly confidential patient information. In a strange twist of fate, it was the confirmation I’d been searching for all these years. Hmm, the devil must have been working hard in my favour that day.

Getting to the truth after years of probing and digging was such a liberating feeling. I wasn’t mad at Glen for keeping his HIV status from me all these years. I was slightly hurt though, that he hadn’t had enough trust in me to let me in on his secret.

With a newly peaked interest on the subject of HIV/AIDS, I started to understand why someone in Glen’s shoes would opt for his right to remain silent. As the saying goes, the more you learn, the less you know. With freshly acquired information, I started questioning my previous beliefs about the condition and the people living with it. I’ve developed mixed feelings on certain issues, like disclosure for example. I’d always thought of disclosure as something that could only be of benefit to a sufferer. A burden shared is a burden halved — or so my dimwitted smart-ass used to think. Today, I’m more realistic about the notion that being branded as HIV+, remains a symbol of shame. Hell, nowadays, even I go out of my way to maintain the secret! Each day I amaze myself at how consistently and impeccably I’ve managed to keep up the lie about Glen’s illness being due to a hospital bug he picked up after being admitted for a minor ailment. Very creative, if I may say so myself. So proud of myself!

I’ve found it impossible to share with people the truth, that Glen has TB and meningitis, out of fear that anyone’s who’s sharp enough could put two and two together, then the secret would be out. Sometimes I wonder if it’s out of my own unacknowledged feelings of shame and embarrassment, or if it’s really out of my concern for his privacy. To be honest it’s a bit of both, but more so, the latter. Even with all the opportunistic infections, the real reason why Glen is sick is because he has the virus. That’s the bottom line.

We’ve had some brutal conversations about the impact his condition is going to have on our lives: “Why didn’t you tell me …” “What about children? How are we ever going to have any …” – Yes, we’ve lashed it all out.

One more thing I’d like to say though, while I still have the opportunity, before anything should happen to either one of us, is this:

Dear Glen
I knew it when we met. I loved you then and love you still.

I understand. I’ve seen the shame and indignity carried by someone with AIDS because sadly, none of the stigma ever died. Instead it now disguises itself as false solidarity. Once your back is turned, you become the topic of gossip to those who claim to empathize. Why would you ever want to disclose?

I’ve seen the fear in someone with AIDS. “I’m scared of dying” you told me once, with hopeless tears in your eyes. It was one of our bad days, when it seemed like the life was truly fading out of you.

I’ve watched you transform from a strong and healthy fitness fanatic who used to be full of optimism, to an emaciated heap of depression and desperation. “Why me” you asked me once. I still don’t have an answer for you.

Through this journey I’ve learnt some lasting lessons. I’ve learnt that it’s okay to fall apart, but that you should never give up. You taught me that.

More than anything, I’ve had the opportunity to discover my own capacity to love. I’ve discovered that behind this stony exterior is a love so profound, it cannot be corroded by shame. A love whose journey continues through the hurdles and the hardships. You’ve shown me that I have empathy. Enough to extinguish the stigma and judgement.

These are the moments in life that show you what you’re made of. I appreciate the opportunity of self-discovery.

Love always.