Unsubscribe Me, You Heartless Androids

On various blogs, I've seen women write about being flooded with baby-related coupons soon after a miscarriage or stillbirth, and I've cheered when some of those women sent a cathartic reply. No-one has added insult to my injury in that way yet … although who knows? It could still happen. There are a few days left until what would have been my due date.

No, I get a different type of "you've got to be kidding me" mail. They're glossy ads from a certain hospital—the hospital where I went after my HIV exposure three years ago. Yes, the anniversary is this week. This is a month with a lot of memories.

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Three years ago, my partner and I had just learned about his positive HIV test from our RE, and I was—to put it mildly—EXTREMELY UPSET. But I was still practical enough to sit down, get online, and (frantically) research what to do next. What a relief to find out that there WAS something I could do!

If someone who's been exposed to HIV seeks treatment with 72 hours, he/she can start a course of antiretroviral drugs known as post-exposure prophylaxis (PEP). They're typically given to medical workers who've had a single incident, like an accidental jab from a used needle. This treatment isn't fast or easy; it takes four weeks, and the side effects can be brutal. Also, there's no guarantee. Infection can still occur, although the rate of infection after PEP drops by close to 80%.

However, there's some controversy about using PEP for exposures that occur outside the workplace. There are concerns about encouraging "unsafe behavior." In other words, if people get the wrong impression that they can just pop a morning-after pill for HIV, they may tend to be less careful.

OK, that MAY be a valid concern, but it's not really relevant here. Mine likely was a single (sort of) and relatively serious exposure, since we spent the whole weekend trying to make babies. We'd timed the visit carefully to coincide with ovulation. It was also the first time we'd seen each other in a month or two. (We were in the process of moving and lived in different states at the time.)

After a year of visiting infertility docs, I was used to unpleasant medical treatments. And now I was informed about PEP, pros and cons. So YES, bring it on! I was still within that precious 72-hour window. But doctors weren't returning my phone calls, so I ended up in the ER.

Where they totally dismissed me. I explained the situation. I argued (with all the civility and logic I could manage). I BEGGED. But no, it was "hospital policy" to reserve PEP for workplace exposures, they said robotically. I couldn't believe it. This was MY body and MY money (I was paying cash) that we were talking about, and I could hear the clock ticking closer to the deadline with each second that passed.

Not only would they not consider letting me make this decision for myself, but they were totally callous about it. They wouldn't refer me to another facility that might help. To top it all off, Dr. Robot told me something untrue that managed to freak me out even worse. He stressed that I'd have to wait a full year to learn my HIV status for sure. Wrong. In fact, I got definitive results—negative—from a viral-load test two weeks later. On Friday the 13th, by the way. It is now my lucky day. I really should play the lottery on Friday the 13th.

Anyway, there was one member of the ER staff who was human. One nurse took a moment to remind me that Magic Johnson has been HIV positive for 20 years now without progressing to AIDS, that it's not the death sentence it used to be. It was a 60-second interaction. It was also the lifeline that helped me to leave there that night with my sanity intact.

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A few months later, when the dust had settled, when it was time to get my mind off my own problems and feel useful in some way (since all of my other goals had just collapsed), I filled out a volunteer application at that same hospital. I offered to help shepherd patients through the ER, a function their website said was needed. And hadn't I seen for myself just exactly how much it was needed? Going back there wouldn't be easy. But neither was shutting myself off at home with traumatic memories. Might as well try to replace them with something better.

Nobody contacted me. I'm sure it was nothing personal. In the context of a hospital ER, whatever scene I made that night was nowhere near enough to make my name live in infamy for months afterward. I figured the volunteer coordinators were just busy, or had lost my form, so I gave them a call to follow up. They never did bother to call back.

But boy did they sure manage to add my contact info to their marketing list! Now every few months, just when that awful memory starts to fade a bit, the mailman drops off a helpful reminder about their world-class standards for patient care, blah blah blah. At first I just threw these ads in the trash with a snort of disgust, but since they have the nerve to keep on coming, it may be time to contemplate some kind of reply…