It was exactly one year ago today when I was laying on my deathbed at my doctor's office. It was then that he gave me the news that not only was I HIV positive, but that my body was being ravaged by the disease and my prognosis was grim since my counts were bottomed out. (I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad.) That same day, my doctor referred me to an infectious disease doctor, and it was then that I started taking my regimen of HIV meds. I vaguely remember being at the specialist's office because I was in and out of consciousness, I was dry-heaving, and I felt like a drunk idiot as I struggled to breathe and stay conscious. My partner reminded me of this one-year mark this morning when we woke up. I was upset for a bit because it felt like he threw it in my face, but then I realized he was asking me to join him in celebrating an extra year of life that I may not have enjoyed without medical intervention. I think I couldn't have gone this far without him, either. It feels like it's been so much longer than a year for so many reasons. But my "counts" aren't bottomed out anymore, I'm not laying here wondering what's wrong with me, and I'm not here throwing myself a pity party, either. Ironically, I'm sick as a dog with the flu, my partner's going through the same thing, and we've got our doctors all on speed dial in case our recoveries take a turn for the worse. I had a fever of 101.1 last night after I got home from the doctor's office and he had given me a "Z-Cam" megadose antibiotic. (It's like those 5-day Z-Paks you get for strep-throat, except this is all condensed into one mega dose.) He also gave me an awesome cough syrup that's got hydrocodone in it – I call it "liquid sleep". Here's to one more year. And then some.