I had a post about how if your weekend’s worst moments were wondering if the tide would strand you on the idyllic secret cove you had hiked down to and wrenching your ankle falling out of a redwood you shouldn’t have been climbing in the first place, then you are doing pretty well for yourself.
But a dear friend, one of my dearest, emailed this morning saying “I need to call you, asap”. This is my most practical friend, one who has never cried wolf. He called me, crying, no wolves in sight. His partner of eight years, dissatisfied with the day-to-day of a long term relationship, has been cheating. This is the second time, so this is perhaps not that much of a shock, and while it does spell the end of their relationship, it is not even the bad news. Somewhere in this jaunt into infidelity was a brush with a virus, long enough to catch hold.
A blood test can ruin a life, tear a relationship to shreds, and put a loved one in a terrible situation. My friend has gone for his blood test already, within hours of them hearing the word ‘positive’. Even if he is clear right now, he will live under a shroud for the next six months, as it can take that long for levels to rise enough to be detected. At best, a harrowing half year amidst the turmoil of beginning a life anew. At worst, maybe not a death sentence, but not so far from it to be able to distinguish.
I introduced them. I only just remembered that.