Breaking the Surface (25 page)

Testing positive meant not being able to compete. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I might test positive and still go to the Olympics.

If I was negative, I’d go home for a while to take care of Tom, and then once he was better, I’d go back to Florida and continue with my training. The test would be out of the way, and I could go on without that worry in the back of my mind. But in my gut I knew I was positive. This was before Tom went into the hospital, but deep down I knew from the shingles and breathing difficulty that Tom had it. And if he was infected, I probably was. I already knew my ex-lover was infected, so that increased the odds.

When John came back into the examining room, I told him to do the test. I knew I had to take it, and I felt comfortable and confident that I could trust him to do it.

Before John drew my blood, he explained that he could draw just enough to do the test, but that if I came back positive, I would have to have more blood drawn to determine my T-cell count. The number of T cells you have is an indicator of how far the disease has progressed. Or, he said, he could draw enough blood to do both tests. I told him to draw enough for as many tests as there needed to be. He drew my blood and shipped it off.

So when Tom called me from the hospital to tell me that they were testing him for HIV, I said, “Funny you should mention that, because I just had my HIV test today as well.”

We hadn’t planned it that way, but it turned out that Tom and I were tested on the same day. Tom got his results back first. He wasn’t just positive. He had PCP—pneumocystis carinii pneumonia—which is a very serious kind of pneumonia that people with AIDS get. We cried on the phone. I wanted to be with him. This was not the kind of conversation you want to have on the phone. My first reaction was to feel guilty for not being there. In my mind I was blaming myself: What if
I’d
given this to him? What if I had made him sick? I didn’t know he’d been hustling. All I knew was that my ex-lover Kevin was HIV-positive and now my current lover had it. And for all I knew, the test would come back saying I had it too.

I asked Tom if he wanted me to come home for a while. He said, “No. Stay in Florida, I don’t want you changing your plans. I want you to stay focused on your diving.” He was very upset and crying and said, “Please don’t quit. My biggest fear is that you’ll leave your diving, and then I’ll feel like a burden.” He told me I had to be strong, that we had worked so hard to get to the ’88 Olympics, that I hadn’t yet reached my full potential, and that we couldn’t give up now. He said, “I don’t want to bring you down. I worked so damn hard for everything, for our future, and…” but he was crying too hard to go on.

Once Tom stopped crying, he made me promise that I would stay in Florida and continue to train. I told him that he had to be strong and get better, that there was time to decide what I would do. I told him that it all depended on my test results.

Then Tom brought up Ryan White. He said, “Well, Ryan’s still fighting this, so I can fight it, too.”

My doctor didn’t want me diving because of the ear infection, so I had a few days with a lot of time on my hands to contemplate what I was going to do. I ran through all kinds of scenarios. If I was just positive and my T cells were close to normal or okay, then maybe I’d continue training while I remained asymptomatic. But then what about my obligation to Tom? We had always said that we’d be there for each other, and with him in the hospital, I wasn’t meeting my commitment. But Tom wanted me to stay in Florida and train.

If I was positive and my T cells were low, the question was: How long did I have to live?

One thing I didn’t have any doubt about was keeping the whole thing secret. This was no one’s business. Tom’s attitude had always been that certain things were kept between just the two of us. In this case, our doctors had to know, but that was it. I wouldn’t tell my family or my coach. Of course, the press couldn’t know. Whatever I did, it was my business and I didn’t have to offer anyone any explanations. I couldn’t even begin to contemplate my conflicting responsibilities to the members of my team, the other athletes, the public, the Olympic Committee. The issues were so complicated that I still don’t know how to think of what I did. I imagine some people will think I was irresponsible and others may think I was heroic. All I know is, at times of crisis like that, you just do what you think is best.

During the days between when I was tested and when I got the results, I spent some of my time working out, lifting weights and taking aerobics classes. So far, it was just an ear infection, so the only thing I couldn’t do was get in the pool. One of those days I didn’t get out of bed. I pulled the covers over my head, not wanting to deal with anything, like I used to do when I was depressed.

John called me up at home and said, “I’ve got your test results. How about if I come by your place after I make rounds?” I said, “Fine.” There was nothing in his voice that led me to think this was good or bad news. Nevertheless, I knew.

When John came to the door, I invited him inside. At the time, I was living in a two-bedroom town house that was provided to me while I was training. I had MTV on the television and turned down the volume as we sat down.

We started with some informal chitchat, but I didn’t let too much time pass, because I wanted to know. I said, “Well, what are the results?” He said, “It’s positive.” And that was it. I nodded my head. I felt strangely calm. He had just confirmed what I already knew. In a way, it was a relief. But what came next was a shock: my T cells were 256. I didn’t know what normal was, so I asked. He said that people typically have about a thousand T cells, although the normal range is from six hundred to twelve hundred. According to the latest Centers for Disease Control definition of AIDS, when your T-cell count falls to under two hundred, you’re considered to have full-blown AIDS. John told me that he wanted to draw more blood to run some tests to see how much of the virus I had in my system. He told me that he wanted to “treat this very aggressively.”

All I could do was nod my head, because by this time I could hardly hear anything except the pounding of my heart.

T
HE LOW
T-
CELL COUNT
was pretty crushing news, because I figured it meant giving up the Olympics. As soon as I could manage to get the words out, I asked John what he thought I should do. He surprised me and said there wasn’t any reason why I couldn’t continue training for the Olympics. He thought that staying in shape would be good for me and that I posed no threat to the other divers. I just had to be careful, and I had to take care of myself. He also wanted me to talk to a nutritionist about my diet, to help keep my immune system strong during training.

Before he left, John and I talked about some of the treatment options, like AZT, and also a drug called Bactrim, which is used to prevent the development of the pneumonia Tom had. He told me that once I was on the various medications, he wanted me to think of my treatment as part of my training program. It didn’t have to overwhelm my life. I just had to take my medication and take care of myself.

On his way out, John was very considerate and said the appropriate things, that he was sorry and that this was a tough challenge. He gave me a hug and left. I called Tom to tell him the news, but I didn’t tell him about my T cells because I thought, as always, that he was the one who needed
my
support. He was the one who was sick, and I had to encourage him to take care of himself and get well. I could have used some moral support, too, but I never asked him for it and he didn’t offer it.

The only other person I called was my attorney in California, Debbie Shon. Debbie was more than my attorney. She was also a friend and something of a big sister. She’s also Dr. Lee’s niece, which is how I met her. I’d spoken to Debbie briefly after I’d had my blood drawn for the test. I told her all about Tom, and she said that if I were positive, she’d talk to the people she knew at the National Institutes of Health to find out what drug-trial programs I’d be eligible for. One of my concerns was handling the cost of the various medications. I knew that AZT was pretty standard treatment, and it was incredibly expensive. I had health insurance but, like other people who are afraid of having their HIV status revealed, I couldn’t use it because of the danger that someone would leak the news that I was on AZT. So whatever my doctor put me on was going to be an out-of-pocket expense. In fact, I’ve paid for most of my medical expenses related to HIV since then, such as tests, Xrays, and medications. I wonder how many people have been through the same thing because they’re afraid of being found out. I’ve been very lucky, however, because both John and my doctor in California, Kathy Shon (Debbie’s sister), have never charged me for their professional services. I’m grateful to them for their generosity.

Shortly after I was diagnosed, Debbie flew in from California to meet with John and me. She was incredibly supportive and was quick to remind me how many people cared about and loved me. I told her how scared I was, and she held me. As soon as I put my head on her shoulder, I started sobbing.

When I finally stopped, Debbie made me promise her that I would call her whenever I needed to talk to someone. She warned me that I’d feel like I was on an island all by myself, with no one around for miles. She said, “Call me at any time of day or night from anywhere.”

Debbie made me feel like we were a team working together to get me to the Olympics. John was responsible for taking care of the medical side. Debbie was making sure that Tom was well taken care of, and Ron took care of the coaching. I had to take care of myself and focus on my diving.

Debbie was great, because in no time she helped me apply to the appropriate drug-trial programs, and fortunately, I was accepted.

I hadn’t yet told Ron that I was HIV-positive. John had wanted me to tell Ron right away, but I was afraid that if he knew my health status, he would take it easy on me. This was a time when I really needed him to push me. The Olympics were only a few months away. I didn’t want him making allowances because of my health.

I also thought that telling Ron I was HIV-positive would be a burden. This may sound dumb, but anyone I told had to keep this an absolute secret. I was sure that if it ever got out to the press, it would be a major scandal. I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to go to the Olympics. I wasn’t even certain I’d be allowed into Korea, where the Olympics were being held. The U.S. Olympic Committee and the International Olympic Committee hadn’t yet addressed the issue, and they still haven’t.

At the time, no major athlete had ever come out about being HIV-positive, so there was no way to know how it would be handled by the Olympic officials or what the reaction of the other athletes would be. People were still pretty ignorant about AIDS in 1988. People are still pretty ignorant now, in 1995.

It turned out to be impossible to hide everything from Ron, because I had trouble holding it together all on my own. I lost it at a workout one particularly cold and windy morning. The girls on the team were bitching and moaning about how they couldn’t believe they had to dive on such an awful morning. I wanted to scream at my teammates. With as much anger as I think I ever expressed in my life, I told them to be thankful for their health and to stop bitching and moaning, because they had nothing to bitch and moan about.

Here they were moaning and groaning about the weather, and Tom was in the hospital. He might die. I’ve just found out that I’m HIV-positive and I’m wondering how soon before I’m going to get sick.

I was furious, but it wasn’t just at my teammates. I was furious with myself for not going home to take care of Tom. I was furious at the world for my being HIV-positive. It’s not my nature to wonder “Why me?” but after all the challenges I’d faced and tried to overcome in my life, I felt overwhelmed and beaten down. There was just so much one person could take.

Ron could tell something was up, because when I’m angry I usually take it out on myself. It’s very rare for me to lash out at someone else that way. Ron pulled me into his office and asked what was up. I couldn’t pretend that everything was okay, so I told him that Tom was in the hospital with pneumonia, that Tom had AIDS.

Ron wasn’t really shocked. He’d known about Tom’s shingles and his lung problems, so he already suspected that Tom had AIDS. Then he asked me how I was doing. I tried to speak but started to cry instead. Ron came around his desk to where I was sitting and he held me, like he always did.

I calmed down and told Ron that I was okay. I could tell he was relieved. I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth about my HIV status for another month. I told him that with so much to worry about, it had gotten to be too much being around the other divers complaining about the weather.

Ron was genuinely sympathetic about Tom. I know he didn’t care much for Tom, but Ron knew how important Tom was to me, and he could see that I was devastated.

Over the next few weeks, I continued with my training routine as if nothing were wrong, but something wasn’t right. I was constantly tired and had no energy. Back in ’84 I was always up for going out after practice, but now after a workout, all I wanted was to take a nap.