Coming to you live, and 5lbs lighter!!! It may even be more than that now...I haven't weighed myself in a couple of days but I keep getting compliments and my food baby seems to have miscarried.  Maybe it's all the wholesome nutrition and juicing, maybe it’s the fear the Conservative Right has instilled in the uterus of American Women everywhere....either way, I'm less puffy in the pooch.

We are knee deep in chemo and it is kicking my Husband's ass and mine.  Watching him go through this is I'm sure nowhere near as hard as going through it physically like he has to, but it sucks none the less.  He is completely exhausted and hairless and, while his blood counts are so stable it leaves his doctors shocked and smiling, we are still scared.  He has done so well in terms of tolerating the chemo that they've upped his doses each round.  This time it will be upped again and also injected into his spine for extra fun and good measure. It took him a long time to come back to some sense of normality after this last round of chemo.  He has been completely worn out, covered in shingles and running fevers that don't seem to escalate until I'm ready to fall asleep.  Yet, oddly enough, the days he feels his best are the days I force him to drink fresh juice, eat well, and down wheatgrass shots like it's his J.O.B.  I believe -and there has been significant research to support my beliefs - that sugar feeds cancer.  And so for as much as Western Medicine encourages those with cancer to "eat whatever" they want, in my house, sugar, processed foods, and red meat are THE DEVIL.

I love my Husband so much.  It's gross.  If I could hang on him everyday like a baby gorilla, well I would.  So the thought of losing him is incomprehensible.  And the idea that this cancer (which has a high chance of recurrence) will come back one day....well... it ain't happening.  I compromise as best I can.  If he's having an off day and the only thing tickling his fancy is a cheeseburger, well that's what he has.  I try to make healthier options of whatever he's in the mood for.  I lay out very clear boundaries of what is and isn't acceptable if I can't be there to physically show him.  I have made it very clear what the "cancer food rules" are. 

It is for this reason that the blueberry muffins I came to find in my kitchen on Sunday morning sent me into a rage the likes of which he had never seen.  He was feeling good, had a good night’s sleep and was energized and well rested.  I was rushing to get to a yoga class and he was helping me find some breakfast to-go.  "How about these? I got these yesterday" and held up a box of flour, mixed with sugar, mixed with fake blueberries, mixed with sugar.  I snatched them out of his hands, "Are you stupid!?" (the nicest thing to say to your husband with cancer? no. but I wasn't feeling 'nice' ) "No. Why? These aren't good? I thought these were OK."  I looked at him with so much contempt and disgust, I thought he would melt. 

"NO! THESE AREN'T OK!!!!!!!"  I hurled the muffins at his head! "What!?!" he yelled. I stormed out of our kitchen and into the bedroom.  It was time to pull out the big guns.  It was time to lose my shit.  It was time to tell the complete and total truth.

"You have cancer. YOU have a cancer that COMES BACK! I don't know if you're enjoying this....laying around bald and sick but I fucking hate it.  I don't know if you feel like having chemicals poured through your body from time to time but I don't feel like watching you.  If your "plan" is to go through this hell and go back to eating shit and using 99cent soap full of toxic chemicals and just living life like you were before...let me know, I'll start looking for apartments because I didn't sign up to watch you die once every 2 years. I'm just not in the mood.  You're a grown fucking man. Read a label.  I'm exhausted. I can't work, take care of you, read cancer books, write about HIV, go to support groups because you won't and cook vegan meals you won't eat. You've got to help too.  So if all I'm asking of you is that you read a book on eating properly with cancer while you lay in bed all day and you're not up to it, just tell me because I'll start packing."

Yup. That was how it went.  It was mean, it was Oscar Worthy, it was TRUE.  And there we were.  Me, angry and mean. And him. Bald, sick, and crying.  I didn't feel sorry for him.  I felt like maybe he would get it this time.  OK...maybe I felt a little sorry but not too bad.  I knew I had told him what he needed to hear.

We got dressed and brushed our teeth.  By now I had missed my class. I had errands to run and he came with me.  We were silent in the car.  I almost felt like an angry Mom driving her kid to school. We stopped at a local health food store and he came in with me and wandered the aisles.  Moments later he was beside me with a can of low-sodium, organic soup.  "Is this OK?" he held it out for me to inspect.  I put my arms around him and he cried, "I'm sorry. I know you're right. I'm sorry, I just don't think." my heart hurt.  "I'm sorry too. I don't mean to hurt you but it's just a few stupid things that can add up to a better, healthier picture." He nodded his head. There we stood surrounded by apple cider vinegar, and sea salts, hugging and crying.  Exhausted but stronger than ever in our love for one another.

The muffins went in the trash when we got home.  Those fucking muffins.

Firstly, I want to apologize for my lapse in HIV Hilarity.  As many of my 'tweeps' are aware, my Husband was recently diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. So I'm balancing full-time job, writer, HIV, chemo and cancer caregiver.  Sometimes  I'm so busy making sure he is eating the right food, reading the right books, getting enough rest, I forget that I'm also sick.

Twice I've realized, late at night, that I've gone an entire day without taking my own meds. Needless to say, sometimes being funny is the last thing I want to be.  Which is all the more reason why I need to.  So, as I lay here beside my little Lympho-maniac, I wanted to fill you all in 

For me the 'silver lining' of my HIV diagnosis was supposed to be that I would finally be thin with big tits.  I have big tits.  But my weight is always somewhere between 1950's Curvaceous Pin Up, and Pleasantly Plump.  I was looking forward to this "waisting" I had heard so much about ever since the bad news.  Finally...with my collar bones exposed, would I no longer loathe dressing rooms and all of my girlfriends would hate me for eating whatever I want instead of the other way around - because my 'cocktail' would be keeping me alive and keeping the weight off.  I'll admit it was a little ridiculous how excited I was the day we started meds because the glee I felt had nothing to do with our viral loads dropping so much as my waist size. 

Yet, here I am, almost 4 months later and while my VL is undetectable, my thighs are as big as tree trunks.  And my belly pooch has fast-tracked from "food baby"  in to the realm of, "fatty mcfat fat".  I decided to weigh myself last night-because spending 11 hours in the emergency room with my Husband the night before wasn't torture enough- and it's bad, kids!  I'm fat. What's even more annoying is that I have plenty of reasons to take good care of myself and eat salads with a smile on my face; it's just that nothing seems  quite as satisfying.....or comforting, as chocolate cake.  Hot chocolate.  Pasta.   They make me feel safe, warm , and happy, even if it's just for a second.  It's times like these I wish I could get on board with intravenous drugs.  At least heroin would make me skinny.

At this moment in time I feel very much trapped by where my life has taken me.  I love my Husband more than anything but my days with him are covered in a blanket of fear.  Every cough, every move, I am wondering what they mean and what I can do to fix them.  Ever since our HIV diagnosis I've had a physical reaction to disruption of any kind.  My tongue feels like it turns to stone and my entire body feels cold and violently  shakes.  I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm going to live my life permanently in this manifestation of stress.  And that terrifies me.  So I go to McDonalds.

HIV sucks, but for the most part it seems pretty predictable.  Take the drugs, your numbers drop where they need to and go up where they should.  But Cancer is one unpredictable bitch.  I could handle chemo if you could promise, "his hair will fall out and sometimes his stomach may get upset".  But fevers, pulled muscles, the possibility of a mass....this is shit I can't deal with.  And how I wish my  method of coping was to starve myself rather than drown myself in a sea of processed sugar.  I wish I had the energy to walk into my kitchen right now and chop veggies to make juice and write positive affirmations.  Alas, I would much rather sip chocolate milk ,watch Whitney Houston's funeral  five more times, and write my suicide note.  I fantasize daily about just fainting in the middle of a mall so I can have a couple days to myself in the hospital.  I was in a car accident earlier this month and I thought it would buy me some time to relax....instead I felt guilty laying around my house  watching the cancer patient take care of me. 

I couldn't believe it when I spent $40 on diet pills a couple weeks ago.  Especially when the person who sold them to me told me they would make me jittery and I'd probably make my heart race.  I need that like a hole in the head.  But what’s worse, is I spent $40 and the damn pills just sit on my dresser.  I'm not even using them!!!!

At the end of the day I have a choice: I can keep going or I can stop, hop on a treadmill and knock this shit off.  I know sooner than later I'm going to make the right choice but I really don't feel like it and I'm not sure where the energy is going to come from, only that there's only so much my jeans can take.  And I know that it's hard to fill the voids in your soul with good things when you feel tied to your home, your husband, your life....it’s hard to leave and say, "I'm going to go to yoga".  But I guess I better do something.  So here I am....letting you guys know your girl is a fat-ass and I sure would love any advice or tips you have to share.  And I expect you to hold me to it...that in two weeks when I check back in, I'll be 5lbs lighter.  And hopefully not in rehab with Bobbi Kristina.

As someone who has very happily advocated the use of anti-depressants, I used to think the people who said, "you choose to be happy" should be slapped and forced to listen to Yanni.  Then I found Kale and guided meditations.  I know, I know.  Now you want to slap me and make me listen to Yanni, but it's true!  Now, while I firmly believe that some of us have an actual chemical imbalance (perhaps myself included) which can be "corrected" or at least helped with medication, I have also learned that one of our greatest healers can be the way we choose to live our lives. The choices we make moment to moment as we see each day through. Do I sound like Yoda yet? Or Yanni?

When my first love and I broke up in college I was devastated. For me, this had been the real deal.  I was able to differentiate between real love and real infatuation based on this simple knowledge about myself:  Real love followed by loss made me vomit.  Real infatuation followed by loss made me order $40 worth of chinese take out...for m'self.

And this time no egg roll could cure what ailed me.  This was heartbreak and that shit is for real.  I laid in my bed day after day, completely gave up any and all hope of passing Intro to Psych and watched The Hours on a loop.  (My roomate may or may not have walked in on me performing Meryl Streep's nervous breakdown scene in the kitchen on the top bunk of our beds. Naked.) I listened to all of "our songs" while I cried myself to sleep.  My alarm played Morrissey's "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me".  I was in the Bell Jar, as they say, and my choices were only perpetuating my reign as the Mayoress of Miseryville.

I don't know if it was the letter from Academic Probation, the care packages my Sister sent to lift my spirits, or the photos on myspace of my ex boyfriend with his new boyfriend but about a week later I realized something needed to give...and my hair was starting to smell. It was time to shower and turn on some SPICE GIRLS.  That's right, I called in the big guns.   It's amazing what a little British pop can do for the soul.

Our HIV diagnosis was more shocking, painful, and devastating than any break up I can imagine.  And yes, I called out of work, I cried, I was sick with worry, but this time I didn't allow myself too much time to wallow.  I was not...I am not dying! And there was work to be done to keep myself and my Husband healthy.  In Kris Carr's incredible book, Crazy Sexy Cancer she reflects on how she allowed only a certain period of time to feel sad and sorry for herself.  At the moment I can't recall if it was 3 hours or 3 days but something like that.  She would curl up and cry, ask, "why me".  And then it was time to move on.  This idea has challenged me and probably kept me from running into oncoming traffic on certain days.  I've always been the kind of person who indulges in their sadness.  Bad break-up? I watch The Way We Were.  Feeling ugly and fat? I can't get enough Janis Ian onto my ipod.  People, I have re-read Anna Karenina. MORE THAN ONCE! I needed a positivity makeover. Pun intended.

I started with my ipod.  No more playlists entitled, "misery" or "rainy day blues".  No! We got some Chaka Khan, some Celine, and some GaGa up in this joint!  I reverse my sadness into gladness with my music choices and on particularly difficult days, I watch Elf.  Some days I don't know if every thing's going to be alright but I know it's a helluva lot more pleasant to hope it will be than to hope it won't and to nourish your spirit with sights and sounds that say so too.  I can promise you watching, Philadelphia will not make you feel better right now.  Elf will.  Spending a quiet afternoon listening to Fiona Apple?  Why don't you just swim with sharks?  Barry Manilow? That's like a B-12 shot to your soul!

It's ok to be sad.  It's ok to cry.  It's ok to ask, "why me?".  Why you? Why me? I don't know and it sucks.  But make a choice to move on from the sad and get back to joy because we are not dying.

I'm not saying we don't all need the time to feel our feelings and process them.  I'm just saying sooner or later your hair's going to start to smell and who wants to be HIV positive AND have smelly hair!?

We had asked for Christmas to go on as usual this year.  "No one is dying, let’s just have Christmas and move on.  No crying.  Just business as usual".  I mean, that's what we wanted.  But as soon as I walked into my Mother's house it felt like a "Make a Wish" commercial.

I'm 26years old, the economy is in the toilet, but my family had about 100 gifts for me under the tree just like when I was four.  "I'm going to come down with a chronic illness more often!" I announced.  My Mom gasped and yelled , "stop that!" and squeezed me hard probably assuming she could "mom" the HIV out of me.  But it's there. And on Christmas morning everyone seemed more aware than ever of the presence of our charming little chronic companions.  I was awake very early with a horrible cold.  And of course I've had horrible colds over the last 2 years while unbeknownst to me I was also living with HIV but now we know I have HIV and so every.single.time. I coughed my family watched me like Julianne Moore in "End of The Affair".  Presumably waiting for my infected blood to splatter across my Puffs with Aloe as violins swelled and I died of consumption.  Instead, I asked for a cup of tea and for everyone to, "stop fucking watching me open my presents and open some yourself!"

"You better go to the Doctor!" my Mother said.  "I'm fucking sick of Doctors".  It's just a hunch, but I'm guessing the Christ Child was much more agreeable than I was on Christmas Morning.

This past month has been nothing but Doctors. Doctors, Doctors, and more Doctors. And still, no one knows yet what's wrong with my Husband.  There is a mass on his kidney, there is a lesion on his liver. And a marathon of tests to complete before a diagnosis is given. Which adds massive amounts of stress to the recipe of our life.  And as we all know, stress is just terrible for HIV.  Well, Universe.  Would you mind toning it down a notch then!?

So we wait and wonder. And I've turned chewing my cuticles into an Olympic event.  Does he have cancer too? If so, what can we do? And how long do I have with him?  Other questions I have include, "Are you fucking kidding me?!" and, "isn't the HIV enough?!"  Honestly, isn't it!?  Some days, I'm optimistic.  OK.... Cancer. So, we'll be vegans.  We will do yoga.  We will laugh in the face of our illnesses and come out stronger and - if possible - even more in love.  Other days I am terrified.  How will we get through this? Will we get through this? And I replay his final moments a hundred times in my mind and worry I'll look fat even at his funeral.

Was our first Christmas with HIV our last Christmas together?

Lets face it, some days I'm an HIV Warrior Princess and other days I can't help but ask, "Why me? Why US?".  It was especially hard not to ask this question of our idiot, drunken, family members who gave us really stupid gifts and had nothing better to complain about but issues with their cable providers.   Aside from my Mom, Stepfather and Sister, no one else knew we are positive.  No one needed to. One of the many troubles with disclosing your status, I've found, is that many times you end up taking care of and providing strength and comfort to the people you came out to.  And I have none left to give and am relying heavily on the emotional reserves of my loved ones who I've confided in.

But as my Uncle opened his third bottle of Pinot Grigio and decided to tell me what needed fixing in my life, it took everything in my body not to ask him to pass the dip and scream, "I'm HIV positive! Any suggestions on how I "fix" that?!"  Instead I smiled, nodded, poured myself another Cosmo and reminded him of the time his facebook account was hacked and he sent us all porn.  Merry. Christmas.

I could think of a million other ways I’d rather lose weight than this.

Possible methods would include vomiting, letting midgets urinate on me, killing a goat…I’m not saying these are actual, proven weight loss methods. I’m just thinking about things that would be really bad but still not as bad as when a small Indian man sits across from you and tells you, “You are hiv positive; There is nothing I can say to console you.” No shit, Sabu.

Then I went home and googled, “hiv positive” and realized that I should’ve been dead like 20 minutes ago according to 90% of the ignorant, misinformed websites out there.  And I could not stop hearing Neil Young singing, “Philadelphia” in my head, or the entire score from RENT.  It sucks. There is crying. Then there is more crying. Then my eyes became so swollen I wondered how I could ever cry more and then…I did. I was diagnosed on Tuesday, November 1st, 2011. And while I’ve read that some “LTS’s” or…Long Term Survivors, celebrate their “2nd Birthdays” with a cake each year….I plan on living forever and drinking heavily each November 1st….and eating a Big Mac meal with a candle in it. Medium. Hi C Orange. No ice.

I don’t know how I got this way. I do know it was not my tattoo.  My Mom likes that story though. She really would like to go through the rest of her life believing I am not, nor have I ever been, sexually active. If I were Michelle Duggar, my Mom would still manage to convince herself that I have never had sex. Ever. I’ve had several hiv/aids tests. All negative. These were mostly prompted by the fact that my most serious relationship, prior to my marriage, was with a gay, heroin addict.  You don’t get much more hiv-ish than that.  And yet, despite the mediocre sex we had 7 times in 5 years- he did not give me hiv. He probably couldn’t even ejaculate, partly because he was on heroin, and partly because I wasn’t a man.  So yea….I have no answers as far as that goes.

Almost a week has gone by and sometimes 10 or 15 minutes pass where I forget.  I forget I’m HIV positive. But I’m not scared anymore. Is that bad? I’m not scared.  I’m angry and stubborn and I wish I’d had more of a drive like this Junior year of high school when they told me I could take my SATS twice or accept my shitty first time scores. I have irrational thoughts. Like…way past suicide….I have thoughts about Dame Elizabeth Taylor. The other day I thought to myself, “geez, it’s a shame Dame Elizabeth Taylor died earlier this year because she was a huge HIV/AIDS activist and she would’ve totally helped me!” Don’t ask me why I thought this because I don’t know. I never MET Dame Elizabeth Taylor, I don’t know why she would help me.  It just felt like a great solution at the time.

Since I was diagnosed I’ve started dressing like a lesbian version of the unibomber.  I feel like in some sort of a depressed, emo, L Word way it helps me to just pass through society un-noticed. The truth is… it makes me stand out more when I refuse to wear make-up, cover my puffy, ambien-laced, eyes with Tom Berenger-esque aviator sunglasses, and put the hood up on the faux leather jacket I bought myself at Target as a, “This jacket will look great on me at the clinic” present. On Monday I am planning on having my gel set of nails taken off. My girlfriend’s coming to support me….like when you have cancer and your friends stand next to you while you shave your head to show solidarity. I just feel like the nails don’t go with the yoga, vegan, namaste, hiv, Goddess I am planning on becoming after I finish eating my weight in pizza turnovers this weekend.

Here’s the deal.  I need to laugh. We need to laugh. My reason for starting this blog is to find a light at the end of the hiv. And yes, I meant for that to sound incredibly lame. Because what’s out there as far as information goes is lame.  People probably don’t die from AIDS….they probably die from the stress they feel when they google, “hiv”.  And if someone can google hiv and read about me, and Dame Elizabeth and pizza turnovers and I give them their 10 -15 minutes in a day to not think about it…well then, that’s what I’m good for.

You can find HIVHiliarious's own blog here and follow her on twitter  as @hivishilarious here.