Maps

The sticky Iowa summer aggravated his asthma and amplified the chances of pneumonia.

“What did the doctor say yesterday?”

Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, pursed his lips and drew in a deep breath. His lungs protested with a coughing fit.

When he regained his breath, he said, “My viral load is over 500,000 and my T-cells are low.”

It was official. I’d done my research. A viral load over 200,000 indicates a dangerously increased chance of illness and a low T-cell count signifies the body’s inability to fight infection. The lower the count, the greater damage HIV has done.
I lowered my hand from my mouth and asked, “How low is low?”

“Less than 100.”

At less than 200 he had full-blown AIDS. Without anti-viral medications, Jonah’s hourglass would soon run out; however, he refused to take any drugs other than the occasional aspirin.

“What can we do?”

“Live.” Jonah left his seat and joined me on my couch. I could not cry, only hold him as he wept.

“Let’s go. We’ll leave tomorrow,” I said.

We stayed on the couch for most of the day, pouring over maps, making calls to Bed and Breakfasts scattered over the Rocky Mountains.

“Where do you want to go first?” I asked.

I finally slept that afternoon on the sofa amongst the maps and thousands of post-it notes indicating places we wanted to see, things we wanted to do. I slept there with my husband.