Mark Tuggle lands the tough but tender physician of his dreams
The first time I went to my current doctor’s office, I was as anxious
and excited as a teenager waiting for a blind date to ring the
doorbell. She was a highly recommended AIDS specialist, and, despite
eight doctors in as many years, I was still optimistic about finding
“the One.” After a short wait, the nurse led me to an office and left,
closing the door behind her. When the door opened, I smiled and said,
“Are you going to take care of me?” My new doctor touched my shoulder
and gently replied, “Only if you let me, dear.”
And then I exhaled.
Finding
the right physician is as daunting a task as finding the right lover.
Every person with HIV brings their unique personality to the examining
room—and so does each doctor. I’m a warm, gentle, passionate,
44-year-old same-gender-loving man of African descent. I can also be
arrogant and unyielding—I was born with an attitude. MDs can be
difficult, too: Many forget just who is living with HIV and react with
horror if you miss taking a pill. That’s a shame because HIV docs are
more than medical professionals. They are our nutritionists, safer-sex
gurus, therapists and, if we’re lucky, friends.
I was
diagnosed in the winter of ’94. Though I was asymptomatic, I became
terrified and obsessed with death—like Tupac and Biggie, but for a
different reason. My first physician was, like me, a strong believer in
holistic health. Yet he never asked me how I felt about AIDS. So I was
afraid to be honest with him about the difficulties of my life: I was
newly in recovery, frightened of HIV meds and uncomfortable talking
about my sexual behavior.
When I checked in one afternoon, the
receptionist casually informed me that the facility no longer employed
him. Damn—no letter, no phone call, nothing. I felt like a dumped
boyfriend. The staff dutifully referred me to a same-gender-loving
black female doc, which gave me hope that we might connect. But when I
shared my fears around taking meds, she barked, in front of three other
physicians, “Well, don’t call me when you end up in the emergency
room.”
I felt like Rodney Dangerfield.
By ’97, I was
feeling better about myself: I’d added acu-puncture, workouts, prayer,
meditation and vitamins to my health regimen. My physician at the time,
though, was cold and distant. I dreaded each visit. He rushed
examinations and talked too fast. I’d enter confident and leave
confused.
Such experiences make me realize how blessed I am to
have my present doc. That she’s fiftysomething and Latina puts me at
ease. She’s also warm, caring—and don’t take no shit from me. When I
told her I’d had unprotected sex with a positive partner, she said, “Do
you love him enough to die for him?” She was right: The risk of
reinfection or an STD wasn’t worth it.
A few years ago, right
around the time I found my doc, I started having serious health issues:
night sweats, pneumonia, weight loss, skin problems. Her unwavering
support and assurances that others have recovered from similar
illnesses have made all the difference. My doc affirms the value of my
ongoing healing and empowerment and helps me to be a person with HIV
who is joyous and free.
During a recent visit, she said
something that made me certain she was Dr. Right: “Mark, you’ve made
tremendous progress: You’re so serene now. When we began working
together, you were such a bitch.” I laughed so hard my stomach was in
knots. The truth hurts—and it sets you free.
