Lindy became infected with HIV by her husband who wasn't honest with her about having a sexually transmitted disease. Her son is eleven now and her husband is dead. She lives with her son and boyfriend in Kwanokuthula, in the house that once belonged to her mother. She and her boyfriend share the curse of HIV, but have found love and comfort in one-another. She is unable to work because of high blood pressure and feet that are prone to swelling. She lost the house-cleaning job she once had because of the seemingly incurable rash that covers her arms. She is struggling to put food on her table and to provide for her son.
Lindy is on medication and is doing unbelievably well. However, this has not always been the case. The Plett Aid nurse I am shadowing, Poppy, said, "She was so sick." She grabbed my arm, "To touch her was to touch a bone. She couldn't talk, eat, or walk." Poppy visits Lindy several times a week to check and see how she is doing and Poppy is most proud to say that she has had a part in Lindy's recovery, even though the battle with AIDS is never-ending.
When Poppy told me the next patient we would see was HIV positive I immediately began to prepare myself for the worst. When we walked through the open doorway to a bright pink kitchen, I was immediately swept into the arms of a bubbly black woman in a yellow floppy hat. I was reluctantly expecting this woman to take us into the bedroom to Poppy's bedridden, miserable HIV patient. But no, we sat down on the couch, this lovely lady asked my name, told me her's was Lindy, and said she wanted to share her story with me.
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