Hiv Inspirational Quotes

No one is spared from it

Remember—as hard as this seems to you now, it's nothing compared to what our patients are facing.

Even as I worried, I admired her strength and unwillingness to give in to the virus in her blood. "I'm fighting to show that I can still succeed," she told me once. "An HIV-positive person is not a disable person. I still have my dreams.

There is a disease that is out there. It spread faster than rumors. More deadly than nuclear weapon. More dangerous than Ebola , AIDS and HIV combined. This disease is called double standards. Many are suffering and dying because of double standards. It makes people overlook reality and facts, but concentrate on lies, hate and propaganda. Be true to yourself -

Your mouth can correct what is wrong. Your eyes can see evil and your mouth can speak righteousness. Your body can say I am sick while your mouth can say I am healed. Your eyes can say I am blind but your mouth can say I can see, Your pocket can say I am empty while your mouth can say I am swimming in abundance. Your Doctor can say that you are HIV Postive and Cancer but your mouth can say my body is a holy temple of God and by His stripes I am healed. Your womb can say that you are barren while your mouth can say "Behold, children are a gift of the LORD, The fruit of the womb is a reward." Don´t live by sight, live by faith. Put it in practice.

But we have, if not our understanding, our own experience, and it feels to me sealed, inviolable, ours. We have a last, deep week together, because Wally is not on morphine yet, because he has just enough awareness, just enough ability to communicate with me. I’m with him almost all day and night- little breaks, for swimming, for walking the dogs. Outside it snows and snows, deeper and deeper; we seem to live in a circle of lamplight. I rub his feet, make him hot cider. All week I feel like we’re taking one another in, looking and looking. I tell him I love him and he says I love you, babe, and then when it’s too hard for him to speak he smiles back at me with the little crooked smile he can manage now, and I know what it means. I play music for him, the most encompassing and quiet I can find: Couperin, Vivaldi, the British soprano Lesley Garret singing arias he loved, especially the duet from Lakme: music of freedom, diving, floating. How can this be written? Shouldn’t these sentences simply be smithereened apart, broken in a hurricane? All that afternoon he looks out at us though a little space in his eyes, but I know he sees and registers: I know that he’s loving us, actively; if I know nothing else about this man, after nearly thirteen years, I know that. I bring all the animals, and then I sit there myself, all afternoon, the lamps on. The afternoon’s so quiet and deep it seems almost to ring, like chimes, a cold, struck bell. I sit into the evening, when he closes his eyes. There is an inaudible roaring, a rush beneath the surface of things, beneath the surface of Wally, who has now almost no surface- as if I could see into him, into the great hurrying current, that energy, that forward motion which is life going on. I was never this close to anyone in my life. His living’s so deep and absolute that it pulls me close to that interior current, so far inside his life. And my own. I know I am going to be more afraid than I have ever been, but right now I am not afraid. I am face to face with the deepest movement in the world, the point of my love’s deepest reality- where he is most himself, even if that self empties out into no one, swift river hurrying into the tumble of rivers, out of individuality, into the great rushing whirlwind of currents. All the love in the world goes with you.

Every morning I say, “Thank YOU,” and I call a meeting with my committee of Angels. I assign them jobs: Dear Angel … Look after the young single mother in labor. Angel of strength … PLEASE comfort the young father who just found out he is HIV positive. Angels … One of you go to his wife, and make sure she does not get infected. Safety Angel … Please make sure my son wears his helmet on the motorbike. Angel of money … Make sure we can pay the bills for the clinic. Hand-washing Angels, Tooth-brushing Angels, Street-crossing Angels … Look after my grandchildren. Milk Angels … Help the mothers to breastfeed their babies. Angels of Midwives … Look after the birth-keepers. Angels of Peace … Please don’t give up!

As we continued to serve, we saw that HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, poverty and malnutrition had infiltrated the people

Case in point: Byrdie, the son growing effortlessly into lifelong boyhood. Still a schoolboy, soon to be an old boy, blithely accepting accidents as privileges—for instance, his natural immunity to HIV. (Byrdie liked studious, upper-class females. They were not exactly high risk.) Byrdie was the phoenix edition of Lee, adapted to the novel environment, and Lee was a useless relic. He had positioned himself all his life as a rebel against a hegemonic order no one was interested in questioning anymore. It had lost its power to crush and all its clumsy weapons that inspired active fear. Its dominance was equal, but separate.

I firmly believe that all the best things on earth have been created by brave nerds. (I have on the wall of my office a photograph of the 1927 Solvay Conference on Physics. My heroes are those brave nerds who brought about a revolution and enabled the progress of all humankind. I find them so inspiring that I have hung a copy of that photo in the rooms of both my children.) But these nerds in Yabloko were cowardly, scared to experiment. The world changed and they stood still. There was a time when Yabloko was a faction in the State Duma, and the party could not imagine it ever being different. When they failed to get over that 5 percent threshold, they complained about abuse of power and falsification of results. They were indignant and claimed that victory had been stolen from them and that in fact they had received many more votes. It was true that the election results even then were being flagrantly rigged, but Yabloko had also done nothing to fight for votes. Gradually the y resigned themselves to the idea that they could never win. They believed they were little people facing a huge, hostile country were nerds were unpopular. They became afraid of their voters, and their fear was masked by exaggerated elitism with intellectual overtones. Needless to say, no one cared for that, and they began to lose what little support they had left. This was absolutely contrary to my idea of how to do politics. I believed it was essential to find a common language with everyone. I feel at home with my former classmates, almost all of whom are now in the armed forces or police, as well as when I am being held in a detention center with drug addicts and hooligans of every variety. One such hapless guy in the next bunk has been telling me how he ruined his life, and that his HIV treatment is very expensive and doesn't work. We are discussing the ins and outs of methadone therapy. The Russian people are good; it's our leaders who are appalling. I had no doubt that 30 percent of the Russian population subscribed to democratic views, so we had every chance of becoming, over time, the political majority. That is why, when I realized Yabloko was deliberately alienating its supporters, I got tired of being in a political minority. I was ultimately expelled from the party. The pretext was my "nationalism.