1988 was the year things changed forever. We all have years like that. When the person you've been dreaming of your whole life walks through the front door and says hello. Or you build a sofa so comfortable, so perfect, no one is ever able to stand up again. For me it was different. 1988 was the year I discovered the body never leaves anything behind.

It began of course with love, and everything my new love looked on with a kind eye I was sure to follow. All of a sudden I found myself betting on horses with names like Hot to Trot and Baby Makes Three, taking baths that would last an afternoon and avoiding Jello that didn't appear in primary colours. One morning we got a call from the Red Cross. They were having a blood drive and would we mind terribly? No, not at all. So we trooped downtown, bled into a freezer bag, gratefully swallowed a couple chocolate-glazed donuts and went home. A month later the letter arrived. In a stranger's handwriting. There's something wrong with your blood, go see the doctor. Who told me I was HIV positive. I left that day wondering where the rest of my life had gone. If I'd live long enough to see nightfall, or the Blue Jays win the world Series. And of course I did. Held my breath with the rest while mighty Joe Carter swatted the home run to make the Jays World Champs, and celebrated one birthday after the next realizing at last that the problem was not how to die after all. But how to live. To get up every morning and go on.