(Excerpt from "He didn't tell me when we were wed", The Electric New Paper)

The story of ultimate selfishness (and selflessness). It resonates on so many levels, throwing into prominence on the exact composite of love.

Most of all, I feel crushingly angered at the attitude adopted by the man. It isn't real love. What he feels is possessiveness, and a fear of isolation. I do realise that HIV victims suffer not just from the actual disease, but the isolation that invariably occurs when they are diagnosed. I can understand the motivation behind his selfish desire, but it does not alleviate my disgust. At the very least he should have taken precautions even if he did not reveal his condition to her.

In stark contrast, I recall the story of the doctor who worked in the intensive care unit at the height of the SARs outbreak. He removed himself from the vicinity of his family simply because he did not wish to risk the slightest chance of infecting them. Even if it meant not being able to succor any comfort from their them the crisis. Moreover, with the possibility that his last glimpse of them would be on his sickbed behind glass walls haunting him as he did his duty.

Maybe what drives him is the same chauvinistic desire that created the customary internment of widows with their husbands in some cultures. How utterly abominable and loathsome.