When you are forced to hide that you are sick

I remember very well that afternoon in the cafeteria of the Lincoln Center in Manhattan.

My young friend had told me that he urgently needed to talk to me and there he was, waiting for him.

I saw him come in with a shaken face, making his way hastily between the tables and holding back his tears until he was already in my arms and he could burst into sobs.

The confession was quick: that same morning he had been diagnosed with HIV.

That young man whom she had met on the New York subway and had seen become a man, both humanly and professionally, suddenly saw a crack open in his life.

The usual questions came to his mind:

How many chances did he have of developing the disease?

What would his intimate life be like from that moment on?

Was she supposed to keep it a secret?

Would he feel the stigma associated with that disease or was that already something over?

My friend had health insurance in the United States, which cost him $800 a month.

The protocol at that time regarding the disease was that carriers of the virus only received medication when their defenses were greatly reduced.

Feeling vulnerable, he headed home and returned to Barcelona to place himself in the hands of public health, specifically the team of the eminent Dr. Clotet, who, offering him impeccable medical care and affection, literally restored his joy of living.

The relationship of the Spanish with American healthcare is interesting:

About a month ago my friend received a call from a bank, you know that banks now act as sellers, and they recommended private insurance that added the not inconsiderable advantage of being able to deduct expenses.

He accepted the offer because of certain back pain for which it was difficult for him to obtain a speedy appointment at the health center.

An insurance employee called him to formalize it and asked him if he suffered from any illness.

He replied no, as almost everyone who knows calico does, but he ended up confessing that he was taking two medications.

Which ones, asked the employee.

This one, and this one, she said.

Silence fell.

Days later, the company informed him that his request had been denied.

It is not something strange.

Everyone knows that to take out insurance it is advisable to declare yourself healthy, even if it is at the cost of lying,

something that most people find uncomfortable.

My friend then went to the observatory against LGBTIphobia of the Barcelona City Council, which deals, among other issues, with the discrimination that people who carry the virus may suffer in terms of health insurance, loans, mortgages, guarantees, contracts.

The lawyer who attended him assured him that his case was not extraordinary and that, although it is illegal discrimination, companies turn a deaf ear and frequently break the law.

Many affected, who still feel obliged to hide the disease, do not report the attack.

But this came into the hands of a journalist, and her inquiries raised alarm at the insurance company, which was quick to inform my friend that, having studied the case, they had decided to accept her application.

This is a sad story, partly because the fact of not being accepted due to a latent disease, whatever it may be, is added to the grief of feeling morally rejected, something that rekindles fear and encourages shame.

My young friend spent a few days upset and sad: he would never have looked for private insurance if it hadn't been for the fact that they gave it to him on a platter.

Health insurance increased by almost 10% in Spain during the pandemic.

Having private assistance does not mean not defending the need for good public health, one where no one believes they have the right to revive those disastrous times when a virus turned you into a social plague.

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