Lynnea + Coconut

I found out I was HIV positive when I was seven. For months I had been going with my mom to the doctor, getting my blood drawn and taking medicine I didn’t like. I assumed it was normal, but my older sister kept asking questions about it. Finally, she confronted our mom and said, You’re not doing it to the rest of us, so what’s going on?

That’s when my mom gave in and told her. I had been playing in the yard, and when I came inside to ask my sister to join me, the first thing she did was tell me that I was HIV positive—even though our mom made her promise not to. I was devastated. I ran into the kitchen crying to my mom, Why didn’t you tell me I was dying?

It was 1992, and all I knew about HIV was what I heard in the news. Magic Johnson had retired from basketball because he’d been diagnosed with HIV (a death sentence at the time), and Ryan White had been kicked out of school for going public with his own HIV diagnosis. Back then HIV only meant AIDS, and it meant you were dying. 

My mom knelt down and told me that even though I had HIV, I wasn’t dying. She told me she had AIDS, which was a little worse but the same germ. I still had to go to school, she said, and I had to keep living my life. She was making sure I had everything I needed, and as long as I saw her getting up each day then I would too, because she was worse off than me. My mother is still alive and healthy today, and I think about that often. 

Because of what happened with Ryan White, my mom told me not to tell kids at school about my status. But in fourth grade, a girl who I thought was my friend told me a secret of hers, so I told her mine. She immediately backed away and said, My mom says that’s for gay people, and you’re gonna die. That was the last time I ever talked to that girl. I went from thinking I had a friend to thinking this person hated me for something I couldn’t change about myself.My mom found a support group for me, so I could spend time with kids who were going through what I was going through, but I sometimes felt like I had two separate lives.

In my early twenties I came out to some people, but many couldn’t get past their own biases. From that point on, I assumed people wouldn’t be accepting of my status. I avoided expressing interest in friendships and romantic relationships. If someone pursued me, I didn’t pick the right partner because I mistook acceptance for love. For ten years I struggled to get out of an abusive relationship because I believed that because of my diagnosis I should be grateful—lucky, even—to have anyone at all. I thought, I’m HIV-positive; who would want to be with me?

Then I got Coconut, who changed all of that.  

Coconut was an accident. A friend of mine asked me to help her find a dog, so I went on Craigslist and found Coconut. When I picked him up, there was an immediate bond between us. He spent the entire forty-minute drive back home faithfully sitting on my shoulder. He turned out to be a little too calm for my friend, who had multiple young children and wanted a more spirited dog they could run around with. Newly pregnant and living in an apartment by myself, I was hesitant to keep him. I didn’t think I had the time or energy for a dog, but as soon as I brought him home, it felt as if he already belonged there. 

There’s a joke someone once told me: If you want to know who loves you most, lock your spouse and your dog in the trunk of a car for an hour. When you open it, see which one is more excited to see you. It sounds silly maybe, but that’s how I started looking at my relationships—that this person should love me on my worst days.

During the pregnancy, I had terrible morning sickness. There were days I didn’t want to get out of bed, days when my growing belly felt so heavy on my bones that with every step I buckled in pain. Sometimes I would just sit on the floor for hours, unable to get up. When that happened, Coconut would come over and curl up in my lap, or he would jump up and lick me, giving me the spark of energy I needed to go on. His love and affection were constant andrefreshing. Eventually I realized, if I am good enough for this dog, how could I not be good enough for my boyfriend?

Coconut showed me that I deserved more out of a partner—not just for me, but for the baby girl growing inside of me. Soon my daughter would be looking at me as the example of who she’s supposed to be. I would be responsible for showing her what a healthy relationship is. I watched my mom go through abusive relationships when I was young, and I decided that I wasn’t going to perpetuate that cycle anymore. We deserved better.

A few months after getting Coconut, I finally cut ties with my daughter’s father. I stopped catering to him when he came over, and eventually he stopped coming. Being by myself felt really lonely at times. I cried a lot over what might come of my life after having a child. But Coconut made it better just by being there. He wouldn’t let me sit around feeling depressed. Instead, he became my practice baby. I tended to him when he needed hugs, or to be fed, or to go out. Not only did it force me to get up and move around, it helped me build confidence in becoming a mother. And if there wasn’t anything to do, Coconut would start chasing his tail and give me something to laugh about.  

Lately, I’ve found myself not hiding in silence anymore. I no longer look at HIV as something negative in my life, or as a reason to push people away. I’ve seen the bad, I’ve been with the bad—my relationship with Coconut during my pregnancy helped me see that I am worth more and to take the leap I needed to not compromise on that.Instead of looking for a person who’s okay with my status, I look now for a person I can be happy with. Coconut has shown me I can be loved by another living thing—that I deserve a love that doesn’t hurt.