Yes, I'm mad. No, I didn't think the joke was funny. Yeah, I really do have a problem with it. Sure, whatever you say. I spend the rest of Mrs. McDougal's Pre-Ap Biology class fuming in my seat, glaring at my three friends as they continue their morbid fascination with AIDs. I try to pay attention to the rest of Mrs. Mac's disturbing bit on sexually transmitted diseases, but I just can't shake it.

My thoughts are provoked by my friends' cynical suggestion, 'Get over it, Jill. It's not that big of a deal.' It's not that big of a deal? It's not that big of a deal?! Of course, it's no big deal cracking jokes at the slow, painful decay of real people, with real families, which are in real pain. But then I remind myself; they don't know what it's like to watch a human rot.

They never had to build up their walls so that when they made it through the ICU and into her room, they would still be able to stand. They never collapsed at the exit doors of intensive care because they lost the feeling in their legs from the shock of seeing her scarred swollen face. They've never been plagued with the haunting of a fresh insignificant paper cut between they're pinky and ring finger they forgot to bandage while grasping her hand. They've never had to lock up their family pet when she comes to visit because cats can contract AIDs. They've never felt the betrayal from the looming death of their childhood role model because of a disease that wouldn't even be a factor if she would have made better choices. They never had to look her in the eyes and lie. It will all be okay.

I sit up in my seat, face them and smile. They don't know. And as someone that does, that's a blessing I can count.