Surviving AIDS: A Day in the Life 

It's five in the morning and Devondia Roseborough is waking up, lying in bed and getting her thoughts together to face the day ahead. She isn't trying to bring yesterday's issues into her new morning. Lessons are learned, and it's about time for her to be the teacher.

Her two teenaged daughters will be up soon. And for most mothers, that means a lot of screaming and threatening to beat the hell out of the last person to get out of the bed and get on the school bus. But this is a day that most people didn't think Devondia would face after December 9, 2003.

That's the day she was diagnosed with AIDS.

Four years later, Devondia isn't a statistic. She doesn't wallow in self-pity, although she does have moments when she thinks about how she contracted the disease and blames her father for not being there, leading her to look for love in all the wrong places.

She doesn't have long to think because it's about time for her youngest daughter to get up. Devondia rises from bed at about 5:15 a.m. In about 45 minutes, her daughter's bus will arrive.

She walks with her daughter to the corner to catch the bus after they've gotten dressed. The mother and daughter talk about life and Devondia tries to impart what she didn't hear at that age -- real talk and real love.

Though she's a confident 36-year-old now, Devondia bears scars that have healed over time. But her goal as a mother is to make sure her daughters grow up safe and grow up able to tell her any and everything going on in their lives. That's why their trips to the bus stop are so special.

By the time her youngest daughter is on the bus and heading for school, it's time for Devonida to do it all over again with her oldest daughter.

A second bus is set to arrive at 6:30 a.m. And until the bus shows up, Devondia and her older daughter, who is in high school, stand on the porch and talk.

"I do not sugarcoat anything with my kids," she says.

Once the bus gets there, Devondia heads inside the house and begins cleaning up. That is, after she takes her medicine.

"I only take three pills," she says. "There was a time when I was taking 23 pills. I've come all the way down. Then I try to get some exercise. I might take a walk with one of my neighbors. We walk around the neighborhood about four times, and that's a good walk."

Devondia has a dog that she takes along with her on her walks. And the floppy-eared pooch lets out a bark when anyone walks up to the house. Take it as a warning or an alert. Devondia smiles and heads inside; she has work to do -- and possibly lives to save.

Her home in West Charlotte is spotless. The plush carpet is vacuumed to perfection, and pictures of her daughters hang on the walls along with an article written about Devondia. There isn't a dust bunny in sight.

After cleaning up, Devondia, who is on disability and doesn't hold down a full-time job, heads for her computer. She's working on her memoirs, Put It On Paper, and she also spends time as an AIDS activist, talking to churches, colleges and community groups that call her.

While on the computer, she updates her Web site, www.rasberrirose.org, which provides information about her nonprofit organization that reaches out to girls between the ages of 10 and 18. At those ages, according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, girls account for half of the new HIV infections.

Devondia's long-term goal for her foundation is to have after-school programs for girls in the at-risk age range.

"Between the hours of 3 [p.m.] and 7 [p.m.] is that idle time when parents are at work and they have too much time on their hands," she says. With all this free time, she believes that it's easy for girls to succumb to the pressure of having sex, sometimes-unprotected sex, that puts them at risk for contracting a sexually transmitted disease like HIV.

For Devondia, being alive is a blessing. Rewind back to 2003 when she was in the hospital. At first, a doctor told her that she had HIV, which is the virus that causes AIDS. Then another doctor told her that she had AIDS and a T-Cell count of 19.

A normal T-Cell count for someone infected with HIV is above 500. For a non-infected person, the normal T-Cell count is between 700 and 1000. When the T-Cell count drops below 200, a person is classified as having AIDS, according to an article written by registered nurse Mark Cichocki, which was published on About.com.

Devondia shouldn't be alive. Medical research says that once your T-Cell count is below 200, the body's immune system can't protect itself from diseases and infections.

In the hospital, with a high fever and spots on her liver, it looked as if she was going to die. But she says her family came to Carolina's Medical Center and prayed for her.

Then a miracle happened.

Her fever broke, the spots on her liver disappeared.

"The doctors were like, 'We don't know what happened,'" she says. "But it was God. Plus I knew I had these two daughters. And my oldest child was wilding out. No one was going to put up with her like me. So I knew I had to be here. It's mind over matter."

Her next step, a few months later, was to tell her daughters the truth about her hospital stay and medical condition.

Initially, she'd told then that she had an infection on her liver and that's why she was in the hospital. But in March 2003, she sat the girls down for a family meeting. That's when she said the words, "I have AIDS," to her children.

"My oldest daughter just screamed and hollered," says Devondia. "They knew I worked at the YWCA, and I had programs where people would come in and talk about AIDS and HIV. My youngest daughter asked me, 'Are you going to be OK?' And I said, 'Yeah, I'm going to be OK.'"

Devondia did get counseling for her daughters. And at the most random moments, they'd ask her questions. Just like the day in McDonalds when her youngest daughter asked her again, "Mommy, do you have AIDS?"

Devondia replied, "Yes."

Then her daughter asked how she contracted the disease.

"I told her how I got it, then I said, 'You know you're not supposed to have sex before you get married. Go to school and get your education, get your house, get your car. And then you wait on God to send you your king; don't go out here and pick and choose.'"

Then her daughter asked a heart-wrenching question. "Are you going to die?"

"Well, we're all going to die," she told her. "We all live to die, but it's what we do in between."

While her daughter didn't ask any other questions, Devondia says that her children are extremely attentive to her. If they see her just sitting around, they will ask: "Is everything all right?"

"I love them," she says of her daughters. "And they love me; they love their momma."

Despite her openness about her status, Devondia doesn't expose her daughters to all of her advocacy. She doesn't take them to college campuses where the discussions about sex and AIDS can get raw. Sometimes she takes them to churches where she's invited to speak. But just like a mother lion, Devondia protects her daughters from the ignorance that still exists when it comes to dealing with HIV and AIDS in the public.

"I try to take them, but not everywhere," she says. "I don't really want to expose them because there are still ignorant people out here that would get on the girls and want to say something to them. I try to keep them out of the spotlight as much as possible."

Of the estimated 40,000 Americans who will test positive for HIV this year, 80 percent can expect to live at least 5 more years, according to a recent report in the Journal of Infectious Diseases. Sixty percent could survive another decade. Thirty-two percent could live 20 additional years, and 10 percent could live 30 years after their diagnosis. It's been four years for Devondia, and she's not showing any signs of giving up on life. But living with AIDS is tough.

"It's not easy," she says. "I'm just like anybody else. I get lonely. I've had the low self-esteem. I have bills to pay. It's like every quarter; I go through a period where I'm beating myself up. I hate living. Why did I do this? Why do I have to have this? You know, I cuss myself out. 'Why did you fuck up?' You know, real talk. 'Why did you have to fuck up?'"

But it never fails, she says. Her phone will ring and someone on the other end will pull her out of her funk. "I'll get a call from someone like the Metrolina AIDS Project and they'll say 'Devondia, can you come talk to someone who's been newly diagnosed? Because they are going out of their mind.' Then when I talk to them, I'm actually talking to myself and that brings me back up," she says. "It gets rough, taking those pills, not knowing if you're going to get married. I know I'm not having anymore children.

"But at the same time, there are things that I can't enjoy because I'm limited. And you shouldn't have to limit yourself. But some of the medication I'm on requires you not to be in the sun for a prolonged period of time. So I can't enjoy the sun like I want to."

Some of her medicine, she says also caused anxiety, but with prayer, she works through it. There were days when she saw the walls in her house move. She once saw a Smurf sit on her shoulder and heard it tell her crazy things. Sometimes, because of the medicine, she couldn't get out of bed. And there were thoughts of suicide. But she has been taken off those medications and that allows her to do more to help others so that they don't end up in her situation.

Devondia takes the lessons she's learned with her as she reaches out to others -- whether it's online, through her MySpace page or e-mail inbox, or at different community events.

For World AIDS Day on December 1, Devondia was at Friendship Missionary Baptist Church, but not too many others were there, she says.

Typically, she receives most of her requests to speak around October, November and December -- as World AIDS Day draws near.

"I speak out publicly, when I'm asked," says Devondia. She's been a guest on local urban radio stations like Power 98. She's gone to barbershops. She's even dropped knowledge at sex toy parties.

"I'm a traveling advocate," she says. "I tell my story and I pass out condoms. Wherever the need is, I'm there. And that need is everywhere."

During her downtime from speaking engagements, Devondia reaches out to people on the World Wide Web and puts the finishing touches on her autobiography, which is scheduled to be released in January.

Put It On Paper tells Devondia's story in an uncensored, no-hold-barred format.

"It's funny that in 2001 I started writing a book," she says. "This guy told me, 'Rose, you have so much to talk about, you ought to put it on paper.' In the beginning it was about the scandalous relationships, the heartbreak ... and just dealing with all the situations in my life that was going on. And I knew a lot of people were going through a lot of struggle."

But Devondia put the book down after writing on it for a year and a half. After her diagnosis, however, she began writing it again. And some people asked her why she didn't make the book fictional. Why would she want to put her personal information out there like that?

"I'm a different breed," says Devondia. "I've always been outspoken. I've always been very adamant that whatever I'm going to do, I'm going to do it.

"When I was in the hospital the first of January, 2004 for 22 days and the doctor came in and told me that I had AIDS, I battled back and forth with him. I said 'No, I have HIV.' I could deal with that but having AIDS meant that you were going to die."

Devondia says that as the doctor educated her on her T-Cell count and what she needed to do, she knew that she was going to be all right.

"I said Lord forgive me for my sins, for having unprotected sex, outside of wedlock and not respecting his temple. So, I asked him, whatever it is you want me to do I'll do it. Wherever you want me to go, I'll go."

Though Devondia takes responsibility for her choices, she believes that everything else that has happened was a part of God's plan.

"I don't blame God for my diagnosis, my choices caused that. But He put the purpose in the plan for what I do."

Devondia still gets approached by men and she has no problem telling them her status ... immediately.

She recalls a time when she was in Eastland Mall and met a guy who didn't seem to listen.

"He came up to me and told me how beautiful I was," she says. That day, Devondia was dressed in a stylish skirt, and the guy let her know that she had beautiful legs.

After telling him thank you, Devondia said he asked her what kind of work she did.

"I told him that I'm an HIV and AIDS advocate, a motivational speaker and I'm working on a book about my life after HIV and before AIDS."

At first, it seemed as if he didn't care about her status and they exchanged numbers. After talking on the phone for a while, he wanted to come visit, but Devondia wouldn't let that happen.

Then one day they were talking on the phone and he said the he was going bite her.

"I said, 'Bite me? You can't put your mouth on everybody.' And he said, 'What? You got a disease or something?'"

In response, she said to the man, "Did you forget? I told you I was diagnosed with HIV."

His reply was, "Oh, I can't fuck with you."

Devondia didn't get angry, she didn't curse back at him, she simply said, "Oh, that's cool." Then she hung up the phone.

Episodes like this don't happen to her often. Devondia says that she's met the most compassionate people in Charlotte and other places around the country.

"What they say and do behind my back, only God knows," she says.

In a 2006 study commissioned by Compassion International, Americans were found to be 'ambivalent' about HIV and AIDS. According to an article in The Raw Story, nearly two-fifths admit to having difficulty sympathizing with victims.

Devondia has been lucky enough not face those people who judge HIV and AIDS victims.

It's about time for Devondia to get her daughters from the bus stop. Her oldest will be home at 2:30 p.m. and about an hour later her youngest will be arriving home.

"I think it's a blessing to be here when they come home from school," says Devondia.

But before her daughters get home, Devondia has to take a nap.

"I'm just like a kindergartner," she jokes.

Devondia likes the winter, saying she has more energy when the mercury drops. But when it gets hot, she's lethargic and freezing everyone in her home because she has her air conditioning blasting and ceiling fans moving the cold air around.

Following her nap, Devondia is ready to meet her daughters at their respective stops. They exchange stories about how things went at school and things of that nature. Despite Devondia's advocacy and the fact that she has gone public with her status, she says her daughters don't face any problems at school or any judgments in the community.

In fact, a classmate who wanted to interview Devondia for a school project approached her oldest daughter. The girl asked if she was Devondia's daughter and if she thought her mother would allow her to interview her for the project. Of course, the traveling advocate said yes.

And her youngest daughter may be an advocate in the making because she takes information about HIV and AIDS to school to pass on to others.

Once her daughters get home, it's time for homework, dinner and other things that parents and kids share. As day becomes evening, Devondia is about to head to bed. She turns in every night around 9 p.m.

Five in the morning is right around the corner and she has another day to look forward to, another day to spread the word about HIV and AIDS and possibly save someone's life.

Footnote: On Jan. 10, 2007, Devondia says that her last visit to the doctor produced great results. HIV was undetected in her body, and she says the doctors who initially told her about her diagnosis are amazed at her progress.

In North Carolina 77 percent of AIDS cases reported are female.