Dianne was convinced I’d leave her, but I was determined not to, even though every inch of me was screaming for me to run like hell. A few phone calls got me the address of an LA clinic that used the rapid test. I made an appointment as soon as possible and endured the longest hour of my life before getting back the results I’d hoped for: I was clear. So far, anyway. We tried to make light of it, scheduling my next testing in three months and dressing it up like a date: give up a little blood, then dinner and a movie.

Dianne’s half of the medicine cabinet began to look like a small pharmacy: four different medications of varying colors and sizes, lined up like round, stout soldiers at the ready, eagerly awaiting their chance to pummel the virus coursing through her body. We both read up on all the new research and theories of HIV treatment, and she stepped up her workouts (as did I, in a show of solidarity). She decided not to tell the rest of the cast or crew of DC, and we became almost fanatical about watching for cuts that might leak poisoned blood onto an unsuspecting costar and about assaulting all sneezes and coughs with an army of homeopathic drugs and remedies.

The biggest difference, however, was that the linchpin that had held our whole relationship together without us even realizing it—sex—had been pulled right out of the machine. So far I didn’t appear to be infected, but we certainly weren’t taking any risks; even with a condom, intercourse was out of the question. Obviously there were other options, and I was more than willing to take (and give, of course) whatever I could, but Dianne would have none of it. She lost all interest in being physical in any way. Six months of this began to take its toll, and the machine began to fall apart.

On top of everything, Dianne began to shelter herself from everyone. She didn’t want to tell her girlfriends, and since they’d wonder why she wasn’t drinking when they went dancing, or why she wanted to go home early, she just stopped seeing them altogether. She became as much of a recluse as a working actor can be: go to rehearsals and tapings, go work out, go home. The worst part was the effect the prescriptions had on her. They made her sick, but not in any predictable way. Some days she’d be fine; other days she’d be a mess. She managed to push through it and continue working, and I was continually amazed at how people readily believed the stories she made up about her intermittent dizziness, nausea, and lethargy.