根本真由磁力:急求英译汉（谢绝翻译机器）

He was scrawny, spotted purple, with AIDS-related cancer all over his mouth and lungs, a flash from the grim past. We gave him all the magic drugs; he died five months later, age 23.
But for every memento mori like him, there are hundreds we save. As death rates fall, the numbers living with infection rise. As hospitals empty, the outpatient clinics overflow. The more drugs we have, the more drugs we need to mop up behind them, treating side effects and failures. All in all, we have an expensive little wellness industry on our hands, often with budgets so badly out of date we can barely keep up with it all.
Our clinic waiting rooms have always been strange places, the sick and the healthy all bundled in there together, the gaunt and the robust side by side.
But even there, things are getting stranger. That skeletal fellow reading a magazine, skin pulled taut over his skull, folds of denim covering his wasted legs, is actually one of our big successes. He is perfectly well, at least as far as his H.I.V. infection goes. Ten years ago he was dying of AIDS; now he is living with it — or, more accurately, living almost without it, his immune system normal, no trace of virus detectable in his blood. It is the lifesaving drugs that have transformed his appearance like this, leaching the fat from his body even as they clear the virus from his blood.
He is another memento mori, for it is impossible to look at him and not see fatal illness, and yet as far as we know he will live a full life, untroubled by AIDS. Except, of course, that he now has other problems. The drugs have knocked his metabolism all out of whack: his body may be skeletal but his bloodstream is full of sugar and fat damaging his heart, liver and kidneys.
His appearance makes it hard for him to find work; the plastic surgery to fix his face a few years ago led to only temporary improvement, and he cannot afford more. Still, he continues to take the culprit medications precisely, day after day.
The vigorous man next to him, muscles bulging out of his shirt, is also in disguise. Ten years ago he was dying of AIDS, and now we think he still is, although we cannot be absolutely sure. His blood tests are terrible: his immune system in a shambles, the virus in his blood resistant to all the drugs we have.
Yet, for reasons no one can explain, he continues to thrive on these drugs, with no side effects. He too has had plastic surgery, for, he tells us, he plans to "live life to the fullest," by exercising, partying and staying as beautiful as possible for as long as possible. It is anyone's guess if his party has weeks, years or decades yet to run