Lauren Fox

Sick and Tired

I’m in second grade and I get into Mom’s car after school.

Two minutes later my body is conquered by sleep.

Mom worries. I sleep.

We all eat pizza. My mouth says yes but my stomach says no.

It aches, telling me it was a bad decision.

Mom worries. I eat.

We go to the doctor’s office.

The doctor flings medical terms at me and Mom.

My mom catches them, but I just let them hit me.

The doctor pulls out a colored paper and checks some boxes.

The pastel pink and yellow is just a ruse

Used to hide the fear it causes.

The soon-to-be dreaded sentence slithers out of her mouth.

“We’ll run some tests.”

Even though she says we, she doesn’t mean we.

I’m the only one getting tested.

It’s just me. Just me and the needle.

The blood drops out of the needle.

The tears drop out of my eyes.

The tests come back.

There’s no right answer.

Mom asks more questions.

She worries.

More colored paper.

More checkmarks.

More tests.

I wait for the moment when the phlebotomist

Wraps a strangling elastic band around my arm

trapping my blood.

When the potent alcohol is released into the air.

It’ll warn my nose that pain is soon here.

She’ll take the cap off the needle and reveal a tiny blade.

Her rubber gloves will rub on my arm feeling for her victim.

My head is filled with every possible way that it could go wrong.

My body betrays me.

My throat closes up. My face is drained of blood. My heart speeds up.

The tears sting my eyes.

More needles.

More tears.

The

blood runs into

Blood runs into

Blood runs into

Blood.

We drive for hours to another doctor.

She wraps a black scratchy brace around my arm.

Then she states that I need to go on a diet.

My body rejects the food I love.

No gluten. No corn.

There are so many new things I have to eat now.

And so many new things I can’t eat now.

No birthday cake,

No pumpkin pie,

No cookies,

No pizza.

I watch everyone else enjoy their food.

Inside, I cry, but not outside.

I don’t want to offend anyone by letting them know that I’m in pain.

I’ll hide in the bathroom and cry.

Hide in the car and cry.

Hide under the covers... And cry.

What if there is no food for me?

I try to build the courage to ask for food,

What if there is nothing?

I ask and my throat closes up.

Tears push the boundaries I’ve set for them.

Do you have anything I can eat?

We’ve got fruit.

Here’s an apple.

Do you want a banana?

I want to say NO! I want to eat real food! I want to not be hungry.

But I take the peace offering and say “Thanks.”

The food that goes down my throat pushes the tears back into hiding.

A new doctor.

“A specialist,” my mom assures.

Maybe he can help me.

We walk in the room.

My eyes dart around the room searching for the colored paper.

Sitting in a glass case, it taunts me.

I will his hands to never reach for the case.

Leave the paper. Please. I don’t want the paper.

I beg him.

He confirms that I have to continue to eat specific foods.

Time ticks and the appointment is almost finished.

I’m safe.

He reaches for the colored paper.

I’m not safe.

Fear bubbles in my stomach.

I’m tired and scared.

My head hurts from each terrible test.

The fatigue still haunts me.

My tired brain shoots sharp thoughts that stab my heart.

I’m a failure.

Nobody likes me.

I can’t do this anymore.

I know I’m not thinking straight,

but I can’t seem to push the thoughts away.

I know my older sister stays up late.

I take the responsible route

And go to bed early.

I wake up tired

While she is totally fine on 4 hours of sleep.

It’s so unfair.

My little sister and I exercise together

And I am drained of all energy.

She continues on.

It’s so unfair.

We all get into the car

My body is exhausted

I fold over and win as much energy as I can from 20 minutes of sleep

I fight for my energy while everyone else enjoys chitchatting.

It’s so unfair.

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.