When I was Your Age

When I was Your Age - Rosie Lee (Holton-Arms School, Ninth Grade)

The walls are bleeding.

I don’t know why, but I see red lines running down them. They’re not supposed to do that. Walls don’t bleed.

My arm hurts. There’s something stuck in it, like a straw, but it doesn’t feel like the straws I use at home. It feels sharp. It looks like watermelon juice, like how my lips stain after eating fresh cherries at home. Home. I want to go home. I want Mama. Where did Baba go?

I hear everything, but I don’t. It’s like when you’re underwater and you can’t really hear people talking, but you know they’re there. Drowning, that’s what it feels like. But there’s no fishies swimming by, no jellies waving back to me. The beeping sound is the loudest. Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s coming from a machine next to me, keeping up with my heart. I don’t like it. It sounds like the bombs counting down before explosion. I know because I watch a lot of movies.

How old are you? The nice nurse lady asks. She’s smiling, so I think I should smile too, but my face doesn’t want to smile. So I don’t.

I hold up my hand with all my fingers open. Four, I tell her, and hold up five fingers. 

The lights are too bright. So bright it hurts my eyes. I shut them tight, but the brightness is still there.

I want to sleep, but the bed feels weird and too small, and my arm still hurts. Everything smells funny here, like the medicine Mama makes me drink when I’m sick. 

I don’t know when I’ll get to go home. I want Mama. I want home. I miss Mama feeding me food as I ran around, playing the toy truck game with my baby brother. I miss Baba coming home from work and bouncing me on his leg as he worked.

The nice nurse lady tells me that I’m very brave, the bravest girl she’s seen. But I don’t feel very brave. I feel like crying. I feel like clenching my fists. I feel like pulling at my nails, tugging at my hair.

My tummy hurts. I want to thrash around and wail until they let me go home. Brave kids don’t complain, do they? 

You’ll get better soon, Mama tells me. She looks sad. 不久了. Not much longer.

When she thinks I’m asleep, Mama always whispers to Baba. Sometimes her voice shakes, and it makes me feel like crying too, but I don’t. If I cry, she’ll cry more. I have to be a brave girl, like the nice nurse lady said.

Oh, look. Baba’s here. Baba came to see me! And he’s brought cookies and orange juice. I love cookies and orange juice!

Why is Baba crying? 

Baba’s my hero. Baba doesn’t cry. Baba’s brave and strong. He has big muscles and can lift me up with one arm! So why is he crying?

Baba! I call out, making grabby hands. I want Baba to hold me, like I’m a baby again. Even though I’m a big girl now, I like hugs. Hugs from Mama and Baba.

Baba visits when he can, but it’s not a lot. Mama says it’s because he has to work and take care of my brother. I don’t like it. I don’t like being here without him. When he does come, like now, he lifts me out of the bed, careful with my arm and the moving straw thing that follows me, and carries me to the window so I can see outside. The trees look so small from up here, like parts of the car toy set my baby brother and I play with. There’s a park with swings and slides across the street, and sometimes I see kids playing. I wish I could be out there with them, laughing and running, instead of in this room with the too-bright lights and the beeping machines.

The doctors come in sometimes. They wear long white coats that match the walls and talk to Mama in words I don’t understand. They don’t talk to me much, but they look at my arm and my tummy and make notes on their clipboards. She’s doing better today, one of them says, and Mama’s face lights up for a moment. I think I should feel better too when they say that, but I don’t. I still feel the same. I want to go back to my friends, chatter with my teacher, beg my mom not to leave me at school.

Will things ever be the same again?

The food here is yucky. It doesn’t taste like Mama’s. Mama’s cooking isn’t the best, but she tries. Sometimes the beef is still a bit raw, but if I ever leave this place, I’ll never complain again. I’ll eat it, and tell Mama it’s delicious. It would be—anything is better than the nasty, tasty-less porridge they give me here. Mama tries to make me eat, but I don’t want to. I try, but I don’t wanna. I feel my throat close up, and my head shakes in refusal on its own. When she has time, Mama brings me dumplings and soup from home, though not a ton. She’s busy with my baby brother too. I try to eat a little though, so Mama doesn’t get worried and start crying again. It’s hard, though. My tummy hurts so much.

The days feel so long. I don’t know what time it is most of the time. The lights in the room never go off, not really. Even when it’s supposed to be night, they leave a little light on, so it’s never really dark. I miss the dark. I miss the way my room at home feels at night, with just the soft glow of my glow-in-the-dark star shaped stickers by my bed. I miss sharing a bunk bed with my noisy brother. I miss my nanny, who would hold me when I woke up because of nightmares. Here, the light feels cold and sharp, like it’s always watching me.

The nurse ladies are super nice, though. They bring me crayons and coloring books and let me watch cartoons on the small, staticky TV in the room. The one big smile, the nice nurse lady, sings songs to me sometimes. She has a pretty voice, and it makes me feel a little better, but only for a little while. She leaves, and the room is silent and lonely again.

I see other kids come to the hospital too. They get to leave, but I don’t. Why am I different? Some have wheelchairs and get pushed around, some get what Mama calls vak-seens, and some babies cry and whine. But all of them, they look tired, like me. 

We’re all exhausted.

The nice nurse lady says that soon I’ll be well enough to go home. Soon, she says. I try to believe her, but I’m scared to hope too much. What if I don’t get better? What if this is my home now, forever? I don’t want to stay in that room, drink gross porridge, wait for Mama and Baba to come see me, every day, for the rest of my life.

I tell Mama, and she looks at me. 不久了, she whispers.

媽媽, 我想回家, I whisper back, like it’s a secret. But it’s no secret I want to go home.

我知道. She knows. Of course she knows, my Mama knows everything. 

I squeeze Teddy tight in my arms. Teddy is my best friend. She’s light brown, and very fluffy. I kiss her goodnight every night and hold her close. 

Mama says I might get to leave soon. The doctors say my tummy is getting better, and the straw in my arm might not be needed anymore. I want to believe them, but I’m scared. I want to get the straw out, so I don’t have to stare at the watermelon juice flowing through it anymore. I want to go home to my shared bunk bed and nap without being awoken to the beep. Beep. Beep. I want so many things, but I’m scared to want.

But then, one morning, Mama comes in with a big smile on her face. Baba’s behind her, holding my baby brother in his arms. He cooes, bouncing up and down. 

寶寶, she says, smiling. It’s been a while since she smiled. She’s so pretty when she smiles. Time to go home.

My heart skips. Home? I ask, clutching Teddy to my chest. I almost don’t believe her. What if I wake up, and it’s just a dream? I trust Mama, though. I always trust Mama.

Home, Mama repeats. She kisses my forehead.

I don’t have to be brave anymore. I can finally cry. And so I do, sobbing and holding Mama, Baba, and the baby. I missed this.

Home. I’m going home.