(TW: Medical trauma, child illness)
——
“The sun is not hurting you.”
I’d heard it from my pediatrician before. Now, a repeat performance, this time in the drab office of a child psychologist. Fluorescent lighting made my eyes hurt, and photos of “happy kids” on the walls felt like a sad attempt at making the place feel warm and normal. It was neither.
“When you feel afraid of the sun, Lauren, I want you to face it. Feel its warmth on your skin. Tell yourself how nice it feels. Say it out loud.”
She looked a hundred years old to me. Older than my grandma, and “fairytale witch” kind of scary. It wasn’t her fault. I felt guilty for being afraid of her. I was also angry. Angry, because no one was listening. No one believed me.
“I’m not “afraid” of the sun, Dr. Wilson. It hurts. The sun HURTS. It hurts my skin and it hurts my stomach. I get sick when I play outside. I want to go outside, but it hurts.”
I searched her eyes for any glimmer of recognition or understanding. She looked tired and rehearsed. She wouldn’t help me.
“Anxiety can feel very real. Try and visualize a time or a place where you felt safe. Imagine you are there. Where is your safe place?”
I stifled a laugh. This certainly wasn’t my “safe place.”
“… My aunt’s farm. It’s a really big farm with horses.”
My aunt lived in a condo in Los Angeles.
“Alpacas, too. She has nineteen alpacas. And there’s a swimming pool and a tree house, and she adopted a bear from a bear rescue. She’s called Nancy. Nancy the bear.”
The good doctor nodded and smiled. She didn’t hear a word I’d said. I was proud of the bear bit. Oh well.
“That’s great. Our time is up for today. I’ll see you next week! Remember: visualize your safe place when you’re feeling anxious!”
I rolled my eyes and steadied myself for the pain that would come. The sun was shining. Soon, it would destroy me.
——
It was a bad night. It felt like a cannonball had blasted through my stomach, and an army of fire ants swarmed the raw, gaping wound. I only lasted a few minutes at a time in my bed. Finally, I gave up and spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor, rocking back and forth in agony. Tomorrow was field day at school. I fell asleep in a pool of sweat, delirious and cold. I dreamed of my aunt’s fake farm. My stomach hurt there, too.
——
“It’s a beautiful day at the Barlow School! Let’s have a great field day!” The headmistress smiled and clapped for herself. Parents and teachers joined in. They hired a man to make snow cones and paint faces after the afternoon sporting events. It would have been my favorite day. But no one knew the truth. I could feel my skin getting red and warm. It was a perfect, sunny day, dripping with cruelty.
I was the fastest kid in fifth grade. I beat the boys. I played football with them at recess and they couldn’t catch me. But that was before.
I lined up with my friends in starting position. The winner of this race would be awarded a personal pan pizza coupon and an in-school movie party. Maybe, if I won, I would feel better at my party. My legs and my skin and my stomach were on fire. My heart was in my ears. Not a cloud in the sky to help me.
“Ready! Set! GO!” My teacher waved a flag. It was bright red, like my skin. Like my knees. Like the inside of my body. If I ran fast enough, maybe I could trick the pain into thinking I was still at the starting line. I ran until I saw stars. I don’t remember falling down. I don’t remember anything.
The paramedic held my hand and told me I was safe. I was going to the hospital because I was sick. I drifted away.
“Her blood pressure is critical. Let Children’s know we’re 8 minutes out. She’s whimpering and clawing at her stomach and her legs. This rash. My God.”
——
Sometimes, now, I can hear the doctors. I can hear my parents and the nurses who change my feeding tube and my dressing. I hear words like “pain control” and “porphyria” and “coma.” My dad cries a lot. He tells me he’s sorry.
It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. I live on my aunt’s farm. It’s real, now. It’s my safe place.