Red Is For Fear

Red. The color of rubies, love, and fresh strawberries on a hot summer day. A color that represents fire, hate, and danger. Growing up I loved red: my favorite dress, ladybugs, and autumn leaves. Despite my hate for watermelon, clowns, and those raspberry bushes full of thorns, I loved it. 

Now, red for me is an ambulance carrying me from hospital to hospital; it’s throwing up trash bags full of blood. I beg my parents not to make me go back to the hospital- the place where there’s no freedom. I have to sit in a hospital bed while my parents worry about how much money it will cost. It first happened in third grade at school. The doctors couldn’t explain it. They assumed I swallowed too much blood from frequent nose bleeds so I went back home, only for it to happen again, and again- at least once every two years. It took them years to figure out that I had a rare stomach disease and it was no coincidence.

Meanwhile, I’m here getting used to the hospital life: gross food, little to no sleep, surgeries and procedures, getting bloodwork done, being pushed around in a wheelchair, and worst of all feeling useless. Red for me is never a good thing. I can’t help but go onto Pinterest with that distinct logo. I’ll scroll for a while just wondering: why me? Why not any of these people that seem so happy? I say these things although, aside from my condition, I’m perfectly healthy. I just don’t feel like it. I’m scared of the color red: I’m scared of the sound of ambulance sirens, a nasty stomach ache, throwing up my guts, and most of all going back to the inevitable place called the emergency room.