Life or Death
by Sappho Su
I am dangerous. Going back to second grade after a three-month medical absence is like going to Disneyland for the first time. The night before, I sharpened all my colored pencils and packed all my Crayola crayons, and Trapper Keeper folders in preparation for the big day. I woke up at the crack of dawn, with the adrenaline circulating throughout my little body, and with the desire to see kids my own age once again. I giggled with excitement as I looked into the mirror while brushing my teeth, and skipped my way to school, with Dad’s lifeless steps trailing my excitement.
“What happened?” I thought to myself when I saw the blank stares and lack of emotion as Dad escorted me into the classroom. He explained my medical conditions to the teacher, while I went over to my seat and perused through the inside of my desk. The kids wore stolid faces of terror upon seeing my return, as if they had just gotten off the Indiana Jones ride for the third time in a row. Eyes stared towards the used-to-be empty seat as I carefully sat down. Kids immediately reverted their eyes when it met mine, scared that they would contract pneumonia through eyesight. People had a hard time picturing me back, and perceived me as if I was the parasite getting ready for a fatal attack on the classroom population. My peers prevented conversation, hoping that method would prevent them from getting sick. Unfortunately situations grew worse when recess approached. As the usual kickball team captain, and biggest tomboy in the class, I was surprisingly the last pick of the day. Those three months erased all my happiness in life. It was as if a concrete barrier confined me in isolation, but worse of all, the kids wanted me to stay within my own gray bubble.
I was scarred with the disease NOO-MO-NIA. I did not know much about it except that it felt like a normal cold with a small tint of fever. It felt as if I was a normal child one minute, closing my eyes and falling into a coma, and waking up to the stabbing stares of my peers. My transition from being accepted by my peers immediately shattered when I became scarred with this horrible disease. What did I do wrong? It wasn’t my fault that I got the disease. Maybe it’s karma. These kids were not rude about it, and never blatantly told me that I had germs, cooties, or that I was dirty…it was all in their eyes, their stares, and their actions. These little gestures were as painful to endure as getting beat up by the school bully for lunch money. I would go home crying to Mom that things were not the same at school anymore... and I did not have any friends. The rejection from my friends enabled me to realize the support that Mom had always displayed for me.
Looking at the sky-colored wallpaper peel off the water stained walls in my mother’s bedroom broke the hope for my mother’s survival. I was small enough to crouch at the corner of the head of the twin-sized bed next to her, while the paramedics proceeded with their routine check-up.
“Blood pressure…”
The firefighters, paramedics, and the police often said when they entered, “I remember this house.” I knew the drills they performed inside and out after observing them so many times from my corner, while praying that the heart pains and tears would diminish. I held my Buddha necklace hanging off a red string when I prayed, but each time the Buddha failed me, and mom’s conditions grew worse. Was I doing something wrong?
She had pneumonia. As a third grader at the age of nine, it was hard to follow up on the adults’ plans and discussions, and I was raised in a conservative culture where kids should be kids. “What’s wrong with Mommy?” I would ask. Dad would nervously respond, “Don’t ask questions, there’s nothing wrong with her.” The less I knew, the more curious I became, until I began interpreting my mother’s symptoms for myself.
Mom used to tell me stories about the difference and uniqueness of the various years and ages. I remembered her saying that the ninth year of each decade was the most difficult year for everyone to pass because there was always an obstacle waiting at the end. If the obstacle were overcome, one would start living a new decade of years. Mom was 39 and I was nine when we got pneumonia. We were at the end of the spectrum of our decade. From her story I envisioned her battling the war of time and age. Although I knew mentally that she would make it to her 40th birthday, her conditions did not look too pleasing at that moment.
Everyday, after finishing my connect the dots math homework or the coloring assignment, I would go to mom’s room and talk to her about my day at school. She’d listen with all her heart and attention, while I rambled on about every single detail and thought that went through my head. Mom suffered nausea, and coughs, where I would take breaks in between my story and offer her some water, and continue on with my drama at school. As a kid I thought my life was horrific, but it was nothing compared to a person sick on their deathbed. It was normal for Mom to see stars floating around in midair at night, or hear and see images of people who have passed away. It was as if they were luring her towards their world, but she always thought of me when those images came up. She’d tell me about seeing ghosts and dreams about her own childhood, but I didn’t understand any of it until I got older. Mom pulled herself together and made it through the different obstacles during her sickness because she didn’t want to leave me behind. However sick she was during that year, I’ve noticed that she did not change one bit. She gave me emotional support throughout the harsh era even though her physical incapability prevented her from caring for me. Friends…what can I say? They left me for their own good and protection.
I joyfully went to school to pursue my love for learning. It was amazing how much I loved school when I was little because it was my chance to talk to kids my own age, and play kickball. With the dark concrete barrier that was built to prevent my catastrophic spread of germs, kids also kept their emotions and true feelings away from me. Every cruel gesture or vibe my peers sent towards me gave me the opportunity to focus on myself and turn to myself for advice and protection. In a way I became introverted, talking less because I knew how others perceived me: dangerous. I was sensitive during that era, but felt that it would just be easier and quicker if I turned to mom for advice because there would always be a genuine answer at the end of the line.
Mom was sent to the hospital to be under professional care since Dad had to work. Life was different at the house. Walking home from school at the end of the day, the next best thing to watching the Power Rangers was waiting for Dad to come home so that there would be a fresh face at home. I was the lonesome puppy, at the same time the ferocious watchdog that wandered from corner to corner everyday, but I also took care of the house. Without the presence of any other human being in the crib, I learned to be attentive but developed a sense of paranoia. Every noise or creek of wood in the old-fashioned house sent me scurrying around the place. I scurried towards one corner and peeked out my secret hiding place when I felt safe. I developed my own escape plan after watching Home Alone. It is hilarious thinking back about my psychotic self, but I was truly scared and vulnerable when I was left alone in the house for long periods of time. Aside from making my own booby traps for burglars, I was forced to grow up quicker than my nine year old peers. Many times I found myself cleaning the floors, washing the dishes, or dusting the tables without even thinking why I had picked up the duster, the sponge, or the broom. These aren’t things a nine year old should be doing. I pitied myself for doing these chores because my peers spent their time watching television or playing at the park, while I scurried around the crib doing voluntary chores. I was proud of myself for helping out with the family. On the other hand I felt sorry for myself for doing voluntary work. At one point I grew upset at Mom for being sick and jeopardizing my normal childhood. An ordinary child would not think about those thoughts on a daily basis. I was abnormal.
Life and death hovered in the aroma of the food, the air we breathed, and topics we discussed. Dad had a harder time getting over Mom’s illness, but I lived in a world of semi-utopia. Dad knew the truth and the precise conditions, but it was painful to see him manipulate the truth in order for me to live a normal and unscarred childhood. Dinners were silent and the food was bland without the proper seasonings that Mom knew how to blend in. For once in my life I wished to hear the loud screams from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready…”, her annoying lectures about making my bed or getting up on time. These were the things I hated to hear everyday, and hated Mom for, but as a desperate little second grader, home alone, my happiest moment would be when I heard those phrases once again.
Often times after chores were accomplished and homework done, I would go into deep thought. As a second grader, I didn’t have much sophistication, but I had different things on my mind compared to an average kid. I would replay events or reminisce the times Mom was around, of when I got in trouble for eating too many cookies or cake. Although they brought laughter, these flashbacks always ended with tears trailing down my cheeks because there was always the possibility that these events would never happen ever again.
I kept my emotions minimal when Dad was around because his ultimate goal was to keep as much information away from me as possible. Unfortunately he failed miserably, but his purpose behind lying was understandable. I never brought up Mom when he was in the house, nor did I ever shed tears in his presence. Dad was not an emotional guy, and it would be useless to cry because he would just make situations worse.
I would go to swim practice every week. Mom used to watch me from the bleachers, where I would occasionally wave to her in the stands as I swam past. Seeing that her usual spot was empty, I let go of my emotions and burst into tears as I swam lap after lap. Swimming was my ultimate outlet because I was comfortable with crying under water since the tears naturally fused with the water, and no one would ever know that I was crying. An empty spot was created in my heart when I saw all the other kids’ parents on the side watching their kids swim their laps. I felt as if I was in transition to becoming an orphan. I must have done something cruel and unforgiving in the past to deserve this punishment.
Mom was released during the third month of the illness, and doctors did not quite know why the symptoms gradually decreased after such a long time, but Mom’s theory was that she saved an old woman’s life when she was in college. With this great accomplishment, she was granted an extra life, and made it past her 39th birthday. To this day I do not know whether the story about the old woman was true, but I know that one’s life is dependant on the actions one commits during their lifetime. Karma does exist.