#hemaphobia

Alarmed, Medic turned around quickly. So quick, it seemed to startle Whumpee, who was standing in the middle of hall. At first, she couldn't tell what had made Caretaker so shocked. She eyed whumpee, noting their confused expression-- likely at the reaction they garnered--, their messy hair, their baggy PJs, their slightly slouched posture likely due to being tired, nervous, or still hurting a bit from Whumper. Maybe all three, she realized. Her eyes went to Whumpee's outstretched arms with their hands cupped, holding something.

Now she understood Caretaker's reaction. Still unable to tell what exactly Whumpee was holding, seeing the red liquid dripping from their hands was enough to cause Medic to get to her feet as quickly as possible, forgetting how anxious and jumpy Whumpee still was. The dripping liquid was enough to make the ever so squeamish Caretaker need to cover their eyes and take deep breaths.

Medic barely took two rushed steps in Whumpee's direction before realizing her mistake as Whumpee just as quickly took a few steps back, keeping as much distance between themself and Medic as possible. Medic paused mid step and made eye contact with them, looking into their not only confused but now scared, wide eyes.

"Hey, Whumpee," she spoke as soft and calmly as she could muster, "didn't mean to frighten you. I'm sorry..." she could she Whumpee's muscles relax slightly at this, "so uhh, whatcha got there, bud?" She looked back at his hands. Whatever it was, it was either shimmery or very shiny, based on what was visible and wasn't covered in red.

Whumpee followed her gaze, looking down at their hands. After a short moment, smiled proudly and extended their arms out as far they could reach, almost like they were offering whatever they had to Medic and they looked back up at her.

"Look!" Their voice was still as soft and quiet as ever but there was something new to it. Emotion, but not fear or sadness. They sounded happy, "I cleaned it up!"

Medic had to force herself to keep a normal, casual pace as she walked over to Whumpee to finally see what they had. As she did, she looked back and saw Caretaker with their head on the table, likely fighting back nausea. When she turned her head back to Whumpee, she was hit with an awful metallic smell. Any doubt about the red liquid being blood dissipated immediately and she looked at Whumpee's outstretched hands. They were holding broken and bloody glass.

"Oh god."

"Are you happy?"

The innocence not only in the question itself, but the voice as well had Medic nearly smiling, despite the current circumstances. They had a way of doing that to her and despite Whumpee only being a few years younger than Medic, she saw him almost as a little sibling who needed to be guided through this horrible world.

How could she say no? But at the same time she couldn't encourage this... "Listen Whumpee, I need you to throw the glass away, and go to the restroom. I'll meet you in there with my medical kit. Then while I fix you up, we need to talk about this."

Whumpee's smile dropped and they lowered their hands, "you're... mad?" two words was all it took to break Medic's heart. This whole 'caregiving' thing really was a rollercoaster in many ways.

"No, no. Bud, of course I'm not mad. Just... I just don't like seeing you hurt. Can you please do what I asked?"

Whumpee lowered their head and began shuffling toward the trash can, "yes ma'am. Sorry."

"It's alright. No need to apologize," she disappeared in search of her med kit.

When Whumpee made it to the trash, they winced as they dropped the glass into it and began dusting their hands off to get the excess out of their fresh wounds. It took a minute for them to painstakingly pick all the small shards out. By the time they were done, there wasn't an inch of skin showing through the blood, from the tips of their fingers, to their wrists. They knew this would either please or anger Medic. They weren't sure which though. Maybe she liked to see them bleed, like Whumper. Or maybe she was more concerned about Whumpee making a mess. They hoped the former.

After looking at their hands for a moment, they turned to go find Medic in the restroom like they were instructed. As they did, they noticed Caretaker lying face down on the table.

Strange. Maybe they fell asleep, they wondered, but as they passed, Caretaker's head shot up making Whumpee jump. Just as they were about to say something, Caretaker looked at Whumpee's hands and gagged, lying their head back down. After a moment of labored breathing, they spoke sternly, "Go... go find Med- Medic..."

"Yes, Caretaker..."

So don't go to the restroom. Just find Medic. But she said... no. That doesn't matter. Just do as Caretaker says.

They peered around every room they passed on their way down the hall, but Medic wasn't in any. They began to get nervous. If they couldn't do as Caretaker said, should they try what Medic said? Or should they be honest and just accept their punishment?

They chose the former. Daring to hope that they'd be granted mercy if they found Medic in the restroom. As they inched out of the hall, they saw Caretaker was gone from the table. Good, maybe they wouldn't get caught disobeying them.

They hurriedly made their way across the dining room and into entry way of the large apartment. They were beyond relieved when they poked their head into the restroom and saw Medic there, waiting patiently while she laid out gauze, anti-septic, and tweezers, still digging around for the medical tape.

"M-medic?" there was a knot in their throat making their voice sound squeaky.

She turned around and gave a gentle smile, "Hey, you okay?" her face almost immediately fell as she noticed their bloodied hands, which they had cupped to their chest protectively as they shook like a leaf. They whimpered quietly.

"Sorry, Medic. I-I'm feeling uhm..." they subconsciously shook one of their hands-- a nervous habit of theirs-- and flung drops of blood onto the nearest wall. Medic chose not to say anything though, she could clean it up later.

"What are you feeling, hun?" she beckoned for them come sit on the toilet, which they did very slowly and hesitantly. She couldn't help but feel as though everything she had thought this morning about them getting better was a lie, now. And that thought broke her heart more than it already was by seeing Whumpee's state.

They cleared their throat as they sat, "I think- I think I feel confused and uh, scared? I don't really know though. I'm not very good at knowing..." they fidgeted uncomfortably.

"That's alright, Whumpee. Thanks for trying, though. Can I see your hands?"

They showed her their shaky and bloody hands, stretching their arms out to full length again, "You're still not mad... right?"

She took their hands and leaned them gently over the counter and to the sink, turning the faucet on, keeping a low flow of luke-warm water as she rinsed their hands off. As she did, she noticed them wincing and she could slowly start to see why, as several deep cuts were uncovered.

"Why'd you do that, Whumpee?" she prompted, as gently as usual. She began carefully massaging their hands, doing her best to avoid the cuts. Trying to get as much blood off as possible, while inspecting to see if there were any shard or slivers of glass left over.

There was a pause as Whumpee thought, "sorry... I just wanted to clean up the mess I made. I didn't mean to upset you... and I made more of a mess too. I dripped everywhere, I think."

"That's okay. I'm not mad, I promise. Just worried. I don't like when you're hurt," she explained, turning off the water and reaching for a dark towel.

Whumpee flinched again as she dried their hands. Though they were still tense from the obvious pain, Medic noted their more relaxed posture.

"Is Caretaker mad?" they questioned hesitantly.

"Of course not. Why would you think that?" she held the towel under Whumpee's hands and reached for the anti-septic, "this is gonna sting a bit, okay? It'll help you not get sick though."

Whumpee nodded, closing their eyes tight and clenching their jaw. They gasped and groaned as the liquid foamed and dripped. After a minute, Medic dabbed their hands dry once more.

“You okay?” She looked into whumpees watery eyes.

They nodded, “I know caretaker is mad because they won’t look at me.”

“They’re not mad, just squeamish,” not finding any more shards, she chose to skip the tweezers and began wrapping whumpees hands.

“Oh… are they okay?”

“Yeah, they just need a break. They’ll be okay in a little bit.”

“Okay… that’s good.”

Medic smiled softly as she finished, “all done. Be gentle with yourself while you heal, alright?”

“Yes, Medic,” they held their hands up to the light, examining them, “thank you.”

“Anytime. Let’s get you some breakfast now. I’ll clean up here and you can either look for Caretaker, or wait at the table for one of us. Your choice.”

“I’ll wait. I need to be patient.”

“Sounds good! I'll be there as soon as I'm done in here.”

Whumpee smiled and excitedly hopped up, heading for the table.

As Medic wet the dark towel and began scrubbing, she couldn't help but smile to herself. Maybe Whumpee was getting better. Not in the ways she had thought, but she reminded herself that any progress was good.

One would say that the experience could have made me used to the sight of blood. But, it didn’t. The gamble of opening my eyes to blood or not traumatized me. Up until now, when I’d be having a runny nose at night, I would almost always turn on my phone’s flashlight to check if it is blood. I’m not grossed out by the dark thick liquid, no. It’s the implication that something serious might have happened.  

Like that one time in grade school where I wondered what would it feel like to run with my eyes closed. The feeling was liberating, with the wind against my body. It was like that scene from The Sound of Music where Julie Andrews was singing on a grass field with her hands held up. But it didn’t felt so freeing when I smacked my head into a concrete post. I bounced back and fell on my behind, eyes still closed. There was that horrifying moment again. The uncertainty of what liquid was dripping from my nose. Was it blood? It was. I saw it coating my hands again. Like those many nights. There was blood. Something terrible happened.  

I didn’t know why everything was hazy and I felt so sleepy. My aunt, who was taking care of us that time, had found me and wiped all the blood from my face that I couldn’t bear to do. The parents and yayas waiting for their children along with Aunty Upeng were alarmed once they saw my state. The clinic was closed during that hour as it was exams week, so the parents fussed over me while I drowsily leaned over my aunt. They bought an ice candy from the canteen and put it to my forehead which apparently had a bump. I also remembered throwing up a lot. In the bathroom. In the pavement. Even in the tricycle we rode on the way to the hospital. Aunty Upeng apologized to the driver, but I still felt bad. I didn’t say anything though. I just wanted to sleep back then. But I was continuously woken up by my aunt who was dragging me to the hospital where my mother was waiting.

I had a concussion that afternoon. And apparently, I also broke my nose. Fortunately, I wasn’t confined which relieved me so much from my worries. However, when I discovered we were going to the hospital, I panicked. Hospitals are for emergencies, accidents, deaths. It’s the place I’ve been confined in too much in my life with lingering scents of rubbing alcohol, squeaky wheels from metal carts containing rattling needles and syringes that have been injected on my arms too much too count. The main problem I had that time was if I were to be confined and injected with an IV drip. Not my concussion or broken nose. It was the IV drip and how they would puncture my skin. The act of opening my flesh with a sharp object.

My fear of blood came hand in hand with hospitals. When I see blood, I think of being in the hospital. I hate how stark white hospitals are. White bed sheets and pillowcases. White walls and floors. White uniforms. White cottons, tissues, and bandages. I hate it so much because dark red blood looks so glaringly daunting on white objects or surfaces. Somehow, it amplifies its presence in a room. And it is inevitable to encounter blood while in a hospital because of my frequent nosebleeds and injections. I’ve learned the skill of not moving my left arm for hours because of the fear that blood would appear on the tube connecting my hand and the IV drip.  

This reminds me of how I had always been longing to donate blood in a blood drive despite this fear of mine. But I’ve always made up excuses whenever there’s a blood drive in the university. I’d say, “I’m busy with school work that day” or “I slept late last night, it’s not allowed”. The truth is I’m really just avoiding this confrontation with blood and needles. Will I faint? My friend told me once how her blood stopped flowing out because she was nervous. Would I experience the same thing? It would be like an IV drip all over again. Only this time, it won’t be clear liquid flowing from the tube. It would be what I was avoiding: dark red warm blood.

Mama convinces me to this day to take up Medicine and be a doctor. This is the very reason why I didn’t and would not. I still panic even when the blood does not come from me.

Like that one night when my family and I were on the road to eat somewhere after the Sunday mass. There was no traffic because Papa was driving smoothly. I was at the back leaning in between the driver’s seat and passenger seat in front and we were all happily talking over each other; each with our own different stories to tell. I remembered someone was singing – it could have been me – and was abruptly cut off. I was thrown forward the same time Papa hit the brakes and something crashed into the front of the car. Thankfully, I had taken a hold of the car seats so my face was still intact. No noses broken.

               I remembered Papa being calm, despite having a known personality of being too sensitive and caring for the condition of our car. He exits the vehicle along with Mama, then, there was a blur of commotion outside. My brothers and I were asked to be seated at the back of the vehicle and the car’s sliding door was opened and a man was laid on the floor of the car. The door wasn’t closed the whole ride to the hospital as his feet dangled over. We were discouraged to ask questions or look over the man. But I had seen his foot. I was overtaken with the feeling that I should not move or else something will happen. The seats covered the rest of his body, but I saw his foot. His were wounded; blood and dirt covered his foot to his ankles. It was unmoving. And it looked pretty pale. To this day, I never knew if he survived. All I knew was that he was the one who hit our car with his motorcycle because he had been drinking. I wasn’t the one bleeding that night, but the image still haunts me to this day.  

“But what about your period?”

I’d scoff. Maybe if they’re an acquaintance or someone I just met, I would politely smile. This question really comes off as patronizing for me when one asks this in a teasing manner. It’s like assuming someone with glasses cannot see the number of fingers you’re holding up. They can see it, only a lot less clearly. People seem to exaggerate the irrationality of these situations and try to know to the extent of these irrationalities mockingly. Like maybe they’d expect me to faint then die while sitting on a toilet upon seeing my bloody underwear. Or maybe they’d expect that I’d avoid going to the toilet and handling the bloody mess. Yes, blood makes me anxious but I have no choice but to get used to the sight of it. Actually, period blood does not alarm me for the most part. But sometimes, I’d be horrified by the amount of blood leaving my body. Or flushing the toilet becomes dreadful because I have to take in the sight of a bloody toilet. It’s similar to saying “Oh you don’t like blood? But it’s inside you….” then comes their how-is-this-possible­-I-need-to-know-more gaze with a little bit – just a little bit – of judgement in their eyes. This tiny glimpse of judgement would rile up something in me, a need to justify my fear, despite knowing that I don’t need to defend myself. I’d explain anyway.

What people typically assume is that blood scares me because it’s blood; it’s gross. What they don’t know is that bleeding gives me an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and panic because the feeling is so much like the idea that something is leaking from you. And it’s oozing in the colour of a hauntingly dark red, something-terrible-happened red, dangerous glaring red. Might it be from a cut or wound, a part of you has been forcefully opened and that scares me more than anything. The body should be intact in the assurance that you’re okay. Blood is supposed to be INSIDE the body. The intact body. And when it’s not, it automatically turns on a panic alarm in my head with the bold words of SOMETHING HAPPENED flashing on and off in my mind because blood’s not inside me where it should be. It has made its way outside through an opening I don’t know where. I’m open somewhere. Vulnerable. The very thing that sustains my life is flowing out. And the idea that it’s already outside my body leaves me a feeling of not being in control. I don’t just simply cover up a wound with a band aid and call it a day. I still have to sit for a while and convince myself I’m not dying.

When I say blood, I also mean pain. Of flesh being sliced opened. People would tell me stories about how they were cut or wounded by an accident and I’d imagine the whole thing. Mama once told me a story of how she cut her arm up because she draw her arm back while a jewelry box closed on her, so the clasp tore her skin open. My mind would close in on the description of her flesh being torn and imagine it in every detail. The smooth flesh being run over with a sharp metal. At first, nothing will happen, or at most, the affected, marked skin would slowly turn pale like a chalked sketch of the outline of the cut. A few seconds in, little droplets of blood will seep through, slowly peeking out from the cut as if asking for a permission to come out. You move the injured arm and blood will flow out of it like dark red wine slowly dripping from a bottle. You move it more, and then you can see the skin opening, forming a mouth. Through the blood, you can see bits of pink flesh, the texture and appearance so similar to tocino ­– not the ones you order in carinderias where the pork is still a vibrant light pink; it’s the colour of the tocino you cook at home where you overcook it somehow because it tastes sweeter when burnt. The colour bordering between pink and red. I could immediately visualize it happening to my own skin. And then, a phantom of the pain would follow. The intensity of the phantom pain dependent on what my phobia tells me how painful it must be. That’s the routine. As a joke, my friends would share images of their fingers cut up or hold them up to my face when we’re together. As a habit, I’d clench my fists, my nails forming red little moon marks on my palms. I’d look away, of course. But my mind has already conjured up a visualization of how it came to be. It gets easier once the phantom pain pass.

When I say blood, I also mean death. I do not mean that bleeding automatically leads to death. It is the possibility of death that haunts me. That when I see blood, I am filled with the overwhelming panic to not die. So, maybe I fear blood because it implies a painful death. Maybe what I really fear is the thought that the last thing I’d feel when I’m alive is excruciating pain from mutilation, from my own flesh being torn open. But then again, I also fear the uncertainty of death. Death. How peaceful I envision it to be, but also how disruptive it is to a life I like to control. Dying means confronting the fact that I didn’t get to live my life the way I wanted it to be. Seeing blood haunts me with the concept of life flashing before my eyes. I wouldn’t say that mine would be boring to watch because I’m sure the flashes would contain several experiences of mine that I enjoyed. Flashes of me in the middle of a laugh while on a road trip with my family because Mama was teasing Papa’s funny English pronunciations. Flashes of me waking up on our terrace to the view of a pink sunrise; my friends still asleep on the mess of pillows and blankets I snatched from my room and laptops still open after a night of editing a film. Flashes of me floating peacefully on my back in Pasacao; my body being rocked by the constant waves of the sea and my ears drowned out by the sound of shallow waters, as I stare up the night sky and try to find a Scorpio constellation I once memorized from ninth grade. Seeing blood taunts me with the possibility that these could stop existing in an instant.

However, these flashes are not only limited to the good parts. I expect a re-run of several of my breakdowns; those caused by little petty things, like not getting to watch Jojo Circus peacefully because of a noisy construction happening in our living room, to those breakdowns caused by serious things like my parents constantly comparing me to my neighbour who could sing flawlessly to the high notes of Aegis songs or to my classmate who have been the top of my class since kindergarten. Maybe the flashes could surprise me and show me memories I’ve repressed and pushed too much to the back of my brain in hopes of completely erasing it from my memory because of how painful it had been. Flashes of a dark, cold room; my bed a witness to many of my sleepless nights asking God the million dollar question “what is the point anymore?” Or maybe a glimpse of Mama having a panic attack, mumbling “ayoko na, beh. ayoko na” while I have to hold her and calmly tell her to breathe with me as I desperately tried to keep my lips from trembling or my voice from cracking. God forbid the flashes show me a hunched figure of myself on the floor of our dorm’s cr, staring blankly at the white tiles, a razor in hand. Pathetic. Vulnerable. Not in control.

And then, death starts to look like a good idea. I never even willingly made the choice to be in this merciless rollercoaster ride we call “life” in the first place. So is it really scary to stop existing? Death seems so quiet and still. A possibility of nothingness. And in my life, there have been too many instances where I am desperate for that stillness, that nothingness. Buried underneath all the sunshine and rainbows we constantly try to project in our lives, I have been yearning to stop feeling altogether. I am reminded that maybe, just maybe, a part of me actually craves death. If it takes pain to stop existing, to stop feeling, then a painful death looks a lot less threatening and more inviting.