Trypanophobia: A Triptych
By Cathleen Davies
Egypt
Your eyes rolled back into your head and for a while everyone could just see the whites. You don’t remember this. You remember sickness. You remember fear. Try not to. It’s best if you don’t remember this.
You were suffering from dehydration. You wouldn’t drink water or take your medication. You wouldn’t eat.
The doctor came into the hotel room and you hadn’t known he was coming. Your family hadn’t told you for a reason. Your arms were too thin for the injection. You cried. Your sister laughed. They had to hold you down because you wouldn’t stop squirming. Your family was so very embarrassed. When the needle entered you, you screamed. You swore you’d never forgive them. It’s best if you don’t remember this.
You were told the sickness was your fault. They were right. You could’ve eaten but you didn’t. Everyone was angry at you. You ruined a nice holiday by being so stubborn. You went back to eating normally as soon as you landed and no one understood why. For a while, everyone hated you. Try not to think about this.
In the holiday photos you looked like a corpse so you made sure to throw them away. You don’t want them to know they were right. It’s best if you don’t remember this.
England
She asks you to inject her. She says it’s fine, she’s let other people do it and now she wants you to. Just in her stomach, right here. She deliberately gained weight because she knew she had to get all these injections when her legs were reset. She calls her stomach her little shelf. It’s cute that way. It makes her not worry so much about getting fat. Yes, she knows she isn’t fat but still…
You don’t have to do it, but it helps her with the pain. It’s worse when she has to do it herself. Actually, she’s gotten used to it now. It was hard at the hospital when the nurses were watching over her to make sure she did it properly and her fingers would slip. Then again, it’s not like she should care about a teeny tiny needle after all this surgery. But it’s funny, isn’t it? Because she does still care. Even when her life is disintegrating and she has to learn how to walk again, she still worries about little things like needles. If you can just hold it, just hold it there. You just have to jab it in and push down on the plunger.
She’s calm. It won’t hurt her. She needs her medication.
You still can’t do it. You hand her back the needle and watch her do it to herself.
Sorry, you tell her, it’s just too weird.
She asks you if you’re scared of needles. You watch her pull it out of her skin without flinching. You’re not scared of needles, no, you tell her. You don’t tell her that you’re terrified of screams.
China
They need to make sure you aren’t HIV positive. If you are, they’ll deport you. It was part of the medical test and you wonder if that’s homophobic or if you’re being too sensitive again. You watch the needle going into your forearm now. You are no longer squeamish. You’ve done this a million times.
First it was hepatitis,
Then rabies,
Japanese Encephalitis…
All those travel necessities. You want the nurse to think you’re brave even though you’re an adult and you don’t speak the same language. You stare at the needle as you watch it go in. The skin puckers up slightly around the point like a splinter. It’s yanked out efficiently when she’s done. You smile, stand up with a cotton ball taped to your arm, thank her with incorrect pronunciation.
The hysterical girl is in the blood-booth at the end. She won’t stop shaking. Her cries make you flinch. Someone explains it to you. Phobia, they say. She got a doctor’s note telling them that she’d already been checked in England and not to do a repeat. The Chinese doctors won’t accept it.
At this point she starts screaming.
You want to tell the screaming girl it doesn’t hurt, but you don’t, because that’s not the point. You want to tell her that it’s over in a few seconds, but you don’t do that either because, again, that’s not what matters. You want to smile at her as though you understand, but know she won’t think you understand at all.
It’s time to move onto the ultrasound ward. They need to examine your empty womb. In the hallway you hear her scream again. Your body inexplicably starts aching. It’s best if you don’t remember this.
THE END
Author Bio: Cathleen Davies is a writer, researcher, and teacher from East Yorkshire, England. Her work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies. She writes literary fiction for LGBTQ+ audiences.