MY PINK PEONIES

When I was just days shy of six, my mom led me to an untapped patch of land in our front yard and gently helped me press tiny seeds into the moist soil. Every morning, I ran outside looking for signs of life. Then, one spring day, they appeared—my pink peonies. I was struck by the contradiction they carried—soft pink petals, sturdy stems. I didn’t have words for it then, only the certainty that I wanted whatever they possessed.

Though I am small in stature, my family and friends have always seen me as strong. At seven, I fell headfirst off a barstool onto a hardwood floor, only to spring up moments later and announce, “I’m okay.”

So who am I—in their eyes, in my own—when I can no longer bear the cramping, the abdominal pain, and the blood?

I steady myself against the bathroom door frame, but my legs give way beneath me. A scream escapes before I can stop it. Within seconds, my mom scoops me into her blue sedan and races toward the emergency room, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles whiten. Neither of us knows where this road ends.

I freeze when we enter the ER. The young and the old wail around me. Some clutch their stomachs; others wait in wheelchairs or lean on crutches. I fit right in—my body folded in two, my stomach burning.

I really need to see my dad. Hospitals still remind him of losing his own father, who died just hours after being admitted. Even now, hospitals hollow him out. When I finally spot him through the sliding doors, relief rises in my chest—until I see his face. He picks up a Sports Illustrated, turning pages without reading them. Every few minutes, he checks the time.

"Cassi?"

My mom squeezes my hand. Together, we take one last breath before following the nurse behind a flimsy curtain.

She hands me a paper-thin hospital gown. I change—and feel exposed. Before I can settle onto the bed, she threads an IV into my arm and tapes the tubing in place. Cold medicine burns through my veins. I barely have time to adjust when another nurse enters carrying a long plastic tube.

I kick my legs, swing my arms, and flail like a freshly wounded animal.

“Just breathe and swallow.”

The tube slides down my nose and into my throat. I cough, gag, and fight the urge to rip it out. I have never felt so violated.

“Count backward from ten.”

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

The plastic mask presses over my face.

Seven.

Six.

The gas tastes cold and bitter.

Five.

Four.

I want my—

When I wake, fluorescent lights glare overhead. My throat burns. A blood-pressure cuff tightens around my leg while a pulse oximeter glows red against my fingertip. Everything smells like warm plastic.

My mom rushes in. She tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear, and my fingers finally unclench. Then I see my doctor approach.

He stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is as clinical as his posture. He defines my pain before I have begun to understand it myself.

“Ulcerative colitis,” he says. “A chronic autoimmune disease.”

His words hang in the air before they settle.

Chronic.

Ulcers.

Body fights itself.

I suddenly feel naked in biting wind-whipped snow.

No cure. Autoimmune.

My own body no longer knows the difference between me and the enemy.

If I can’t trust my own body, what can I trust?

Who am I if the place I’ve always called home has turned against me?

I am already missing me.

I don’t want to go back to school. There is too much beyond my control that can go wrong. I count sheep as they clear the fence while my alarm clock changes from 11:30 to midnight to 12:30. I keep retreating to the bathroom, finding only momentary relief.

Can I manage school?

Will my friends, who never called while I lay in a hospital bed for a week, still want me?

At six, the alarm clock explodes beside my bed. I bury it beneath my pillow until my mom calls me downstairs. She hands me a tote bag stuffed with wet wipes, air freshener, pads, and a change of clothes.

As we pull into the school’s parking lot, students stand in their usual clumps, laughing through the closed car windows. My chest tightens. I peel off my hat, jacket, and sweater, trying to slow my breathing, but the air still won’t come.

Just take me home.

Please just take me home.

I push through the school’s heavy doors and walk halls that should feel familiar. Instead, everything feels strangely foreign.

For a moment, relief washes over me when I spot my friend Lizzie. She gives me a quick nod before looking away. Then Rosie hurries over, eager to catch me up on the latest gossip.

She never asks how I’m feeling.

High school is exactly the same.

I am not.

Around me, boys slap each other’s shoulders while girls huddle over plans for Spirit Week. Their world has kept spinning.

Mine has stopped.

Three months pass, and I still don’t feel like myself. Each evening, I cross another day off my calendar, as though I am counting down to something instead of living through it. Red, scaly patches spread across my face and neck. Classmates drift a little farther away in the hallways. Even my two best friends lower their heads and look everywhere but my eyes.

I begin withdrawing from my life one piece at a time.

First, I quit Chorale, the after-school singing group I had been so excited to join. Some of the other sopranos subtly pulled away whenever I stood beside them, folding their arms across their chests as though I were contagious.

Soon, even school begins to feel hollow. I still earn A’s, but they no longer mean what they once did. The grades that had always measured my success can’t measure who I’ve become.

I begin pulling away from everyone I love. Their healthy bodies become impossible to ignore. They move through the world effortlessly, never wondering whether their own bodies will betray them before lunch. I envy that freedom more than I know how to admit.

Yet, something stops me from being swallowed whole.

I continue to retreat behind my locked bedroom door and twist the blind shut until morning and night blur together; but, one afternoon, a sliver of light slips through the blinds. It lands on something just outside my window.

My peonies are in bloom.

How have I walked past these peonies each morning and each night so unaware?

When I was six, I saw only their beauty. Now I see their journey. I finally understand what drew me to them all those years ago.

They begin as tightly closed fists, gathering strength beneath each folded petal until, at last, they unfurl toward the light.

For months, I believed my illness had transformed me into someone fragile—someone my own body had abandoned. Standing before my peonies, I realize I’ve confused vulnerability with weakness.

I open the window.

The breeze carries their scent into my room.

I unlock the door.

(2023-2024: Memoir); Gold Key Award

MY PINK PEONIES