As a young girl, blood fascinated me. Perhaps due to my early fondness for vampiric literature,1 I never felt bothered by its aroma or flavor. I even recall—on multiple occasions—bragging to my friends that I loved blood, that it tasted like a sweet penny. Moreover, since my name is Bella, anytime I introduced myself to a new acquaintance between 2008 and 2011, I’d invariably be met with the same response: “Oh, like from Twilight?” I’d smile mysteriously, trying (in vain) to project an air of mystique and live up to my namesake.2 I suppose I should also admit that whenever I obtained a small cut on my hand, I would gently suck on it and ponder what existence must have been like for Edward Cullen.
This pre-teen predilection perplexed my mother given my medical history. Shortly after I turned four, my sister Kiara received a routine shot at the pediatrician’s office. I had tagged along to the appointment. The doctor prepared the needle; my mother perched on a plastic chair; I stood, observing with wide eyes. At the prick of my Kiara’s skin, I grew light-headed and then collapsed. With swift recognition, the doctor turned to my mother and diagnosed me with vasovagal syncope. For the unfamiliar, vasovagal is a condition in which the afflicted individual suffers fainting episodes when met with a certain stimulus—blood, intense emotional distress, and exposure to extreme heat are all common triggers. Heart rate and blood pressure simultaneously plummet, reducing blood flow to the brain, and a loss of consciousness follows. In my case, the sight of blood—in any quantity—stupefied me.
Around the time I stopped looking up to Bella Swan with undue reverence, the movie Soul Surfer premiered. Since streaming was then but a figment of the future, I journeyed to a physical theater with my family to watch the film. Based on the real-life story of surfer Bethany Hamilton (portrayed splendidly by AnnaSophia Robb), the movie depicts Hamilton’s personal and professional struggles after losing her left arm in a fateful, heartbreaking encounter with a fourteen-foot tiger shark. The attack scene spared no detail. As the shark hacked into Hamilton’s arm, copious amounts of blood began streaming into the water, enveloping her body and surfboard in a dye of deep scarlet. In the comfort of the plush theater seats, I felt my hands turn clammy before slipping into unconsciousness. My sister slapped me awake.
Several years later, I traveled to Costa Rica with a middle-school language immersion program. For ten days, I stayed with a host family, attending grade school with my host sister at a sprawling campus in the heart of Alajuela. One day, during science class, a teacher presented us with a whimsical and innocuous enough task: making slime. I’m still unsure why the slime activated my physiological senses for the worst—perhaps it was the rubbery smell, or maybe its squishy, unsettling sonic palette. In any case, as I sat over the ceramic bowl, kneading away, I grew dizzy. Within minutes, I collapsed face-first into my slime and then keeled over sideways. My stool clattered to the ground. I awoke in the infirmary room; my Spanish skills were put to the test as I attempted to describe my vasovagal condition to the school nurse.
On a Saturday morning a few weeks after I returned from the trip, I was awakened by my mother’s piercing cry: “Someone! Help! Hurry!” My mother seldom strays from her strong and stoic nature, so it surprised me to hear that she was choking back tears. I hurled myself down the stairs, where I found her kneeling on the ground, despondent and crying. In her arms helplessly flailed Biscuit, our kind-hearted, ivory-hued Maltese poodle. His blood dripped onto the stone tiles. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was too late—I caught a glance at his ruby-red wounds and my brain began to feel fuzzy. Somehow I held it together, successfully installing myself in the conscious realm. This did not last for long.
As soon as we arrived at the vet’s office, my sentience once more began to waver. Interestingly, this time it was not the sight of blood that spurred my fainting spell, but rather the smell. My nose is assaulted just by thinking of it now—putrid, rotting, fleshy. I also recall the vet flippantly mentioning how he planned to insert a series of tubes into Biscuit’s abdomen to facilitate the filtration of blood and pus. This description, which I found truly impressive in its graphicness, sealed my fate.
I awoke to the sight of four strapping firefighters standing above me and talking in low, husky voices. They smiled when I announced my presence back in the land of the living and promptly peppered me with questions. Did I feel dizzy? Could I stand up? Was it ok if they took my pulse? How long did I think I had been out? I remember feeling upset to have returned to reality. Speaking was an intolerable chore. I wanted to go back to the velvety, pastel-tinted universe of my unconscious mind.
I’ve been baffled to learn that many people have never fainted in their lives. Though it’s been several years since I have had an episode, the peculiar sensation of swiftly descending from waking life into a blackout state is indelibly etched into my memory. It feels the same every time, almost like I enter the same dark room. The mind goes quiet; senses are suspended; thoughts disentangle; fear disintegrates. And there are always stars.
I must confess that Twilight held the top spot on my list for years.
After 2011, I grew tired of this tedious exchange, and gradually began to find the entire franchise rather insufferable.