Sanguinary

There are certain things that you assume are only part of being a child. Adults don't experience them. One of those is having a bloody nose.

Yesterday, I discovered the fallacy of that thought.

I was lying in bed, reading something, and felt liquid on my mustache. How odd, I thought; I must have a cold. I touched my lip, and it came away red, and dripping. Few things would get my attention so quickly - I leapt up, went to the bathroom, and stared into the mirror. My face looked pretty much normal, but - was that a smudge under my nose? How very odd. I cleaned it up, and told my wife, whose thought was that it was somehow related to a very dry house.

Well, thats done, I thought, and went back to reading. Two hours later, it happened again. And six hours after that. Just a little, each time, but still: in the words from one of the Superman movies: Blood. My blood.

Last night, feeling that it might happen again - and how much fun would it be to find bloodstains on the sheets? - I packed some tightly wound tissue up in there. First thing I thought of this morning: wonder if I bled last night? Which is an odd way to start the day. Followed immediately by: I hope that tissue doesn't dissolve when I pull it out!