The Nosebleed

Originally published in Fictionable Magazine

It begins with two drops of red on the crisp, cold sphere of a snow cone, two roses blooming unseasonably in a winter field, followed a moment later by a warm trickle moving languidly from the nostril to the upper lip—a nosebleed, likely brought on by the hot weather and the sudden cold of the snow cone; surely nothing to worry about . . .

To the afflicted young man, however, it is no small matter. And so, after spending a considerable amount of time locating a rubbish bin for his snow cone, he takes himself without delay to the nearest hospital for treatment.

Arriving at the hospital, he joins the line for registration, pinching his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger. When his turn comes, he answers the haggard receptionist's questions in a high, nasal tone, explaining that he has a nosebleed. At the mention of the word, and without so much as looking up from her computer, the receptionist rolls her eyes and asks him if he has tried pinching it. He answers shrilly that he has, but adds that it doesn't seem to have done any good. Heaving a sigh, the receptionist types his details into her computer and tells him to take a seat and wait to be called—though it may be some time, she adds, as there are patients with more serious complaints who will take priority.

The young man takes himself to a plastic chair and, still pinching his nose, waits to be called. He looks about him and finds himself one among many in the somnolent antechamber to the examination room. After many hours, he drifts into an uneasy sleep and dreams—

—of visiting his mother's grave, while all about him in the churchyard, doctors in white coats dig up the sleeping dead, and, with some miraculous curative poured down their worm-gnawed throats, one by one they bring the corpses back to life, each mottled grey face blooming to a warm glow of peaches and cream; until, only his mother remains in her grave, stubbornly unresurrected, while the risen dead sing happy songs and begin a dance around a newly-erected maypole, and all the young man can hear is the thumping of their dancing feet, the clapping of their hands—

—and the tapping of a finger on his shoulder.

He wakes to find a woman with one arm in a sling rapping an urgent rhythm with her unafflicted hand and, when assured that he has come to his senses, pointing with her unafflicted finger in the direction of his groin. The young man looks southwards and finds his shirt and trousers are sodden with blood and, on touching his nose, that a strong and steady flow is now leaking from his nostrils. He attempts once more to stem the blood with a firm pinch, but the bleeding has become more serious—so much so that it overwhelms his fingers and seeps through them like flood water leaking from a dam.

Careful not to slip in the slick, crimson pool that has accumulated at his feet, he once again approaches the receptionist, and after apologising for interrupting her work, asks when she thinks he might be seen—you see, he has already been waiting for quite some time and his situation has become more serious. But instead of giving him an answer she asks that, please, would he mind sitting down and exercising a little patience? A nosebleed is not a serious complaint and there are others with more pressing injuries ahead of him in the queue.

The young man wishes she would simply look at him and see that the bleeding has become quite serious indeed—though he admits he is no doctor. The receptionist insists that she is simply following the protocols of the hospital, and since, as he says, neither of them are doctors, that following the protocols—put in place by people with whole alphabets of distinguished letters after their names—is doubtlessly the correct thing to do.

Feeling rather cowed, the young man once again returns to his seat, but comforts himself with the assurance that at least he is in the hospital; he will at some point or other be seen. He must be patient. His mother had taught him that patience is a virtue, that time heals all wounds—you must simply wait, and all will be well . . . And yet, had he not also heard her say, when mending his torn socks, that a stitch in time saves nine? What to do with these contradictory platitudes? How, in the end, to behave?

Finally he resolves to focus simply on the clock, to watch the steady passing of time in the hope that it might at least soothe his nerves, and tick by tock the inexorable motion of the hands woo him once again into reverie, and he dreams of—

—Niagara. Of the first trickle of water that seeped from the rock and began its long, arduous journey to become the great cascade. Of its obstinate onward push through boulder fields and mountains, with nothing but the will of gravity to pull it onward, onward to the inevitable cliff face, where, a hundred thousand years in the future—which, to the universe, is but a blink of an eye—it would become a raging torrent, falling with the force of a million, million human engines, where people, insignificant people, both brilliantly daring and foolish alike, will go to make their names or else meet their ends between the cold, wet slats of a barrel. And there he is, on the bank, he and his barrel; in he steps, pulls down the lid, and . . . over he goes; he can hear the rushing of the mad white water, the splintering of the barrel, the crash—

—as the clatter of a buzzer wakes him, and a name, not his own, is announced as "Next!" A man with a severe limp wades to the holy gates of the examination room, up to his ankles in red. The young man puts his fingers to his nose again—so much blood! The nosebleed is a torrent now, as powerful as a burst faucet, and now he, too, wades through the blood—again to the reception desk, where this time he dispenses altogether with politeness: Why has he not been seen yet? It is his right to be seen and treated; what use is a hospital if patients are never seen? Can she not see that his is a serious nosebleed?

To which the receptionist, emboldened rather than chastised by his tone, retorts that even at its most serious, the protocols state that a nosebleed is still not as serious as several other conditions, many of which they have waiting, and please could he sit down and try not to make such a mess, and that she has half a mind to bill him for her shoes, which are new and are now quite ruined. If he is not content to wait, he is welcome to leave. Doubtless the nosebleed will stop in time—nosebleeds always do. As she has said before, it is only a very minor complaint.

He certainly will not leave. It is his right to be treated. He has already done the responsible thing in coming to the hospital and, as he suspected, the nosebleed turned out to be quite serious. But by now the flow of blood from his nose is so strong that the receptionist can barely make out his words, and he cannot quite bring himself to shout or make a scene. So he sits down again, nodding apologetically at the other patients in the waiting room, many of whom now sit with their knees tucked beneath their chins to keep their feet from getting wet.

But he will not leave, he promises himself that at least. He has come to see the doctor. He has been sensible. He has not waited until it was too late. He has not dismissed the drops of blood on the hanky as nothing to worry about. He has not, despite the entreaties of those who love him, said tomorrow—perhaps, tomorrow. I am feeling a little better today. He has not, with small arms around his neck and a son's tears wetting his nightshirt, been too weak to utter a last farewell, only for the final breath to be marred by a fit of coughing and yet more drops of blood on white cloth, like roses blooming in a winter field. Oh, Mother, Mother—why were you so stubborn?

But it is stubbornness—the same genetic stubbornness—that will see him right, will see him treated. Her weakness will be his virtue.

He will not leave.

The clock keeps ticking; the names that are not his own keep coming; the hours pass; the flood rises and rises. Patients wade, then swim, then bob with their heads barely above the blood line to be examined.

And still he will not leave.

The receptionist, holding on tight to a light fixture to keep herself from going under, glares at him, mouthing over the torrent: It is not a serious concern. Please leave if you are tired of waiting.

But he will not leave. Even when the last inch of the waiting room is finally taken by the flood.

He will not leave until he is seen.

END