Just a Nosebleed

Every girl needs a light pink nightgown with frilly satin edging on the sleeves and the hem and an applique of ballerina slippers on the front, with matching real ballerina slippers, as part of their back to school ensemble. You'll never wear it to the classroom, but surely the improved rest brought on by knowing you look your ballerina-best all night long will have an impact on learning and attention span.

Shut up.

Frances got a ballerina nightgown during her school shopping spree, ok? And it looks adorable, and she looks adorable in it, and she loves to do ballet in it by doing arabesques and twirling around with a leg in the air (I think I need to sign her up for dance classes). And Tuesday night she wore it to bed, though it was much too warm, because she couldn't bear yet to sleep in anything else.

Near one o'clock, there was a loud thump and a scream. I rushed into her room and turned on the light to see Frances struggling on the floor in a small pool of her own blood. She had fallen off her bed and landed on her face, and a river was pouring from her nose and her mouth. It was all over her new nightgown, and shortly all over me, as I picked her up and settled her against my shoulder, still screaming. She could not be comforted and the blood did not seem to stop coming. I called telehealth--how can I tell if her nose is broken? I asked. Can I have your name, your daughter's name, current address, phone number, date of birth, compelte medical history please? said the nurse. Eventually he expressed an opinion that I should take her to the hospital.

Shit, I thought. Fuck. Shit. I peeled off her nightie carefully without touching her face and set it to soak in cold water. I mopped the obvious blood puddles off the floor, cleaned her up as well as I could, put on some blue jeans, and took my crying girl into the night. To walk to the hospital.

Subway? Closed. Taxi? Don't have any numbers here yet. Car? What car? It's not as bad as it sounds, it's only a few blocks away, it just doesn't seem ideal somehow. Then again, what about the situation was ideal?

I got us outside, in the dark, streetlamps lighting our way while I walked quickly, Frances still on my shoulder. But no longer crying. We talked about how nice the air was, how quiet it was, how strange that no one else was around. We talked about how morning was still very far away and the lights weren't going to turn off soon.

"Are you feeling better, sweetie?" I asked.

"No," she said. "My tummy hurts."

"How about your nose?"

"It's just fine."

"Your tongue?"

"No, it doesn't hurt. It's just fine."

"Your forehead?"

"It's just fine too."

"Your feet and your knees?"

"They are just fine. And this and this and this and this"--here she touched herself all over--"are all just fine. Everything is just fine. Only my tummy hurts."

"Just your tummy?"

"Yeah."

"You know, sweet girl, the tummy ache is from all your crying--from swallowing blood and air and stuff. The doctors at the hospital aren't going to be able to fix it."

"Oh."

"But maybe a few zookies and a drink of apple juice at home can fix it. What do you think?"

"OK!"

So home we went, and after a long-past-midnight snack of zookies and apple juice, and another bedtime story (this one about brave and strong Princess Frances who fell from the tower window and landed on her head and got a very bad owwie), and a bed rail installed to make sure that never happens again, and more kisses and snuggles, she slept in late and had zookies again for breakfast (maternal guilt can work dietary wonders). While she was at daycare I wrung out her nightgown and hung it on the shower curtain rod to dry.

It, too, is just fine, all the bloodstains gone.

Posted by Andrea at September 6, 2007 6:33 AM under Decision 2007

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