2011.06.21 Text 13 notes

  1. Bleeding profusely and injuring your doctor with ease: A tale of youth

    I love a really great conversation, like anyone with a functioning mouth and brain set should. Last summer was full of them—staying up way too late as we started to delve into the metaphysical, getting a little too loud when debating matters of artistic taste that all come back around to the same places, and simply offering personal stories and anecdotes. This current summer is going in the same direction, and I can’t be happier about it.

    There’s one story I always find myself telling when I’m wrapped up in a conversation with someone who has yet to hear it. Everyone seems to have an odd medical story of some kind, and this is mine. More details of the incident returned to me recently as my mom hearkened back to it when I visited home. Without further introduction, let me tell you the story of the day I sort of learned that I’m sort of a hemophiliac.

    I think of Philadephia summers in a romantic way, despite the dreadful heat and humidity. I think back to when I’d let those days slip away without even caring to slow them down—it seemed to me like they would never end, each day filled with the simple pleasures of being nothing more than just a goofy little kid.

    I woke up one summer morning, ready to beat The Elite Four in my copy of Pokémon Red for the hundredth time, and then probably eat a sandwich. A trip to the bathroom just before the action started put a damper on the whole day, however. To my utter dismay, when I looked into the mirror, I had blood pouring out of my nose.

    Did I happen to mention that I was rather weak when it came to blood at that age? I mean, really weak. I’m sort of shocked I didn’t pass out after I screamed.

    Luckily, my mother was within earshot, and a hospital was within a mile of our house. All would soon be well within only a meager few moments, I thought, hopefully, while my heart beat pounded like a bass drum that shook the whole of my little body.

    Unluckily, we were headed to Nazareth Hospital. While this was my only experience with the hospital, I’m sure it’s really a wonderful place, full of people who really truly care and do what they can for each and every one of their patients, despite the two-and-a-half-star rating that came up when I googled the place.

    Nazareth Hospital tends to service a slightly more older set. As in, they had no idea what the hell to do with this child under the age of ten. While I don’t recall this aspect of the trip, my mother’s assured me of it—they were absolutely terrified of me, this conglomeration of blood, snot, tears, and clear disregard for the ears of those around me. It probably didn’t help that I—allegedly—kicked one of the doctors whilst he was trying to examine me. I was told to be brave, and I suppose I interpreted this a great moment to impersonate the Power Rangers.

    After I was assured I was not, in fact, going to die, and had my blood tested, the fact of my moderate hemophilia came to light. Hemophiliacs lack what I have been told are known as “clotting factors,” and I myself am missing one of them, technically giving me the ability to say that I am among the ranks of the bleeders. The hemophiliacs you’re probably familiar with are most likely missing many more clotting factors than I, so I often feel guilty of owning this title at the end of the story. My nose eventually ceased its unapologetic storm, and I calmed down, a little light-headed.

    I don’t react so dramatically when it comes to blood, R-rated movies and my parents’ taste for crime and medical dramas surely a part of the process while I was growing up. Every time I cut myself shaving and have to hold a tissue to my face for an annoying while, I come back to the thought of my former self in panic, a towel to my face.

    I think about that day so often that I have in my mind as one of those moments of growth, the ones you write essays for scholarships about, romanticized as years go by. Yet, the day after that, I probably hadn’t given it the slightest bit of thought, me probably being preoccupied with how the grass in our yard felt between my fingers and toes. It’s strange how certain things stick in one’s memory well after the fact.

    I still haven’t figured out if my missing clot factor prevents me from donating blood. I sure hope not.