The Nosebleed Chronicles: 2. Always attend church with a pack of kleenex

I’ve decided to start a new series (or, in my case–just a series, since I’ve never had a series before) on my blog. I call it “The Nosebleed Chronicles”.  If you don’t do well with blood-related stories, you might want to avoid this series.  Just a heads up. You can read part one here.

For a few years, I didn’t realize that nosebleeds were a problem.  So far, it had been a one time deal.  But, oh how wrong I was about to be.

I was 12 or 13–at the front end of the awkward teen years. It was a typical Sunday. I was sitting with my family in Sacrament Meeting and we had just sung the closing hymn.  My family had chosen to sit close to the front of the chapel that fateful day. We were probably 2-3 pews from the pulpit.

As the closing prayer begins, my nose starts to run.  I hurriedly wipe it with my hand (kind of gross, I know). But, it keeps running. Finally, I open my eyes (the prayer is still going) and I realize I’m having a full blown nosebleed.

I have no tissues.

None. Zip. Zero.  Nada.

Turning to my mom, I whisper, “Can I leave? My nose is bleeding.”

No response.

I wait.

I whisper again.

Still no response.

Finally, cupping my nose in my hand, I tap her arm. She peeks at me, and suddenly the situation makes sense to her. She searches through her back for tissues.

No luck.

She points me toward the foyer, just as the prayer is ending. As the congregation says, “Amen.” I’m lifting my skirt in a berry-gathering fashion to catch any blood my cupped hand isn’t,  and running to the nearest bathroom while all of my friends are heading off to Sunday school class.  (Which, of course, was in the same general area.)

Can you say social hardship?

My nose bleeds for a few more minutes. Both my parents are hanging out with me in the single-person, handicapped bathroom.

Once it finally stops, my parents tell me I’m not going to the rest of church, but instead I’m going home, where I can drink lots of fluids, keep my blood pressure low, and have tissues on hand.

Moral of the story: Always have tissues on hand. (A lesson I’ll be rehashing several times during this series.)

P.S. In my mom’s defense, she wasn’t ignoring me, nor was she deaf in her left ear. She just assumed since I was 12 or 13 I wasn’t going to be talking during a prayer and thought it was some other kid behind her.


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