Warning: This story is not for the faint-of-heart and contains some slight, graphic detail. It is, however, much to the author’s chagrin, a true story. Proceed at your own discretion.

There is nothing like a trip to the Emergency Room, on a Saturday night, no less, to bring a couple together. Talk about your perfect bonding experience.

The day started pleasantly and productively with no indication that the evening would end with cross words, wounded pride, and hurt feelings. But such is life, and matrimony.

The air was chilly outside, and the heat was just cranking up inside. The perfect recipe for disaster and my decades’ old affliction: Epistaxis, commonly known as a nose bleed.

When I say decades, I literally mean almost 40 years ago, or at least I like to take it back that far for dramatic flair. The cause: an initial introduction to skiing. The first time I hit the ski slopes was in high school, experiencing the thrill and exhaustion with a good friend. After numerous trips up and down the slopes, she proceeded to whack me in the nose with her ski poles as we got off the lift.

We were hysterical. Laughing until we were crying. My nose started to bleed upon impact and continued to bleed all the way down the mountain. It was such a memorable event for both of us (I’m not sure why exactly…) that it still gets mentioned when we see each other at class reunions.

To me, although not scientifically proven, that was the beginning of Epistaxis, although I’ve only just learned the term. It has haunted me ever since when the weather changes; the climate gets cold, the heat goes on, my nose starts to bleed. Without warning, inconveniently, annoyingly.

It’s not so chronic that it disrupts my daily life, yet it’s infrequent enough that I forget about my impairment and am always taken by surprise, like I was on Saturday night. But what really caught me off guard was the severity of it (another wonderful attribute of aging, perhaps?), which takes me to the point of the story: the trip to the ER.

Still safely at home, I began the night time ritual of brushing my teeth, washing my face, stopping my nose from….oops! That’s not part of my routine! Thirty minutes into my feeble attempt to ‘stop the bleeding’ I calmly said to my spouse, “You might have to take me to the Emergency Room.” Sadly, it’s my first labor experience all over again. He’s soundly asleep, slumbering like there’s no tomorrow, as I pace, always with a Golden retriever at my heels. I want to scream and shout because, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I need some soothing, as with labor, only this time it’s a benign nose bleed. Clean-up in aisle one! I could really use a mop here!

He reassures me from the early stages of sleep that he will take me to the ER when I’m ready, just wake him up. Ahem. I’ve heard this statement before, twenty-years ago to be exact.

I remain calm. I am always calm. No need to panic. Yet.

Fifteen more minutes into the Epistaxis event, and I’m halfway out the door. But Sleepy hears me trying to make my great escape – my keys are in my hand, people, so I am ER bound – and Sleepy insists on riding with me. I’m already in the driver’s seat, so he doesn’t have a choice except to be the co-pilot. As we pull out of the driveway, he mumbles how he left his phone at home…you were sleeping, remember?

This was not my first trip to the Emergency Room; I have been here a time or two with various family members, so I know my way around. It was, however, my first time as the patient.

More squabbling as I insist on signing myself in under my own faculties. I drove here, after all, so I want to prove I am more than capable. Upon using the communal stylus to scribble my imaginary signature on the little screen, the staff immediately sanitizes it and the surrounding area. I’m a mess. Sleepy is concerned the staff will think he punched me in the nose. Duh. I’d be bawling if that were true.

I now shame him even more, poor Sleepy, because I banish him to the waiting room. The staff senses tension but dotes on me because I’m the one who needs medical attention. By the time the physician’s assistant tends to me, my nose has finally gone into remission. Now it’s my turn to be sullen.

Still, he orders up a prescription to sterilize the area, and I realize this is going to take some time. I text Sleepy, only to realize after I hit SEND that he doesn’t have his phone. Ugh. I’m reduced to groveling and ask the staff to fetch him.

Sleepy sheepishly goes home to retrieve his phone. We live a convenient two miles from the ER, so he’s back in a flash only to find me with some medicinal cotton stuffed up my right nostril. Saturday nights don’t get more romantic than this.

When I am finally released, I swallow my pride and thank Sleepy for his assistance. In my quest to appear ‘tough,’ I neglect the fact that this is all he might be capable of – accompanying me. He made sure I was safe. I accept that. And really, isn’t that worth something?