post op

My only memory I have of it is of me sitting on the kitchen counter in my childhood home. My mom was there, and there seemed to be blood everywhere. I was wearing shorts and there were blood stains on my thighs. And the smell. I could smell the blood. Richly. Deeply. Both within and without my nose.

The story goes that I was just walking around minding my own business when an evil softball hit me in the face. I think I was about 3 years old.

Thankfully, I have absolutely no recollection of actually being smacked in the face. I imagine that it wouldn't be pleasant. But I just remember sitting there all bloody on the kitchen counter. I don't recall that I was crying. I was just sitting there, smeared about in my own blood, as Mom took care of things. That's what moms are for. Cleaning up blood and stuff.

Unless it's not that bad. Unless it was brought on by oneself.

Yesterday, I was at the stove stirring up some sloppy joes when Meego walked in with a concerned look on his face. I could tell something was up.

Yes. He had a tampon stuck up his nose.

Okay, so before your brains start creating these images of female hygeine products and strings dangling from the nostril and applicators washing up on the beaches, recall the definition of "tampon":

"Tampon: A tampon is a pack or pad used to plug, to stanch,

to stop the flow of blood or other fluids. The tampon may be

made of cotton, sponge, or another material. Tampons serve

in surgery to control bleeding. Likewise, with nosebleeds...."

And no, he didn't say, "Mom, I have a tampon stuck up my nose", I just thought I'd use actual medical terminology.

He'd gotten a bloody nose, took the appropriate action of shoving a tampon up the offending nostril, except he shoved it too far and left no extraction handle. Then, I'm guessing, in his attempts to remove it, he managed to only push it up further.

I decided that this was a teachable moment.

Since he wasn't just 3 years old, and since he hadn't been an innocent victim, and since he didn't have blood gushing, I basically told him that he'd made that bed, now go sleep in it. In other words, he should try to get it out himself. That would learn him to not do the no-extraction-handle again.

After much snorting and blowing and sneezing and whining, the tampon had not budged a whole lot. Finally, Chaco, being the control freak he is, took matters into his own hands. He took my tweezers - MY tweezers! The ones that keep me from being all unibrow! - and adeptly extracted the offensive tampon.

He went on to describe the extraction in much detail as we lost our appetites for sloppy joes.

I think Meego learned his lesson. As for Chaco, I think he could make a very skilled surgeon some day. If he wasn't such a techno-geek. And lazy.
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