exploring the depths

    Had a weird déjà vu moment last night in the shower. No, it wasn't "I think I've showered before." I was washing my face, rather quickly, and flashed back to one afternoon during my junior year in college. I was living with three friends--we'll call them Ann, John, and Head--in a rat-hole apartment a couple of blocks from campus. There were four apartments in the house: two girls lived on the second floor, a guy/girl couple lived on the main floor, two guys lived in the "garden" (i.e. basement), and we had a sort of slice off the back of the house. Only two rooms in the apartment were on the same level; everything else was connected by stairs...or ladders. At its widest, the apt. couldn't have been more than 12 feet across. Ann and I shared a bedroom (though not a 'level'--my bed [really just a bare mattress] was on a bunk built into the wall about four feet above floor level of the rest of the bedroom, accessible by a ladder), John had his own across the hall (though to get there from our room, a set of stairs was necessary), and two more sets of stairs below, Head had a bedroom that had been built by dividing the living room in half. Up one-half flight from there (and under the main stairs) was our only storage on the "main" floor. Another half-flight led to the kitchen. From there, it was down two stairs into the hallway (not wide enough for a man to walk comfortably), at the end of which was a vanity, because it would not fit into the incredibly tiny 3/4-bathroom, which was probably not more than 4 feet square. Yes, there was a sink, stool and shower in that little space.    

    Hell of a lead-in to my story, since that shower is where the action took place. Oh, I have your attention now?

     I'd just started dating a guy and was still in the stage of trying to impress him, mostly by behaving in ways that were totally unlike me--like being on time and willing to do all sorts of things (like volunteering) that are not in my ordinary social range. On the particular day in question, he was coming over to pick me up and we were driving someplace together, so I needed to be ready at a specific time. I'd dawdled and procrastinated and suddenly it was way past time to be in the shower. According to custom in our apt., it was totally appropriate for this guy to let himself in and just wait for me if I didn't hear him come in, so I knew he'd be fine waiting for me, but I didn't want to make us too ridiculously late for wherever we were headed. Therefore--

    I hopped into the shower and started madly working through the usual routine. Shampoo I., wash, rinse, shampoo II., wash remainder, rinse, condition, wash face, rinse, done. It all went along fine until I heard a noise in the apt. and my heart started racing; I knew it was him, that I was even later than I'd thought, and that I had to step it up. Just then, I was starting stage #8. Squirted some face goop into my hand, smeared it on my face, moved it around...enough..., turned into the spray of the shower to rinse it off, and brought up my hands to aid the process.

    Only, somewhere in there, I managed to clip the edge of my nostril with my pinkie nail. (My finger nails were remarkably long and strong at the time.) Without realizing that I'd done it, or maybe even knowing it but without realizing the eventual impact, I continued what I'd begun: I made that universal up-and-down motion on my face, rinsing the soap from my skin and out of my eyes. Just, with one pinkie sort of, um, slammed up as far as it would go into my nostril. By the time it consciously registered, it was far too late to do anything about it. It didn't hurt at that point. In fact, it was surreal. I had to think about disengaging my finger from my nose.

    Once I did that, it was as if a dam had broken. There was blood EVERYWHERE. When I looked down at my finger, not only was it coated with blood, but the end was pinkish and a little meaty-looking; I decided that it was probably brain tissue. I've had many, many nosebleeds in my life, but none come anywhere close to that one: blood was *spewing* out of my head. It was almost funny, and I simply watched for a while. Until I realized:     

     Oh, crap. He's waiting!

    I finished rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and got as much blood off my skin as possible. I wrapped my hair in a towel and myself in another, and looked for something to stanch the flow of blood. There was nothing in the bathroom for that. I mean, zero. We were out of TP, there were no Kleenex (of course), and I was already wearing the only two towels in the room.

    I walked into the kitchen. My fairly new boyfriend was sitting at the breakfast bar, reading the campus newspaper. He turned to say Hi, and recoiled in horror. "Wha--?"

    It was a long time before I told him the whole story. How could I? He was studying to be a psychologist.

    Later this week, I'll comb through photographs from that era. There should be something worth scanning & sharing.