Fright Night

The itchy, burning sensation in my nose was a mystery, nagging me for most of the afternoon. I scratched at the itch, splashed water into my nose, blew it, rubbed at it and scratched some more. The uncomfortable sensation eventually faded and I forgot about it, concentrating on the work at hand.

Not much later and on the way home, there it was again. A slight tickle and a feeling of wanting to blow my nose. On a crowded train there wasn’t much to do other than rub, dab and snort. It would have to wait until I got home.

I blew my nose once more, washed my face and swabbed around in both nostrils with a Q-tip. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to the smoke bombs set off for the fire drill at work earlier in the day. The Q-tip did little good and there wasn’t much more in my arsenal of home remedies. Decided to ignore it and put my mind to the student papers stacked up in my email inbox.

Late in the evening, just before turning off the television and getting up to brush my teeth, I sneezed, and like always, a second time. Looking back to the television I reached up unthinkingly and wiped a finger across my nose. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the red streak on my finger. A drop of blood splashed on my T-shirt. Another drop and I was up scrambling for a towel.

Two red-stained towels, a bowl of ice turned pink and fifteen minutes later the bleeding stopped. Clueless about the itchy nose and with no experience of nosebleeds, a visit to the doctor in the morning sounded like the thing to do.

I couldn’t help recalling a movie seen recently where a man was working at his desk when suddenly, quietly, a drop of blood fell onto the paper he was reading. Unmoving he stared at the blood. Later he went to the doctor with a feeling of alarm. They ran tests and informed him he had only six months to live.

Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up, not sure why but remembering the bloody nose I put a hand to my face and knew instantly it was happening again. This time I could not stop it.

Exhausted and frightened, I sagged over the toilet while heavy plops of blood splashed into the water. There were two blood-soaked towels on the floor and my hands were painted red. I managed to dress with one hand, the other clamping a towel to my nose. Finding a taxi at 3:00 a.m. took time, but I knew the hospital wasn’t far. The driver dropped me at the rear entrance, the most likely looking ‘emergency’ entrance.

I stood leaning on a bell beside the door through which not a soul was in sight. By then I looked like Freddy Krueger after the chase down Elm Street. A nurse finally appeared and ignoring the bloody fright told me Kugayama Hospital did not take emergency cases, that I’d better go to Sasamoto Hospital about five minutes away.

Another taxi. The driver gave me a look of horror before springing out to help me into the back seat. Not really that bad off, still the kind gesture didn’t slip past me.

It was a short wait before a nurse led me back to an eye-ear-nose and throat specialist. The bleeding had stopped by then, but I was grateful to be under the emergency doctor’s gaping instruments. One quick look and he told me to relax, it was nothing serious and easily repaired. “No clue to the itchy nose and the burning,” he explained. “The nosebleed started with a ruptured blood vessel, likely the result of a scratching fingernail…made worse by the sneezes.”

With arcs of electricity arcing off the tip, Doctor Miwa touched a small buzzing cattle prod against the scratched blood vessel, cauterizing it and my mental faculties all in one second. Over in a flash of hellfire, it felt like an old treatment from Abu Ghraib. Pulling me off the ceiling, the genial doctor said I could go home. “You’ll feel much better after a shower and a change of clothes. Don’t worry, the nosebleed won’t come back.”

Home a little before 5:00, I took off my shoes, followed the doctor’s advice and got into the shower, clothes and all.

Off to the Doctor

Coming out of Shinanomachi Station in central Tokyo just before eight in the morning, the crowd is hardly different from other times I’ve been to Keio University Hospital. Mostly elderly people, a dozen or more mothers with children, the ever present sprinkle of blue suited businessmen, but in all that rarely any Western faces. I am the usual exception, which always seems odd at a major and very reputable hospital in a city that includes thousands of Westerners. But such is the case here where for a long time I have come once or twice a year for examination or repair.

Today is another of those days, and this time the appointment is with Dr Kawaguchi in dermatology, another of the annual checkups following a minor fix several years previous. My name is on the appointment list for today, but like everyone else I will wait my turn on a first come, first served basis. That is the system here and in all hospitals in Japan; everyone is used to it and follows protocol without complaint. It is the reason that most want to arrive early.

Inside, I slide my plastic Keio patient’s card into one of the ten or so computers and wait for it to spit out an appointment verification slip. With that, I join the line of people waiting at the reception counter. It opens precisely on the hour and with seven clerks the line moves quickly. In less than five minutes I reach the counter and hand over my appointment slip, patient’s card and insurance card. It’s all quick and efficient and friendly and in the next minute I find a seat near the doors to the dermatology clinic. There are times when seats are scarce, but this time I’m lucky. I have a thirty-five minute wait until the clinic opens at 8:40.

I open a book expecting it to hasten the drag of waiting time, but a conversation between a mother and son seated nearby catches my attention. Within a few lines the book has become a convenient prop to disguise my focus on their conversation. The mother is one in ten million, late 30s, shoulder length black hair, she is wearing a modest dress in navy blue and what were once called ‘sensible’ shoes. She has a mole at the corner of her mouth and a habit of brushing the hair away from her ear as she talks to her son. But it’s more the boy who holds my interest. He looks to be about five years-old and unusually short, his feet hanging above the floor where he sits. More unusual is his manner of speaking, which anyone would guess to be the speech of a much older boy. It’s soon obvious that the small size belies his age.

They are talking about a school he will be entering in the next week, and he tries to assure his mother there is no need for concern. It becomes gradually clear that this tiny tot is not five years-old, but twelve, and is talking about a private junior high. I sneak another look trying to see this boy as one old enough for junior high, but all I see is a child who standing would be several inches below my waist.

The clinic doors open and I drop my appointment slip in the box outside examination room No. 3. There are only two people ahead of me and within fifteen minutes I am seated in front of Dr Kawaguchi as he makes friendly chit chat while reading my file. Two interns stand a short distance behind the doctor and to them he rattles off facts about my case. He looks at a spot on my cheek for a moment, then takes up a small flashlight lens to get a closer look. One of the two interns leans in for a better view and I almost hope Dr Kawaguchi will scold him for coming into the room smelling like an ashtray. Because it is a university hospital all exams and procedures are attended by one or more interns or med-school students.

“No change, no problem. It looks fine.” A note in the file, another appointment for the same time one year later and we say goodbye.

Downstairs I put my patient’s card into one more computer and it tells me the cost (co-pay) of today’s visit. There is a place to put bills and loose change and there I place the ¥980 ($12.77). I walk out of the hospital at five past nine. The weather is good though slightly cool and I stop at the adjacent Starbucks to sit with a coffee under the newly blooming cherry tree. At one of the few outdoor tables I arrange fallen blossoms around my cup. It is peaceful here but the late March wind requires a buttoned coat. I stir the fragile pink blossoms with a finger and then look up to see across the way the mother and son from earlier coming out of the hospital. Walking beside his mother the boy could be a fairy tale child.