Autism & Nose Bleeds

I decide to have an early night.

I relax into my quiet bed with word games and herbal tea.  I feel terribly grown up.  Perhaps this is what it means to be a normal, functional adult?

I am almost asleep.

Finian thunders across the landing with the grace of an outraged wildebeest.

"It is bleeding" he announces.

His words are made redundant by the red soup smeared across his face and pyjamas.

Nosebleeds are a thing for him, a gift he has inherited from me along with Raynaud's and a love of sparkly things.  I am nothing if not generous in sharing my most interesting genes.

I take him to his bedroom. In the absence of tissues, it seems Finian has used the walls to wipe his nose.  It resembles a 1970s horror movie abattoir, where possessed workers enthusiastically paint the room with pig innards.  I briefly wonder if I could sell it to a gallery.

I sigh.

I feel bullied by genetics and bad movie sets.

He is a little distressed, but he knows the drill; pinch his nose, lean forward, wait for it to stop.

It does not stop.

My fingers hurt from compressing the bridge of his nose.

Long minutes pass.

Finian's bedroom walls and ceiling are crammed with art he has made over the years.  I have plenty of time to look at them.  Pammy Panda and Bob the Builder feature heavily.  I rub his back and hand him fresh tissues.

Inexplicably, one of the pictures falls from the ceiling.

Finian can cope with the bleeding, but disobedient art proves to be a bridge too far.

He loses his shit.

He leapfrogs around the room clutching the offending picture, spray-painting the room red with gay abandon.

"Fix the picture" he screams.

"First we fix your nose, then we fix the picture."

"FIX THE PICTURE!!!!!!!"

I accept we may be the playthings of the gods, but I am not pleased with being blindsided by this level of fuckery.

I invite them to perform illegal sexual acts with their mothers.  I suggest they roast their genitals in the fiery pits of hell.  I direct them to assume unlikely yoga poses involving positioning their heads in surprising body cavities.

The gods don't care.  They roll their dice and laugh.

I decide that this is not the time to reason with my son.  It is clear it would not be helpful to point out that if he bleeds to death, he won't care where the picture of Pammy Panda is located.  I consider suggesting he securely locate Pammy Panda in a place visited only by proctologists and the unholy.

I call my husband instead.

"Can you find some blue tack please?"

There is no blue tack.

James gets ice to try to stem the bleeding.

It does not stem the bleeding.

We take turns pinching his nose and replacing bloody tissues.  Finian is most vocal in prioritising art over imminent death.  We brainstorm how to reattach the picture.

My haemorrhaging son is flanked by two nurses, and we are all more concerned with re-hanging a picture than hypovolaemic shock.

The bleeding finally slows.

James goes in search of something adhesive. His misspent youth being amazed by the A Team does not go wasted.  He returns with band aids.  The picture is replaced, and my dripping son is less screamy.

"The pyjamas are splashed" observes Finian, now that world order, and art, has been restored.

The pyjamas are indeed splashed.

The once-grey sleepwear, now tie-dyed in body fluids, resemble something the Charles Manson clean-up crew may have worn.  I doubt soaking in salt and cold water will save them.  I worry that the bin men might suspect we indulge in a little light genocide at the weekends. 

Eventually, the bleeding stops, pyjamas are changed and evidence of massacre is cleaned up.

I return to bed.  Early nights are inadvisable.