I believe I was a mere three years old, sitting on the rocking chair in my parents’ trailer home in Winnipeg. The TV was on, tuned in to something that would keep my three year old brain occupied. The fireplace was lit, ensuring another criteria was met to keep my screaming mouth shut. My parents were in another room in the small house.
There I sat on the rocking chair, licking my top lip. It was a unique taste, something I had never experienced — this is probably why the licking continued for an extended period of time. The TV show flickering in the corner was a mere sideshow to the new learning my tastebuds were going through. Hindsight tells me all new and interesting objects end up in your mouth at some point. Fifteen minutes of blood dripping from my nose was bound to excite my growing mind.
Like any other mother, my mom ventured into the living room to check on her suddenly silent son. The TV show remained as she whisked me into her arms and straight to the closest sink. She splashed ice cold water on my face and used a wash cloth to clean my nose and upper life. I was petrified.
She laughed. My dad wasn’t far behind, joining in on the collective giggle as I sat on the counter screaming at the top of my lungs. I’m sure I woke my baby sister. My three year old wisdom told me I was going to die.
From there, the hard drive stops spinning.
This memory is one of humanity, curiosity and parenthood. I realized my body was made of something other than solid iron. I learnt that blood had a taste unlike any other substance that had ventured into my young mouth. I can only imagine the learning experience my parents were put through.
And they laughed about it.