On the nose

Wherein it becomes clear to me that I must be a hypochondriac:

Last weekend, after days of coughing bouts that would last for minutes at a time, a week of a low grade fever, eyes that crusted shut at night and a right eye that became as red a late fall tomato, I took myself to a walk-in health clinic.  The waiting room was full of robust young men with ice packs applied to their limbs, and snottery newborns.  And then me: not so sick as all THAT, and not clearly broken.  On consultation with a Dr., I was diagnosed with something "that's not pneumonia yet" and left, with my amoxicillin, feeling like I had underperformed in terms of illness.

This weekend just gone by, I was lying on the big bed upstairs with Winton (which he asks for, with love, as "Couch" except it comes out "Doubt" when he says it: "Doubt?  doubt?  doubt, Mummy?  Doubt?").  We were playing his favorite game: I lie still and he stands, topples over my prone body, and lands with a thud on his face.  Good times.  Except, the very last time we did this, he decides to turn and look at me as he falls, so that instead of toppling over me, he topples INTO me, his head landing on the bridge of my nose with a noise like a hammer hitting a cabbage.  There was some blood.  And then a lump on the left side of my nose giving the whole the appearance of a remarkable curve.  (Winton, incidentally, has no injury.)

This time I went to an ER.  With a book (except it turns out I had already read the book, but had forgotten I'd read it until I started reading it again: Grr!).  And, despite the squelch on impact, the blood, the lump, the new crookedness,  MY NOSE IS NOT BROKEN. 

Dammit.  If I am going to go to a health care facility every weekend, these ailments need to step up their game.