Spit blood

There are looks that people give you that you just never forget.

One look I remember is from my third grade classmate, Austin. I can’t remember his last name but he was this blonde hair, blue eyed boy who always wore basketball shorts and would rage at every game he played, whether it was football or four square, or even a friendly game of tag.

He was kind to me, definitely took a liking to me when I helped him win a game of wall ball. The moment I swung my twig of an arm back and yelled SKIMMER, he was KO for sure.

He’d pair up or want to group with me in class, enough times for me to know that he likes me, but not enough times for him to not be cool with his bros.

Anyway one day, I heard the whispers of third grade gossip.

“Austin got spit blood!”

“What?”

“What’s that?!”

“I think it’s when you start spitting out blood! Or maybe he was crying blood? Or maybe–“

I heard enough to know that 1. Austin had gotten hurt and 2. He was diagnosed with something absolutely terrible.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. I didn’t particularly like him- he’s too much of a sore loser for me to have liked him- but I felt my youthful heart tug a bit to hear that he had gotten hurt.

I excused myself to they restroom (“can I go to the bathroom?” “I don’t know, CAN you?” “MAY I go to the restroom?”) and took the farthest route possible, closest to the nurse’s office.

The universe spun around me as I saw Austin sulk out of the nurse’s office, trudging back towards the classroom, blood on his shirt.

I opened my mouth, already forming the words “Austin are you okay–” but I stopped.

It’s that look he gave me.

His eyebrows were knit together, lips tight lined and turned down, his bright blue eyes a shade darker.

The look that said, I’ve seen and experienced things that you haven’t, and therefore you don’t understand me.

A look of dejection and embarrassment, frustration and loneliness all the same. My 8 year old brain had never registered nor seen such a look.

I don’t think I even waved, I just stopped in my tracks and let him speed past me.

I was struck.

I don’t know what I expected walking all the way out there. I knew I was probably going to see him, how did I not know how to react?

He stopped talking to me after that. Stopped choosing to be in groups with me or even choosing to be in my team for wall ball. Actually, he stopped playing wall ball altogether and the next thing I knew, he was moving abroad.

I couldn’t decide back then whether I should have said something, or if I was right in keeping quiet. Didn’t know if he stopped talking to me because I didn’t ask him if he’s okay, or because he was embarrassed I saw him that way.

Saying something might have been an extension of myself, to welcome him back into the human society, remind him that he is still youth and that experiencing something like that doesn’t make you alone.

But not saying something might have been important too. To not feign understanding something I did not understand, to allow him to decide how he wants to integrate back into society in his own time.

These were too advanced of higher thinking for my 8 year old self.

Regardless, I did learn one thing that day: when someone experiences extreme pain, things change for them. Things also change for those around them in ways they may never realize.

This is the experience of human connection.