First Blood

It was born in his marrow. It merged onto the circulatory superhighway at various onramps throughout his skeletal system. Driven by a double pump, it circumnavigated every vessel of his being, carrying both the essence and detritus of life. Its work chanced to bring it to the nasal cavity just as Silas was mounting the arm of the living room couch which, to a boy of four years, bears a strong resemblance to a diving platform. For this dive, Silas would be performing a leap of faith onto an adjacent piece of furniture. There was only one witness--Silas's five-year-old stepsister, Ella, who steadfastly maintains her innocence--so details are sketchy. What we know for sure is that something went terribly wrong, and it--his blood--was forever loosed from its confines.

The red river's crest was barely visible beneath his left nostril when a series of powerful sniffles sent it back through the nasal cavity, down the throat, and finally to the mouth. Meanwhile, a steady flow of tears served as the catalyst for increased snot production. En route to the mouth, the red river picked up this snotty debris. It pooled there on his tongue for a second. Unseen taste buds, housed in the papillae bumps on his tongue, alerted the brain to the presence of a strong metallic taste bathed in a slimy sauce of saltwater and bacteria. This was not to be swallowed, replied the brain. Silas tilted forward, formed a wide O with his mouth, and, in an action best described as a hybrid between spitting and spitting up, listened to his brain. If only he listened to and heeded the innumerable warnings from grown ups about not jumping on (or off of) the furniture, this snot island dotted plasma puddle would've avoided an unexpected off ramp onto the kitchen floor.

This was his first bloody nose. Before the damage could be assessed, Silas had to unlearn the urge to try to retain free flowing liquids with his well-honed sniffle. Due to his impatience with nose blowing--you have to stop playing for like two seconds--he is rather adept at sucking up snot. If no grown up sees the emergence of those green-yellow bubbles, it never happened. I was actually delighted that, unlike most other kids you see on the playground, my boy was usually bereft of the two-pronged snot highway. I cannot count how many times I've been staggered by this unsavory image: daydreamy children with curious, probing tongues sating themselves with the salty emissions of noses chilled by a cold winter wind. It's not chicken noodle soup, kids, but I digress. On this occasion it was important for Silas to stop sniffling so the headwaters of the red river could be properly charted. Was the bleeding isolated to the nose, or did he have a mouthful of missing teeth, too? It was hard to know with blood springing out of so many holes.

By now Rachel and I were pushing a small forest's yield of paper towels in his face. "That's good," I told him, as he mouthed deep breaths one on top of the other, "just try to slow it down a little." The sight of the towel growing red did little to stem the hyperventilating, but at least his nose finally, reluctantly relaxed. Chaotic conditions in the kitchen weren't helping matters. The boy still favored tears to words. Ella, ever fascinated by all bodily functions, crowded in for a better look, all the while simultaneously absolving herself of compliance in the accident while scolding Silas for not making good choices. She takes after her mother in the latter regard. Rachel, the self-proclaimed bad cop in our sometimes blend-resistant miniature Brady Bunch, reminded Silas how many times she had told him not to jump on the furniture. ENOUGH! Still unsuccessful in my attempt to survey the damage, I shooed the womenfolk from the kitchen and tilted Silas's head back, hoping that the platelets could better do their job with gravity on their side. I prodded his mouth open. The three grand worth of dental work that had repaired the damage done from relentless Juicy Juice toothbug attacks was intact. It appeared the river's source was purely nasal in origin.

The boy's hands, too small and too delicate, despite the dirt under the nails, to seem real, became blood-speckled as he pawed at the paper towels. "I need to wash my hands; I need to wash my hands!" he squealed, freaking out as he saw that he wore his own blood for the first time. I think he was less concerned with hygiene than the prospect of running out of blood, so I assured him his body would make more, hoisted him onto my hip, and hefted him down the hall to the bathroom. His tight hug dotted my evergreen shirt with festive splotches of red, a development that amused him. By the time we got to the bathroom--five seconds at the most--the tears and his blood had almost dried up and he couldn't wait to see his booboo. He smiled at his Rudolph-red nose, and, rather than wash his hands, plunged his face under the sink's still-cold stream, instantly undermining the persistent work of his platelets. The blood ran anew, and Silas, laughing hysterically, flashed the translucent red teeth of his smile. It's amazing how quickly the fortunes change at four.

Two days later I chanced to find him on the arm of the living room sofa, toes taut, body leaning forward, contemplating his next move. Our eyes met. He slowly climbed back down. His guilty smile was blood free, for now.