Short version: Dad nearly bled to death (among other things that nearly killed him).
I used to donate blood sporadically, and not at all happily. From college into working adulthood, I'd only had two good donor experiences; the others found me tilted upside down, packed in ice and obscenely woozy.
I'm ashamed to admit that it took this long for me to make an appointment to do it again. In my defense, I tried once last fall but was turned away for not having an appointment. Which shouldn't have meant putting it off until a devastating tornado in Oklahoma reminded me that people need blood.
So I made an appointment; I drank lots of water; I ate a granola bar; I answered embarrassing questions about sex and drugs and travel; I climbed up onto a bed in the middle of a freezing-cold National Guard Armory; and I watched as Loretta the Red Cross Phlebotomist expertly shoved a needle into the crook of my arm; I pumped my hand every few seconds; I talked with the phlebotomist working on the guy next to me about one of our paper's photographers and how they both had shot Mount St. Helens on Eruption Day; and about ten minutes later, when I was wondering when the wooziness and faintness would start to set in, Loretta came over and announced that I was done.
No problemo!
I'm not a good person for giving blood.
I'm simply reminded that had many others before me not done the same, my dad wouldn't be in Wyoming, telling me to drive home carefully in a couple weeks. My hope is that someone else can hug a loved one or hold their hand because of a few uncomfortable minutes on my part.
This moment
was possible because many strangers before had this moment.
I could literally reach out and touch the impact of someone's time.
www.redcross.org
www.unitedbloodservices.org
