Can't
Even Give It Away
Lately
my charitable activities,
much like my morning three
mile jog and my daily meditation,
have become theoretical rather
than practical. I mean well,
I just often lack the time
or the energy to actually
follow through on my intentions.
Now
I know that intentions are
no substitute for action,
so when she said that she
was going to give blood to
the American Red Cross and
asked me to go, I quickly
agreed. I saw it as my civic
responsibility, a way to become
just a little bit of the person
that I longed to be....
Actually,
I whined a lot at first. I'm
not a big fan of either needles
or blood and since a blood
drive inherently combines
the two.... I explained I
had so much to do that I simply
couldn't afford the time to
go. I reasoned that no one
wanted my blood anyway because
it was such a common type.
"Well,
what kind is it?" she asked
suspiciously.
"Um....
the really common one?"
"They
need that one too" she said
and so it was that I ended
up on a Saturday morning sitting
in a plastic chair under a
giant bust of Jesus in the
basement of some church to
give away a pint of my blood.
In
case you've never been, you
don't just walk in and turn
over your blood. Thanks to
the proliferation of blood-bourn
diseases, the process to become
eligible donate blood is actually
a lot more difficult than
getting accepted to college.
Well, at least my college.
First
you have to check in. If you've
made an appointment to donate
blood (like you would to get
your oil changed) you get
a name tag with a number and
go sit in a chair. If you
didn't make an appointment,
you get a name tag with a
number and go sit in a chair.
For
light reading you get a stack
of laminated 8 1/2 by 11 photocopies
of fact sheets and articles
about all the things that
could be wrong with your blood.
Once you're sufficiently terrified
of all the viruses that may
be in your blood, you meet
with the head nurse, who takes
down your name, address and
social security number and
asks if you have a Donor Card
(sort of like a frequent flyer
card for blood donors). Then
you are sent to a little table
with a form and a pen to answer
intimate questions about your
past: Have you ever used intravenous
drugs? Have you, as a man,
ever had sex with another
man since 1976?
After
that it's time for a brief
physical. In my case a woman
resembling Nurse Cratchet
in a cranky mood asked me
some perfunctory health-related
question and then proceeded
to take my blood pressure.
Around me other nurses were
pricking fingers and sending
the blood to a team of people
in lab coats with cool laboratory
machines at a table at the
other end of the church. I
wondered if they would be
able to tell how much Jagermeister
was still in my system from
the show the night before
while the cuff on my arm expanded
tighter.....
"Any
idea why your blood pressure
would be high?" Nurse Cratchet
asked suddenly I thought of
explaining that I was a musician
and she was the one wearing
the white coat and the stethoscope
so maybe she might have a
better idea that I did. Instead
I muttered something about
nerves and fear of needles
coupled with all these people
lying on tables around me
having the blood drained out
of them. She fixed me with
a callous stare.
"Well,
it's too high for me to let
you have blood drawn. Thank
you."
And
just like that I was rejected.
For a moment I felt relieved
- that was an easy way to
get out of it. But soon I
felt something different -
I felt left out.
All
around me people were doing
good things, leaving the church
feeling as if they had given
something. At the table called
the "cantina" recent blood
donors were munching on egg
salad sandwiches, drinking
juice from little juice boxes,
and reminiscing about donating
blood.
Oh
sure - they told me that I
could go to the cantina and
have a snack, but I couldn't
bring myself to do it. A snack
for what? All I did was sit
in a church basement for a
while. Everyone else had to
give away a pint of BLOOD
for pete's sake just for a
package of peanut butter crackers.
She
still gave her blood, and
enjoyed a well deserved snack
at the cantina. She joked
with the others about giving
blood. She felt fulfilled,
charitable, down right good.
I,
on the other hand, was quiet
on the ride home, my charitable
intentions rebuffed. Maybe
next time I should just book
a gig at a prison or something.
They
can't be that picky, can they?
This
column © 2001 Lee Totten
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