"You sure you don’t need me to come along?"
I thought you had a bunch of errands you were going to do. It’s fine. I usually drive myself.
"We could do errands together. Does it have to be today?"
It’s been planned for today for a long time. I started getting called as soon as I was about to be eligible. It’s better to get it done according to a plan, that way I’m less likely to back out -- makes it seem like everything’s been prepared in advance for me, and it feels more natural to go through with it.
"You’ve got your phone?"
Yeah, I’ll get in touch with you when it’s over and I’m ready to get back together.
("Whoa! You mean you’re writing me out of this one?"
You’re in this part aren’t you? Even though it seems a little forced? We can still have our little commentary to the side as it goes along.
"You’re not thinking about minimizing my role permanently?"
I hadn’t thought about it,... but now that you mention it,... hmmm,...
"You’d better be teasing"
Look Silly, how could you be minimized, you’re much too fascinating. I mean, really, have you ever met you before. I don’t know why I don’t write just about you.
"Because you’re writing about us."
Maybe, just maybe.)
"Or if you need me for something."
Yeah, I’ll call
"Okay, just whenever, I won’t be far."
The automatic door slides open as I approach, the '1 800 GIVE LIFE' part of the poster gliding in front of my eyes. I sign in, take my number, and pick up the notebook of material to review about the particulars of the donation and the testing that’s done as a part of it. They always seem excited to see me when I show up. The seeming excited always gets a bit more genuine when I tell them my type. They like to get that universal donor blood. Not that there’s a big surplus of any of the types...
("Universal donor?"
Well, nearly, O positive. No A antigens, no B antigens, so if you’re not particular about Rh... It’s the most common type actually.
"Wasn’t there some kind of joke you told about that and heredity?"
That joke? That joke stunk. I’m leaving it out.)
There’s an informational packet to peruse to help you answer the questionnaire. I wish they could just let you know whether it’s been changed or not. Doesn’t seem to have anything new in it. The questionnaire tries to determine your blood’s suitability to be offered. It makes sense, to make sure that none of your past experiences would keep your blood from being usable.
"No 'babesiosis' pun? You’re passing that up?"
Um, I’m not sure what you mean.)
I sit down in the waiting area to look through the notebook. This is all pretty familiar, the requirements are all what I expected. It’s difficult to focus on: Oprah is shouting loudly from the television, and the hundreds of paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling keep fluttering in front of the vents and catching my eye.
("Hundreds?"
Yeah, I thought that might be exaggeration too, but I stopped counting when I got to 45, and that was only about 8 ceiling tiles in a grid bigger than 18 by 40...
"Okay, okay, I get it...")
I get taken into a room and my identification gets checked and rechecked. I’m left in the room by myself for a few minutes to go through the questionnaire on the computer -- making sure I know that I’m eligible to donate. When I’m done, I open the door back up and switch back to the seat beside the desk. The tech ducks her head back in to double check that I’m doing double reds today. I will if I can: it lets me give twice as much. They take the blood out, run it in a centrifuge to spin the cells out, then put the serum back in. Because you don’t lose as much volume, they can take two units of cells that way. Still only one needle stick: they put it back in through the same line that you bleed out through. For me it takes about the same amount of time, and doesn’t feel different after.
("I thought you said last time you could tell."
Well, usually I’m not stupid and try to play the same day as donating. But the team was going to be short players so I gave it a try. It was okay for about 10 minutes.
What happened then?I actually got on the field. Not only was I more dyspneic...
"Was?"
Uhh, short of breath,... but my legs just wouldn’t go. The ball would go by, I would intend to run after it, but my legs would only jog. I tried for about 5 minutes, then volunteered to play goalie.)
Now we get to the final level of excitement when it’s clear I’m going to be donating double reds, like I’m making a bigger commitment. I really do it so that I don’t have to give as often: when you give two units, you’re not eligible again for twice as long.
There’re still some test items left to go through, tesing my body this time, not my history. Most are standard physical exam type things: temperature, heart rate, blood pressure. For the hemoglobin, they need to get a blood sample. Which hand do I want to use to get the sample to test my platelets? That’s a tough one. I use both of them all the time outside of here, and it’s inconvenient to have a sore finger on one. Any way you can prick the side of my finger, or maybe use the ring finger? Yeah? Thanks. I couldn’t sit still if I watched, so even though I’m expecting it, it’s a surprise when the stick comes. Then I have to look. The small scarlet spot swells into a bulging drop being milked out of my finger. It’s just about to break free, when it’s captured by the pipette. Not captured exactly, it seems to happily spring into the pipette. Released into the test beaker of copper sulfate, it lazily spreads and falls to the bottom.
Everything is in order, and I’m handed a set of bags and tubes, and a sheet with a number on it to call if I decide they shouldn’t use my blood. Now just to wait until my place opens up. This is always the moment for second thoughts, maybe it’s not too late to reschedule. I remember the first time I tried to donate, that was a lot of pain and with no donation to redeem it...
I’m interrupted by one last thing, almost forgotten. There’s an extra consent sheet to sign for donating double reds. It mostly describes the procedure and it’s possible consequences. Two sentences stand out to me, and send me back into pondering: It is clear to me that there is no advantage or benefit to me accompanying this procedure, and I desire to participate of my own free will. Such big concepts to be buried in the middle of a whole page of other things. I expect these are the two that get the least attention when this is signed. But this evening, they stick in my mind, leave me seeking parallels, considering the rest of what I do, of what we do...
My reveries are interrupted by someone just come in. He signs in, and then comes over to stand in front of me. With a threatening look on his face, he keeps posing in front of me, flexing his muscles and grimacing over my shoulder. Maybe I’m supposed to feel threatened, but gauging him, he seems unlikely to be able to match his postures with actions. In any case, he makes me laugh. A laugh that surprises me in its honesty.
("What do you mean?"
I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t planning to laugh, but the situation was laughable, and all of a sudden this laugh just came through me.
"Came through you?"
Yeah, it wasn’t reserved or contained like mine would have been, it just was, and it burst onto the scene through me. Like the feeling was there and I was just it’s instrument.
"I know what you mean, I’ve had moments like that -- honest, yeah, like you said, honest.")
He doesn’t seem to know what to do next after that, and it turns out not to matter, as Otto arrives to bring me into the back. He going to be the one running the procedure and looking after me. The first thing he does is hands me another copy of the release. He wants to make sure I have a chance to ask any questions before I sign it. I decide he probably doesn’t mean my questions about free will or what motivates our actions, so I say no and sign the page again.
The seat is awkward to sit in, though I can appreciate how it’s functional. I can’t sit in it in a cool or nonchalant way, I have to fall into it. I can sort of scoot back into it, but there’s nothing really to hold on to. The leg and foot rest encourages your legs to fall together in the middle. The arm boards on either side come out from the center of the seat rather than lying parallel to it. The machine is free on either side of me today, so I can choose which arm to use. I’m not sure it’d matter to me, so I shrug. Otto slaps the front of each elbow and watches some reaction of the veins. Seems like he feels he could get a needle easily in either. So the decision is back to me ultimately, and for some reason I always consider my hands, holding them up.
("Let me see those... What’s this on the back of your hand?"
That’s gotta be either 5th or 6th grade. I’d gone over to David’s house after school. We’d gone sledding first, then ended up over there. I’d left a note at home about where I was, and that I’d be home before dinner. Well, when I first noticed the time I was already going to be late. I took off running for home, not even putting my gloves on. The warmth of the day had gone, and it had dropped below freezing again. The snow that had melted had refrozen on top, making a crust that gave way under each footfall as I ran across the schoolyard. Gave way to each foot fall, but not to one of the foot lifts. It caught my foot and I fell forward, hands outstretched. My little finger and ring finger went under the crust, the rest of my hand stayed above, and I got that slice on the back of my hand. There was blood running between my fingers and dripping in high contrast on the surface of the snow. I thought I’d split my hand in two, and hid it through dinner. It turned out to not be that bad.
"Show me the other side of that one... what is this from?"
I don’t remember. I wonder about it myself sometimes. It reminds me of a staple.
"This one’s got a bump on it"
I broke it. I don’t really know how. I mean, it was during a match in college, but I didn’t realize it until after the match, shaking hands. Then it hurt like crazy. But not when it got broken, doing whatever it was I was asking it to do. It waited until I was done.
"One more at the base of your palm here..."
Yeah, you can still see where there were stitches. That one I didn’t feel at the time either. It was cold and wet, I slid in the mud and must’ve caught on something. When I got up again someone was pointing out what I thought was blood from my thigh. I tried to wipe it off with my hand, but new blood got left behind. I was still trying to find the cut on my thigh when I felt the trickle in my palm. Then turned it over to see the blood and got panicked and nauseous.
"And this here, on your other thumb?"
Ah, yes, cigarette. No bleeding with that one, though my heart was still involved.
"Oh... really? That sounds like a long story in itself."
Some other time, okay? Let me get back...)
I run a small lottery in my head, and choose my left arm. He puts the blood pressure cuff on it. No, I’m not allergic to iodine, though it does really tickle when he circles the swab around like that. Feels so cold too, though I’m sure it’s really room temperature. When he’s done cleaning the area, it’s time to inflate the cuff and squeeze the handlebar handle. I accidentally see the needle come out of it’s cover. Yikes! I look away. I hear him telling me to squeeze and hold, and that it’s just a little bee sting...
A little bee sting?!
("Did you really say that to him?"
No, not out loud, just in my head. But really, who has ever been stung by a bee who could say 'Just a little bee sting' like that’s supposed to be comforting?
"Maybe getting you to anticipate it being worse is supposed to make it better in comparison."
Maybe. Still it bugs me every time.
"'Bugs' you? Come on now, bee serious."
Ooo, Good one.)
The needle goes in, and he releases the pressure on the cuff. My body panics, and I swear I can feel the blood going out. The life of the body is in its blood. I know it’s going to be okay, everything is going the way it should, and the fear doesn’t overtake my mind, but still my body feels frightened. My feet go cold and clammy in my shoes, my right palm sweats, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, I can feel my pulse in my arms and chest, and I look around for something to focus my sight on to distract me. Otto remarks on what a vibrant dark red the color is. Like the petals of the poinsettia on the desk across from us. I look down at the bright red fluid flowing away into the machine, thinking, 'there I go'. I wonder where that blood will end up.
(You ever get one of those dollar bills that somebody’s marked something personal on? Some sort of message in a bottle?
"Yeah, all the time. Did you ever get one back a second time?"
I don’t think so. How about a quarter that’s been painted red, ever get one of those?
"Yeah, what’s that from?"
Beats me.)
There goes my life, out into the world. I see a lot of people right after their surgeries. I wonder if any of them ever had my blood in them? Who was it, Susan? Told me last week that her sister-in-law was preparing for surgery and donated a unit of her own blood to have on hand. Asked me if she should ask to do that before her surgery. Asked me in a way that made it clear she wasn’t excited about the possibility. I asked her what her blood type was: O positive. I told her I had it covered, that I’d be giving two units today. I wonder what other people have done using the oxygen my blood carried for them. How bizarre it would be if I could feel my blood, feel it running through someone else’s capillaries. It’s about the only thing I can’t feel. Everything else creates sensations in its function or dysfunction, but not the blood. You can’t identify individually with the blood, only as a group. Maybe not being able to feel my blood means it doesn’t belong only to me in the first place. Like our blood is meant to be shared. Like...
("Incoming message from Earth: Are you still there?"
Ha! Too much to consider, the initial rush of adrenaline is wearing off and my mind is wandering weirdly in the drop off. Let me get back into the moment...)
The first place the blood goes is into vacuum-filled test tubes. The blood itself has to be tested too before it is used. Each time a tube is attached to a port, the blood spurts in and splashes against the upper end of the tube and roils as it fills the tube. How fast my blood can come out... I remind myself that they’re vacuum tubes pulling it in, but still I’m left in awe... I think about trying to distract myself. The machine goes into it’s first draw cycle, the blood pressure cuff inflating with what might be a reassuring clasp on my arm. Now there’s mostly waiting. I always bring a book, but can only manage to read in the waiting room. Kind of hard to read here using only one hand, the other hand is still busy squeezing every few seconds. I like to roll the handle in my palm between squeezes too, feel the bumps on it, keep the muscles pushing the blood back out towards the needle. Of course I’ve also got a notebook, but writing is even more impossible than reading here. I’ve got a bunch of ideas for that dragon piece too...
I always bring my iPod also, but sometimes it seems rude to be tuning everyone else out --especially when the Otto comes by to ask if I’m okay. Fortunately, the music they’re playing on the CD player here’s pretty good. I should remember to put some holiday CD’s in the car, think about putting some on my iPod, and that Messiah recording wasn’t where I thought it was...
Just as I start listening, the machine changes its sound, and the cuff loosens up. The crimson filling the line starts to lighten, retreating back towards my arm before a pink, then a nearly clear color. It’s not warm like it was going out, and when it gets to my arm I can feel the coolness spreading. It’s a wild feeling, feeling cold without your skin feeling cold, and it raises bumps along my arm. The cold starts in my forearm, moves to my arm, then runs down the sides of my torso before getting to the other arm. Otto notices and offers me a blanket. No, thanks.
Then the most interesting thing. The taste. The menthol metallic taste that appears in my mouth. It’s from the citrate anticoagulant they use while separating the blood in the centrifuge. And it’s a weird sensation like the cold is -- tasting the taste without having the taste in my mouth. It starts in the floor of my mouth, spreads to my tongue, then finally to my lips.
The cuff starts to inflate again, and the process starts over.
("Again?"
Well, without the panic. You can only have one unit of plasma out at a time, so they have to put that back before they can get the second unit of cells out. There’s nothing serious to talk about this time, except maybe the lack of panic. I don’t know why I’m able to be calm the second time the blood goes out... Maybe I should save that for another story, this one’s starting to stretch my endurance.
"Okay, but don’t forget.")
The second time the draw is about over, I look over to the machine, and the bag of frothy amber fluid hanging in front of it. Hey Otto, what is that bag hanging in front of the machine? My plasma? Why is it in two layers? I mean: Why does my plasma seem to have a head on it?
("Now, when they suggest you increase your fluid intake on donation days, I don’t think you’re supposed to be having a beer."
As it turns out, that’s what everybody’s plasma looks like. It gets a little frothy from being spun in the centrifuge. I am going to have to try and keep that image from coming up the next time I have a beer though...
"What about the next time you have a cabernet, that dark red color..."
That is not helpful)
So, I get all that plasma back, I make a conscious decision not to look at what the plasma bag looks like afterwards. Otto takes the needle out, and I hold a sponge on it with my hand raised overhead. As it happens, a number of us put our hands up at about the same time. As if to be counted. We all get to the canteen at about the same time, hand each other sodas or juice, cookies or pretzels. There’s a gift also: a tote bag. Not sure what I’d do with that, but okay. I wait until the background shakiness recedes and head for the door. Otto catches up to me with a sticker. 'Be nice to me', it says, and that reminds me of somebody I was supposed to call when I was done. I’m pecking out a text as I go out the door, a little lightheaded, the light seeming a little prismatic, everything with a slight aura around it, a sensation I’ve learned to appreciate since it soon fades again, and I sit down on the stairs to wait to be picked up.
("What were you saying about a dragon story?"
Just something that’s been forming. It’s got a structure, something like a central idea, a couple of devices...
"You’ll tell it to me when you’re done?"
Well, sure...
"And..."
Yes, you’re in it.)
