The Blood Drive

Every now and then, I like to feel like I'm doing something for humanity. Something as small as donating blood comes immediately to mind. I guess in some ways, you can look at it as giving the gift of life.

Well, a few years ago, I was running all over town looking for plumbing parts for my swimming pool. It was a hot, humid day and I wasn't having much luck. At some point, I got somewhat lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Since stopping and asking for directions wasn't an option (I'm a guy), I zig-zagged through the community hoping to eventually stumble on a main road.

After driving aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, I rode past a local firehouse. A large sign out front announced that there was a blood drive currently taking place inside. Impulsively, I decided to stop and go in. I figured that I could make myself feel better by giving a pint of blood. In exchange, I would get a cold drink, a bag of cookies and possibly directions on how to get home.

So, I sign in and wait to be called. After a few minutes, a young woman calls me back. She takes my personal information and then attempts to take my pulse and blood pressure. As she's doing this, she starts to make these weird faces. When I ask her what's wrong, she tells me, "Nothing. Just stay there. I'll be right back."

This should have been a hint for me to get up and run for the door. But I obeyed her order. She quickly returned with woman who appeared to be her supervisor. The supervisor then proceeded to retake my pulse and blood pressure. Her reaction was similar to the first girl's. Again, I ask, "Is something wrong?"

The supervisor replies, "Well, according to these readings, you're dead."

I assure them that I'm 100% alive. They seem to almost doubt me, then they go and get another blood pressure sleeve. Thankfully, the new sleeve showed that my heart was indeed pumping blood through my system. I don't know who was more relieved, me or the two women....

After this adventure, I was summoned over to one of those Red Cross lounge chairs by a large woman who resembled boxing legend Joe Frazier. In a gravely voice, she tells me to sit down and prop left arm up. Afraid to question her, I do as I'm told. She then starts to splash this purple solution all over the crease between my upper and lower arm. Keeping the conversation to a bare minimum, she ties off my arm and begins to flick it in an attempt to arouse a hidden vein. By the time she's ready to stick me, my arm already feels like it's been lit up by a disgruntled bumblebee.

Smokin' Joe finally speaks up and says, "You're gonna feel a little prick." As I fight the urge to make a juvenile attempt at sexual humor, she slams the needle into my arm. The pain came instantly and lasted indefinitely. It felt like she had pressed a lit cigarette against my skin! And just when I think it can't get any worse, she nonchalantly says, "Oops. I missed. I'm gonna have to do it again." Definitely, not something I wanted to hear.

So, the heavyweight champ plunges to needle into my arm again. But this time, with the needle halfway in, she proceeds to probe for the vein. After what seemed like an hour, she proudly announces, "Got it!" After a few more "adjustments", my blood finally begins to flow into a clear plastic bag below.

By this time, my arm is throbbing with so much pain that I think that I might actually pass out. Lying there on the lounge chair with my eyes rolling back into my head and a needle stuck in my arm, I must have resembled a strung-out junkie. Like a recurring nightmare, the beast of a woman appeared before me and asked if I would like something to drink. In a weak voice, I replied, "A double shot of Jim Beam. No ice please..."

At last, she cracked a smile and said, "You so funny. Here, have a can of Coke. You look like you could use the sugar."

When the pint size bag was finally full, the woman (who finally introduced herself as Monique) tried to sweet-talk me into giving a second pint of blood. Monique informed me that it would pumped out of my body and stripped of the "platelets', and then pumped back into my body. I couldn't help but think that Monique got some kind of commission for "selling" this second pint of platelets. She was only halfway through her explanation when I cut her off with an emphatic "Hell, no!"

Then, she calls me a big baby. Can you believe this? I muster up whatever adrenaline I have left in my body and say, "Big baby? Are you kidding me? After the near death experience that you just put my through, you want more from me? Forget about that. Give me my bag of cookies, I'm going home!"

Of course, this would have been alot better if I actually knew how to get home. Luckily, as I exited the firehouse with maimed arm, I spotted a fireman smoking a cigarette. I casually asked him for the way back to I-95. Shortly afterward, I was on my way home....

The next day..........

I woke up to discover that my arm had a softball sized bruise from the previous day's workout with Smokin' Joe. I seriously considered never giving blood again.

Then, the phone rings and I see from the caller ID that it's the Red Cross. I figure they're calling to see if my left arm was still functioning. Or perhaps, they're calling to offer some kind of compensation. But to my surprise, they're actually calling to ask me to donate more blood! Speechless, I dropped the phone as the Red Cross caller continued to deliver the script.

I had nightmares about Monique for a long time. I often wonder how many more victims followed in my footsteps. And how many of them survived to tell about it.........

KW