I gave blood. This feels like a misnomer, for a process in which I am a bystander. The blood itself was not of my handiwork, and the extraction was accomplished by strangers. Neither do I have knowledge of the recipient, nor the impact on their recovery.
But I was still given a
sticker urging people to be nice to me on account of my generosity.
The process took a larger slice of my morning than it sometimes does. A team of three folks did my intake, which seemed excessive.
"I'm training," the man at the keyboard explained. He checked with the women behind him at several points, who reminded him of the sequence of steps.
My blood pressure was good, or so declared the
trainer, after the apprentice who couldn't hear my heartbeat above the music playing gave up. I take unfounded pride in those numbers, even though I don't understand them. The hemoglobin level was also worthy of praise, which I silently accepted.
Lying on the massage table/gurney, I eavesdropped on the quality of veins in my right arm. Two women furrowed their brows and inspected the left one. I wanted to apologize. In what felt like a tedious process ending in a
bruise, there was eventually a red ribbon of blood threading into a bag below my sight line.
Another donor arrived after me, yet her bag filled before mine. I wanted to watch my progress. Was I not trying hard enough? I hoped it had nothing to do with the pessimism of my type, which is "be negative".
I watched the novice arm pokers as they tried to master the art of piercing a vein that is not only slender, but shy. I could be a
patient patient. The part that truly amazes me is that there will be more blood in my body by Tuesday, to replenish what I so magnanimously gave away.
The staff in the chaplaincy program are willing to talk me through the intricacies of recording each visit in four places, some of which require the last name first and others which demand the last name last.
Not that I have opinions about that at three
am.
