Think you’re so high and mighty, huh.
Sometime in college, I walked past a blood drive on campus and thought that after my recent debaucheries, I should attempt to even my karmic balance by doing a good deed. So I wandered in, signed up, answered their questions dutifully, and wondered if anything was amiss as they strapped me down to a table and gave me a wooden spoon to bite down on as tortured screams of pain echoed throughout the auditorium converted to this purpose. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
To make a long story short, I found out I was B positive. Damn this common gutter blood, I thought, but shrugged and donated occasionally, whenever I saw another blood drive - all too infrequently. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
And a few years ago, I started donating whole blood on a regular basis. Every fifty-six days like clockwork at the Red Cross center near downtown Minneapolis. I don’t live or work near downtown Minneapolis, so every eight weeks I’d take a long lunch to drive along 62 to 35W, take that up to Washington, jog right on 12th, loop around, and park in one of the nice reserved spots for blood donors. Even so, a four-minute donation would take me well over an hour. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
It got to the point where I knew the pre-donation procedure well. I’d guess what the iron content of my blood was - and every time, I’d promise myself that I would eat thick steaks for three or four days prior to my next donation so I could see how high I could safely get that number. I’d know exactly what questions would be asked, and also what followup questions would be asked - like the two new ones that started in February or so that weren’t printed on the form, but rather on little stickers to be added to the form. No, I don’t take whatever drug that is, and no, I haven’t had a smallpox vaccination or been in close contact with someone who has. Every time my answers are the same, but still every time they must ask each one in full. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
And yes, I see both points of view about their very restrictive conditions they place on potential donors. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
And this went on, through one gallon of donations, and then a second. And soon, a third. Twenty-four units of whole blood donated. I’ve accumulated some little pins for two and three gallons, and for double red cell apheresis once, and even had my picture taken and put on their wall with all the other milestones that donors reached. Did I win a brand new car? No. I won a polaroid that was put on their wall. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
And one day this past February I glanced over at the apheresis machines and commented while I was being bled that I had been asked to participate in a B+ type red cell apheresis once before, but never since, and they explained platelet donation to me, and how long it would take, but how often a donor could do it. My mind quickly weighed karmic balance again, and I signed up right away – but there’s a waiting list of at least a month. But no, that’s not why I’m ranting.
So in March, I went in fresh-eyed and fuzzy-tailed but without a tail, and went through the traditional questions, and the pulse, and the blood pressure, and the finger prick, and then the confusion. Somehow no one had indicated that I was a first-time platelet donor and they did not have a platelet count from my last whole blood donation, so they wouldn’t be able to take a full donation of platelets from me. But no, that’s still not why I’m ranting.
I left that day with the rockin’ purple self-adhesive gauze bandages on each arm and went back to work, proud in my knowledge that I’m doing my little share to make the world a better place. Think globally, act locally, and all that. Hopefully no one will notice that I mix my cans and glass when I recycle. A month or so after that, and eight weeks to the day after my previous whole blood donation, I returned. During the pre-donation interview, I asked how platelet donations were tracked, as nothing had been done the previous time. The very nice man explained that a platelet donation counted for two on our little donor cards because of the time invested by the donor. He quite nicely logged the previous platelet donation on my card along with that day’s blood. (And my blood pressure of 114/78. Go me!)
And that, my friends, is why I am ranting.
(No, not because of my blood pressure. That was good, remember?)
I am ranting because when I reached three gallons, I imagined my donation as filling three milk jugs with a gallon each. I was impressed. I was stunned at those who reached ten gallons or more - imagine someone walking along, swinging a five-gallon bucket of blood from each hand! - and dreamed of the day when I’d reach that.
But my record is tainted, tainted like the blood of someone who has spent six months or more in the British Isles and thus is at risk for Creutzfeldt-Jacob. Today will be donations #28 and #29 when I go in for another platelet donation, and on June 10th, #30 with another pint of blood. Then the next platelet donation will push me to the four-gallon mark.
But it won’t be four gallons of blood. It’ll be just over three, with some platelet donations in there.
My idealism is crushed.
Some say this may be karmic retribution for trying to build up a store of good karma for use when I go on a murderous rampage in thirty years. They may say that I brought this on myself. They may say that blood donation is merely the modern equivalent of leeching, and they don’t really do anything with the bag of blood, because they just drained out the bad blood.
Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering Red Cross; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.
Yet I will still donate my last pint of blood to thee. Fuckers.
