I’m a sucker for a cookie. Chocolate chip, lemon, oatmeal or molasses; they’re all good. Make it a free cookie and there’s just about nothing I won’t do. Throw in a can of cranberry juice and I’ll even open a vein.
Really.
Several times a year I toddle myself and my A Positive hemoglobin on down to the Kingston Community Center to give a pint at one of the every-other-month Red Cross blood drives. Although I may claim it’s my way of contributing to the community when both money and time are tight (and I’m saving my second kidney to fund my retirement), cookies and juice are the real reason for my philanthropy. Also, it’s the only way I can lie flat on my back reading a book in the middle of the day without feeling guilty.
However, there is a downside. Nothing highlights what a big yawn my life is quite like filling in the circles on the blood donation questionnaire.
No, I have not had sex with anyone from Cameroon. I am not pregnant, nor have I used “non prescribed” intravenous drugs. I have not — worse luck — traveled outside the U.S. or Canada in the last 12 months. I am not suffering from malaria nor — heaven forbid! — mad cow disease. I have never received a dura mater (brain covering) transplant, which is good because the very thought of it makes me queasy. I’m so ordinary, I’m tempted to get a tattoo or a tongue piercing just to have a “yes” box to check.
Until recently, the techs who handle check in — taking potential donors’ temperatures and blood pressure, checking iron levels, etc. — were required to ask us all these questions aloud, including everyone’s favorite: “Have you ever taken money, drugs or other payment for sex?” I suspect they finally gave up the personal approach after too many of us replied, “Why? See something you like, big fella?”
If I’ve remembered to eat red meat for a couple of days prior to the draw, my iron stores should be high enough for me to graduate from the check-in chair to a donation cot. Then I get to chat with Richard or Henry, my favorite phlebotomists (which would be a great name for a reality show). They always take care to match my post-donation arm wrap to my outfit. Personally, I prefer the hot pink wrap, which — along with the cookies — makes a fabulous parting gift.
Yes, it took a few visits for me to get used to the “sticky” part of the experience. I’m no more a masochist than the next mad-cow-free, middle-aged woman, but I figured, hey, anyone who can give birth once and then choose to repeat the experience is certainly tough enough to handle a little needle poke.
And I was right; now it’s just a mildly unpleasant millisecond in an overwhelmingly positive hour, of which the draw itself takes only 10 to 15 minutes. In addition, I get sympathy points at home where I can claim I’m not allowed to tote groceries, set the table, or make dinner. Besides, I’m too full for dinner.
Did I mention the cookies?
