I sit in the chair across from the nurse, anxiously waiting for that tiny little needle to pierce the end of my finger. Has it worked? Has my healthy eating, strict regimen of iron-enriched vitamins, and consumption of gross vegetable juice made my blood as healthy as it needs to be? If I am turned away now, I will be pissed off.
I am lost in my thoughts, willing my blood to cooperate, trying to analyze everything I’ve eaten in the – OUCH! Holy crap! For a tiny little needle that HURTS!
Not as much as the big fat needle going into my arm is going to hurt.
Not as much as the multitude of agony that Captain Snuggles has endured over the last five months has hurt.
It’s a tiny little needle, don’t be such a baby.
The nurse puts a little smear of blood onto a slide and feeds it into a machine. She tells me that the number has to be 125 or higher. We wait for a few seconds, the machine beeps, and…
…154. YES! As I follow the next nurse into the next screening area, I imagine my healthy blood cells, marching around my body like sergeants, getting ready for deployment into the next human body that needs them.
Screening goes well. My temperature is good. My blood pressure prompts the nurse to tell me I must work out a lot. My heart rate is slightly elevated because I am excited to be doing this. No lesions or bruises on my arms, all of my questionaire answers are acceptable.
I am deemed Fit To Donate.
I am taken to a row of folding chairs, where I take a seat and wait my turn. I know that my friend extraordinaire and maid of honour Michelle is a short way behind me in the process. I look for her and she is not in the room; she is probably in the screening area telling the nurse whether she has ever taken money for sex or taken cocaine intravenously.
As I am waiting, a man starts to pass out with his blood in mid-flow. The kindly woman seated beside me looks at my “First Time Donor” sticker (which I feel entitled to since my one and only donation attempt, over 20 years ago, ended in disaster and could not be completed) and says, “Don’t look at him. He’s a man. Us girls can handle this!”
I am led to one of the stations, and as I take my seat in the thing – it’s not a chair; it’s not a bed; what’s the word for it? – I imagine those blood cell sergeants lining up in my arm, getting ready for their marching orders.
Michelle takes a seat on one of the folding chairs, which means I can talk to her instead of looking in the direction of the nurse who is taping tubes to my arm in an ominous manner. I squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and – the needle is in! Those little sergeants have started marching! I imagine the blood cells in the Captain’s body straightening up and getting their act together (because let’s face it, they have been slacking off in the last little while). I imagine them coming together, strong and whole, forming a line of defence against illness and infection.
As my blood flows out of me, I imagine Captain Snuggles getting better. I picture his broken body healing, becoming whole.
My actual blood will not get to Captain Snuggles. But it will get to someone who needs it. Captain Snuggles, through his suffering, will have saved a life. Many lives, since I am now committed to being a regular donor.
It takes less than ten minutes. When the needle is removed, I sit in my thing-thats-not-a-bed-or-chair for the prescribed five minutes. There is more fiddling with my arm and bandages, and then I am permitted to go and sit down in the cookie and juice room (no caffeine for first-time donors!)
As I sit there drinking my orange juice and eating my cookie, I imagine where my blood will go from here. Samples will go to the lab for testing, and the donation will be added to the blood bank.
I imagine it being transfused into someone’s broken body, transforming the probability of death into the possibility of life, into hope.
I imagine the joy of some family, in some hospital, when they are given the news that their loved one is going to make it.
I imagine Captain Snuggles healing and becoming whole.
I imagine myself someday saying to him, “Thank you. Thank you for making me a better person.”
