I hate giving blood. They stick the needle in, it hurts. They twist the syringe before sucking the blood out, it burns. They pull the needle out, it smarts.
I've given 40 pints and hated it every time. But blood is a many-splendored thing, and somebody has to give. We all have to do something worthwhile some of the time even if we can't do something pleasurable all of the time.
The country needs 41,000 blood donations daily. According to the Red Cross, donations are down and usage is up, with hurricanes, ice storms and earthquakes as principal culprits. Devoted donors pour red cells, sweat and tears. Can we convince the rest of the world to share the burden? Ruby, please take your blood to town.
Giving blood hurts, no doubt about it. Last time I had a close encounter with the Red Cross was during a gross national blood shortage. I called the local number, which, thanks to a telemarketing touch, has the word BLOOD in it. A Bloodmobile was coming to my neighborhood Toyota dealership. My chance to become a hood ornament. Or would they stash me in the trunk like groceries?
Nurses ask if I've ever had malaria, chest pain or excursions to a third-world country. I deny everything. They pierce my fingertip for a droplet to test blood type.
They take my temperature and request my Social Security number and birth date. They ask so many questions, I wonder what would happen if I omitted an answer. Deadly Virus Traced to Woman Who Forgets Numbers, Doctors Report.
I recline on a flimsy tin stretcher covered in clammy oilcloth. As a courtesy, the perpetrators ask which arm. I always pick the left, but they always use the right, which has better veins, whatever that means. They're looking for blood in all the wrong places.
My head rests on a pillow the size and texture of a dictionary. They squeeze the blood pressure cuff until the ringing in my ears sounds like a Toyota horn. I make a fist. Then a sorceress jabs with her fingernail, x marks the spot. Ouch. Swab the arm with a substance that looks like Dijon mustard. Since I am doing a mitzvah for the human race, I won't worry about the needle. What is this thing called blood?
Hurts when they stick the needle in. I lie inert for nine minutes while a red river flows into a transparent plastic bag. Rather than watch the scarlet stream, I try to imagine that Picasso painted the watermarks on the ceiling.
The country needs only 40,000 units a day. Why me? Maybe I should quit and hope somebody else gives blood.
When the blood-suckers are satisfied, they remove the needle, apply gauze and tell me to hold my arm in the air, pressing the sore spot. If Serena Williams did that, she'd lose her backhand.
It's all over except for the fainting. I never collapse from imparting "the gift of life," but I've seen football players swoon. Most people would rather swim the English Channel than roll up a sleeve, yet they demand blood when relatives need surgery.
After draining my system of life-giving fluid, Red Cross nurses make me sit 15 minutes in what they generously call a canteen, where I drink tea or coffee to replace lost liquids. A volunteer pats my shoulder with a sticker that says, "Be nice to me, I gave blood today." (With luck this commandment gets me out of washing dishes tonight.) Next to me, a guy who donated his first pint is preparing to pass out.
Waiting in canteen, strangers connect through the thrill of charity and the agony of exposing our veins to syringes the size of hotdogs. We give blood even though it hurts. One little pinprick for me, one pint of crimson juice for mankind. Somebody has to do it. I can contribute every 56 days. I can't give you anything but blood.
As unpleasant as this episode is, it is better to give than to receive.
Read more of Susan's essays.