A blood donor story told in the spirit of film noir
By Tim Poe, American Red Cross volunteer
I shut off the car’s engine and reached for the bottle. This was the place. Looking at the glass and sandstone medical building bristling in the late-July afternoon, I unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. This wasn’t some liver-pummeling swill, though, nor even a dainty-derby aperitif. It was the good stuff: water, straight from the tap. I knew I’d need it; they’d told me so. They also told me to get a good night’s sleep, but the ghosts of nexuses past, present, and future rattling chains at bebop tempo in my brain had other ideas. But I had slept some, had drank plenty of water, and was here to do some good. I stepped out of my dented ride and gazed at a sky blue enough to make Monet weep. But today’s theme was red. I headed toward the building, prepared to lose some blood.
I had plenty, after all, and others needed it. Today I was a blood donor.
Cots, computers, snacks, beverages, people bustling, many wearing shades of red. I’d found the room. A Blood Donor Ambassador welcomed me with a smile and scanned the fuzzy square on my phone. I had completed the RapidPass that morning.
The two donors preceding me said they always gave together, as often as possible. O negatives, universal donors. Today they were donating whole blood. Next time, Power Red. These two were cool. I was humbled, in the presence of greatness.
Another groovy person called me over, verified the information I had provided earlier, asked a few more questions, checked vitals, and drew blood to check my iron, a large drop of crimson emerging from a finger. My mind wandered from iron to the irony of my blood type, which sounded like a happiness mantra: “Be positive.” Better suited for a life coach or morning weather reporter, not a mug who’d spent his formative years breathing blue notes through saxophones followed by a lifetime thinking of novel ways to describe dusks, dawns, dramas, drunks, and dreams.
My mental meanderings paused; time to get on a cot. Even in summer, I’m pale, nearly translucent with easily visible veins, a phlebotomist’s joy. A groovetastic phlebotomist in a cerise shirt handed me a squeezy then worked a scanner, tubing, bags, and swabs with the deftness of Bill Evans pressing piano keys into song. The scent of iodine sent a jumbled reel of hospital memories rolling through my mind. But those were times of need. Now to give, help someone going through something similar. I wondered if that someone’s personality matched “be positive.”
The needle. A pinch, the frosty tubing turned garnet as my blood flowed into unseen bags below. I resisted the urge to peer over at them, instead squeezing the foam every few seconds, my other hand with the phone, taking a photo, then scrolling in hope of finding some good news.
Soon came beeps and the return of the phlebotomist. With a flurry of clips, tubes, samples, cotton, and a candy red bandage wrap, I was done. I stood up, walked to the snack table, selected a blueberry granola bar, a bottle of spring water, and awaited the slight light- headedness to subside.
Shortly later I walked back down the hall, proudly wearing my bandaged arm, greeting others, possibly with a little “be positive” swagger. Because today, I did some good. Today, I was a blood donor.
Posted by Ryan Lang, American Red Cross board member and volunteer
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