Is It Really Better To Give?

Yesterday was Bloodmobile Day at the church I attend (FPC of StarkVegas). I think it's a good and noble thing to donate blood and I've done so on several occasions. Never really thought twice about it.

My dear departed Pop used to give up a pint or two on a very regular basis when I was a young lad. He was a fireman and sort of the quiet, heroic type. I remember it well - and maybe that's why I feel compelled to do the same. Genetic disposition to blood giving...hmmm - there's an interesting concept.

Anyway, I had signed up for the 6:30pm bloodletting session thinking I'd just catch it on my way home from the office. When I arrived at the Bloodmobile (with its fabulously frigid insides on a 90+ degree Mississippi day), I found it a bit crowded. Seems there were a few "walk-ins" and the Bloodmobile people don't send anybody away who comes knocking.

After a 20 minute wait spent in a quasi-agonizing chat with the parish nurse, my number rolled up. I got the perfunctory pre-sticking workup in a 4 x 4 closet with a rather large Bloodmobile worker. She might have been a nurse - we weren't properly introduced. About 700 questions followed in rapid succession. I made some offhand comment about her asking about "any tattoos in the last 6 months". She scowled as she lifted her 125 lb. arm to reveal a seriously intricate work of ink. Big arms get big tats, I surmised.

Slipping away from the closet of growing funk, I made my way down the corridor to a waiting couch. A friendly sort named Tom complimented my veins (I don't think it was inappropriate in this setting) and hooked me up - literally. I squeezed the little rubber heart/ball every few seconds and tried not to think about the blood pressure reading that Nursezilla had told me earlier(130 over 90 - that can't be right...).

In about 10 or 12 minutes, Tom pronounced me as "done". At that exact moment I went slack - cold, clammy, sweaty, weak. This had suddenly become a near death experience.

Tom: "Are you OK?"
Me: "Yeah - just let me get outta this bus. I'll be fine"
Tom: "You don't look so good - wanna juice box?"

Okay. Middle aged guy is showing classic symptoms of heart failure in a medical setting and Tom wants me to have A JUICE BOX!! WHAT ABOUT ATROPINE? A CRASH CART?

I grabbed an oatmeal creme patty instead and broke for the parking lot. I managed to make it home, all the while envisioning me draped over the steering wheel careening into a group of unexpectant school children - never mind that it was 7:30pm. In July. I stumbled in and flopped on the couch.

Wife: "Are you OK?"
Me: "I'll be fine. Could I have a juice box?"
Wife: "You don't look so good - wanna sandwich?"

I think it saved my life....