The Red Cross has a new ad. The picture shows a young mother,
leading a small child by the hand, and in the margin is her to-do
her list:
”
DROPPED OFF DRY CLEANING, SAVED A LIFE, PICKED UP KIDS.
”
The mother is wearing a band-aid on the inside of her elbow,
because, by implication, she has just donated blood.
The Red Cross has a new ad. The picture shows a young mother, leading a small child by the hand, and in the margin is her to-do her list: “DROPPED OFF DRY CLEANING, SAVED A LIFE, PICKED UP KIDS.” The mother is wearing a band-aid on the inside of her elbow, because, by implication, she has just donated blood.
I’ve been trying to visualize an ad like that featuring me, with my Wednesday to-do list: “Make coffee. Bible study. Write and type column. Wash dishes. Set up kitchen for math class. Teach Algebra II. Make lunch. Teach Trig. Drive to Hollister. Tutor pre-calc while Anne rides horse. Drive to the Strand. Save a Life. Go square dancing. Read bedtime story. Collapse.”
This explains why “Save a Life” hasn’t been on my to-do list for a long time. It used to be. Starting when I was 17, in college, until I became pregnant with our first-born son, I donated blood about every two months. I liked it. I liked the macho feeling: I’m not afraid of no stinkin’ needle! I liked the cookies and juice they gave me afterwards. Saving a Life was pretty cool, too.
After Nick was born, donating became more problematic. They told me I could donate when he was six months old, but he was still nursing full time, and I was wiped out.
I waited until he was 10 months old – and when I came out of the blood bank with the band-aid on the inside of my elbow and my baby in my arms, I discovered that I had a flat tire. I didn’t ask the blood bank volunteers to help with my tire; I was way too macho. I changed my own tire, almost fainted, drove home, and didn’t donate again for about a year.
Since then, I haven’t donated regularly, only sporadically: every year or three, but not every two months. But the Red Cross still sends me the postcards.
Tuesday I noticed a short article in The Dispatch: “Give blood at the Gilroy Presbyterian Church on Monday, Sept. 15, and save a life – 12:30 to 6 p.m. – 6000 Miller Avenue. To make an appointment, call Laverne Mathison at 842-2782.”
I thought wistfully of juice and cookies, and reflected that my Monday to-do list isn’t bad at all: “Three mile walk. Cappuccino. Check Anne’s math. Save a Life?”
Wednesday evening, just before square dancing, Laverne announced that she wanted us all to go down and donate blood.
“You’re Laverne MATHISON!” I said, as though she hadn’t been wearing her name badge for the three years I’ve known her. “You were in The Dispatch!”
“I was?”
She was indeed. To my surprise, the short article also asserted that 13 million Americans say they would donate blood, but that they lack an understanding of the process.
Well, let me explain. You call Laverne and make the appointment. (She’s very nice.) Then, on Monday, Sept. 15, you go to the church. You walk into their fellowship hall. Some people at a table say, “May I help you?” and give you some paperwork to fill out.
You wait. A nurse takes your blood pressure and your temperature, and sticks your finger for a drop of blood so they can make sure you’re not too anemic to donate blood. You wait some more. (It’s a good idea to bring a book.)
Then a nurse takes you over to a padded table. You lie down. The nurse sticks a needle into the vein on the inside of your elbow. It hurts a little, not as bad as stubbing your toe. The blood runs through the needle, through a tube, and into a plastic bag.
You rhythmically squeeze a squishy cylinder to speed the process up. After they collect a pint, the nurse tells you to stop. She takes the needle out of your arm and asks you to hold a cotton ball over the puncture until the bleeding stops, about 30 seconds. She puts the band-aid on.
She keeps you lying down till she’s sure you won’t faint, then she walks you over to some tables where you sit and eat cookies and fruit, and drink coffee or juice.
It’s easy, much easier than being a firefighter.
