Blood, Sweat and Tears

What started out as civic duty on a bleak, dreary morning in Dallas, ended up with a trout pout; and not in the Melanie Griffith, botox-injected way, and a bruised, bandaged arm and ego for my troubles.

Our condo organizes several charity initiatives throughout the year so the residents can contribute in little ways to help the community. This past weekend, it was a Blood Drive, being hosted in a bus that looked something the Partridge Family would roll up to a gig at the local Eagles Club, circa 1975. 

The Hippie Bus

In the past, I gave blood but the Canadian Red Cross deemed me a huge risk with my vagabond lifestyle so I have not been able to give for eight years. I know in the USA, they will take anything with a pulse, and skin somewhat free of track marks so I thought it would be a cinch to donate.

I braved the brisk Texas winds and made a dash for the bus. Inside was not much warmer, even with several people in various stages of blood donating. I sat shivering, waiting my turn.

I asked the coughing, wheezing nurse if I would qualify; I saw her eyes glaze over when I explained I had been doing significant travel in the last few years.  When I told her I was in Cambodia recently, she asked, "Is that in North or South Carolina?" I went on to explain I had lived in three countries in nine months which didn't seem to concern her in the least, and she assured me that Canada was probably safe. "Well, thank god for that because it was Canada I was so concerned with a Malaria outbreak," was the sarcastic voice ping-ponging around my head.

I managed to pass the hemoglobin test, the blood pressure squeeze, and assure them I haven't used dirty needles, or been a prostitute in the last three years. I have not been in the military, nor pregnant, or sold my blood recently. Then she asked me about travel; didn't we just have this conversation 55 seconds ago when I asked her if I was a candidate?

She whipped out an extensive sheet, with every state in Mexico, banned cities abroad, and over two dozen countries that are not suitable for donating. This process took over two hours, partly because of all of the places we have traveled, and partly because my tequila infused brain could not remember the unique names of the Asian cities and islands we visited. Was that Butuk Katong, or Patong Bukak?  I could not remember them all, no matter how much I squeezed my eyes closed and pictured the tranquil islands in my mind.  She said, "No worries Sugar, we will take you, you look healthy," as she blew her nose for the 15th time.

I was told to lie down while they strapped me into the reclining school bus seat.  Soon a huge, dude nurse named Tracy came at me with what looked like a horse needle. Why does the name Tracy on a man always confuse me?  I wasn't about to question him on his name, when I saw the size of the harpoon he was about to jab into my vein. I didn't look because the bus started to spin; when he shoved that needle into my arm, I started swearing in Spanish, Thai, French and any other language I could conjure up under my breath. "Y'all doing okay, Doll?” was his Southern way of asking me if I was going to pass out. 

To make matters worse, my damaged arm was immobilized and sticking out in the aisle, so every time Tracy or one of the other enormous nurses tried to squeeze by, my arm was whacked, sending a thrilling sensation of pain rippling down my pasty, white limb.  

After only two short minutes of him poking and squeezing, he got annoyed and announced, "Okay, Doll, you're done. Your veins are too small and we can't do this anymore. Don't come back for two months." He unceremoniously yanked out the tube for one final pain sensation.

All of the time I have tried to maintain a size 6, with the

Exercise? No. Vein Pump? Yes

exception in Singapore where I was a size 66, I didn't know I was supposed to be enlarging my veins so the spear-sized needle would draw blood. Is there an exercise regime that pumps up the veins to Lou Ferrigno proportions so your blood flows freely?

Tracy wasn't finished with me yet; you could see the disgust on his face as he bandaged my wound with more blue tape than  used in the entire Falkland War. How dare I waste his precious time, use a blood collection bag that was going to be tossed away, and fritter away the monstrous needle. He told next time, drink, drink, drink so the blood flows freely. Had I known this, I would have brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio with me.

Yes, it hurts...

I sulked up to our condo, wincing in pain from my arm but more from my pride. So much for community spirit, so much for helping my fellow man; all I got for my trouble was my personal info punched into yet another American website for the spam to overtake my email, and a swelling, the size of Kentucky in the Rand McNally Atlas.

I think my days of giving blood are over until I return to Canada; they may not like my excursions, but at least the needles are compatible with my wimpy veins. Perhaps I can volunteer in a soup kitchen instead.