ethoughts weekly - PASS IT ON-if you dare!

9/25/05

Bloody Ridiculous

This week I decided to give blood. That’s nothing heroic, of course. People give blood all the time; at least they try to. (I’ll get to that topic in a minute.) Because of two pregnancies and finding care for the consequent young children, it’s been a long time since I’ve given blood. It seems a lot has changed in that time too. The last time I gave “the gift of life” I got woozy. Isn’t “woozy” a great word? It fits just right. Even if you didn’t speak English, I think if you heard the word “woozy” and the person telling you held their stomach as they said it, no translation would be needed.

A bad thing happens if you admit to feeling woozy after you give blood to the Red Cross. They express concerned misgivings and instruct you to remain reclined for over 20 minutes. They force you to breathe out of a paper bag in this same position, and in the end detain you at least an hour longer than what seems necessary. They also advise the obligatory consumption of orange juice. This citrus nectar of the gods apparently halts “woozy-ness”.

Last time, after about ten or fifteen minutes of reclining I knew I was fine. The rest and the orange juice did help brilliantly. I figured my stupidity of not eating or drinking anything that day was a grave error. I tried to squeeze in giving blood between other significant duties of my day. While rushing about I never stopped to nourish myself. The punishment for that, my friends, is to miss important succeeding appointments and run late for the rest of the day. I’d say the moral there is “if you’re feeling munificent act on a full stomach.”

The funniest part of that woozy day I remember is being escorted to a table to drink orange juice. A very elderly man who could only walk in a shuffle slowly made his way to my cot. He seemed about 103 years old and looked to weigh all of 92 pounds. As he approached I kept picturing a horrifying scene of him gingerly taking my arm as I saw him do for others that day, and guiding me. In effect he would soon be providing me with no help at all. I would then grow faint, stumble and kill him by braking every brittle bone in his delicate body, (causing mortal internal bleeding, of course. Death by squashing).

“Come with me,” he croaks.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“I’m supposed to help you.”

“Okay,” I acquiesce.

“You should be carrying me,” he says. Now that’s dry humor. Well, I’m not sure it’s humorous at all, but it’s ironical. I find that somewhat funny.

There’s nothing like inspiring insecurity from a feeble and light-headed blood giver. I start feeling more woozy at just the thought of his proposal. These people can really toy with your mind as well as your veins. Either way it’s draining. (Sorry, I was compelled to pun.)

The reasons for rejecting donors seem endless. The checklist is over 40 questions long! It’s for good reason of course; and I must add these volunteers truly are some of the best sorts of people. However, I wonder no longer why we have blood shortages all the time!

Their safety protocols seemed woefully out of whack, and this time I offered my blood is no different. First they gather my identity statistics. Then they stab my finger and squeeze blood out until it's purple for my hemoglobin test; and then they ask me a battery of questions. Sporting a concerned look the interviewer leaves the table carrying a huge manual and begins speaking with her supervisor. I wait hoping my blood is good enough for them.

She returns with bad news. I am officially “differed indefinitely” from giving blood. It turns out in 1999 the FDA passed a regulation that sates the Red Cross can not accept blood from donors who have stayed in the United Kingdom for more than three months between the years of 1980-1996. The reason: Mad Cow’s disease! Apparently I’m “at risk”. This does not bode well for my hypochondriac tendencies! Every headache will carry a significant amount of dread with it. Until the FDA changes their ruling my blood is worthless, except to me of course.

I was in England for four months in 1992 studying abroad. I think it’s an “udderly asinine” discriminating factor. If I had stayed in England for three months and devoured Big Macs at McDonald’s everyday they would have taken my blood. But staying four months is far too dangerous with or without the cow products. Let's stay I'm not, "Lovin' it!"

I’m not sure I like this kind of rejection. Still, I guess it’s better than being turned away for being bitten by a monkey while in Africa like my friend was. That’s a good deal more humiliating. Plus, I keep thinking what on earth provoked that monkey?

Bloody Cows! I’m feeling woozy all over again just thinking about those mad cows. This time though, the man with the shuffle is painfully absent. Maybe he spent some time in the UK too!

This ethoughts was oh so moo-ving, but hope it was at least good for a laugh. Have a great week.

Lisa DeLay

©2005