I was on lunch break, from my job as the Forestry Instructor at a community college in Andalusia, Alabama, and I’d just finished a little shopping at the Wal Mart adjacent to our college campus. As I exited the automatic doors, a nurse in blue clothes asked, “Would you like to give blood today?”
As a college student, decades past, I gave fairly regularly at the University of Missouri, and less frequently since then. I am pretty sure it has been over a decade since my last donation.
While I have a reasonably high tolerance for pain, needles and puncture wounds in general, bother me more than other injuries. For the last several years I brushed off the ladies at the door, who were soliciting blood donors. But today, I hesitated. She took that as acquisition, leading me towards the Bloodmobile.
It wasn’t that she was particularly warm, attractive, or enthusiastic. Her demeanor appeared to say, “This is just a job I have to do, let’s get it over with.” But I allowed her to guide me into the bus where I answered their questions, passed the pinprick blood test, and donated.
As I reclined on their bed, another lady cleaned my arm with iodine and inserted the needle. It hurt, more than I remembered. But it was tolerable, so I laid back, occasionally squeezing a soft ball (speeds up the process) while watching a steady stream of people enter the Bloodmobile to donate blood.
But why did I donate today?
Earlier in the week, I heard a news story about critical shortages of blood in south Alabama. That was probably a factor.
Also earlier this week, someone told me, “You are the most selfish person I know.” That’s harsh shit! But I didn’t disagree with them. It’s entirely possible they were correct. But the point is, perhaps I was giving blood, so I would feel better about myself, which is a selfish reason! Under the circumstances, this might even lend credence to their accusation.
But whoever receives my donated blood, won’t know or care about the motivation for the donation. Someone, almost certainly someone I don’t know, will benefit from this act.
I am in the process of transcribing journals from my 2,000 mile trek along the US Mexico border. My second published book, Border Walk, describes my walk along the Texas-Mexico Border. The journals I am working on now will eventually yield my third book, about my trek through New Mexico, Arizona, and California.
A couple days back, I was typing up conversations between me and an Episcopal priest who had fed and assisted me as I walked from Bisbee through Sierra Vista, Arizona. Reverend Aguillar told me that he assisted an undocumented Nicaraguan woman who ended up in a hospital, because she sold too much of her blood. It was one of the few ways in which she could make money while she and her husband lived in an abandoned hotel. Eventually, his church secured funds for their bus tickets to meet friends or family in Virginia. While there, she and her husband received their papers, founded a very successful business, and were widely recognized by their community for their many contributions. Maybe something about that story affected my decision making process today.
Whatever the reason or reasons, I gave blood. And I feel a little better about myself.