Poosey Digest: Stretch out your arm

I lay there bleeding and no one tried to stop it. The room was strewn with bodies. A man to the left of me laid there with outstretched arms, staring at the ceiling, as the fellow on my right lay still, eyes closed. Silent, blue-garbed figures moved from body to body looking at eyes, eyeing the accumulated blood, carefully watching for who might go next.

I think I first donated blood as soon as I’d reached the legal age. In our family it’s a rite of passage like christening or moving up to the grownups’ table at Christmas. Once you reach the right age you hop up onto the cot and give blood. 

The facts are pretty clear. If you’re normal you walk around with about 10 pints of blood sloshing through your veins. The Red Cross only wants one of those. About 10 million folks donate 16 million pints a year and about 36 percent of our population is eligible to give. We need some 40,000 donations a day to keep up. Which brings us to the most alarming statistic: only 5 percent of eligible donors give blood. Let’s look at that again: 36 percent can, 5 percent do. Five percent of our population is keeping the other 95% walking, jogging, dancing, stumbling, eating, and complaining about health care.

I’ve always found blood donation a pleasant experience. The medical folks are glad to see you, you meet other nice people who’ve chosen to donate (not many poopheads at a blood drive), the donation beds are comfy, and there’s always a cookie awaiting you when you get up.

Okay, some of the process is a bit irritating. The questions they ask you can embarrass your Presbyterianism, and if they could find a way to test my blood without that little finger prick I’d be a happier donor, but overall the process is much less painful than getting out of your car after a two-hour ride.

I would make one suggestion, however. How about a little entertainment while you’re being drained? I know that the medical personnel are too busy to go into a song and dance, and if a little gal is trying to find my vein I’d rather she avoid break dancing. Instead, I’d propose a little handout…something humorous to read. Maybe a tiny booklet with “The Lamest Reasons for Not Giving Blood.”

I could help them write it from first-hand conversations I’ve had with my friends over the years.

“I don’t give blood in case a member of my family needs it in an emergency.” Well Beulah, they’ll get it from the same place you’re giving it. Do you really plan to spend the rest of your life traveling side-by-side with this accident-prone family member, night and day, ready to open your veins in case he bumps his chin?

“They won’t let me give.” Although this excuse is sometimes valid, it’s too often used by someone who had a head cold back in 1982 and have carried the excuse with them ever since. 

“I don’t like needles.” I don’t suck on penicillin for the fun it, Harriet, but it does me good and it saves a life.

“I am too busy.” Could you please put that in a letter and send it to the tornado-ravished folks in Southern Illinois. Don’t forget to sign your name.

“I’ll wait ‘til there’s a special need.”   People die without it blood transfusions. How “special” does your need have to get?

“My blood isn’t the right type.” Your shoes may not be the right type, your personality may not be the right type, but honey, no matter what type blood you have, it’s right.

“I’m afraid I’d contract AIDS.” I doubt it. Those blood donation beds are too small for that sort of activity.

Absolutely true: a young lady who was recently turned away because of her recent tattoo told me, “Thank God. I hate needles.”

Of course the quickest cure for all these excuses is to march your little fanny into a blood donation center, answer the questions, get a free mini-medical exam, shut up and stretch out your arm. Good Lord, if the sight of a needle bothers you turn your head. You’ve been turning your head to the blood shortage problem for years. Your neck is used to it.

You ever ’round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.