Bleed for Me

I am a serial blood giver. I have been for about six years.

The first time I gave blood was sort of by accident. OK, maybe that's not exactly right, maybe "by accident" makes me seem more naive than I was. "Out of necessity" would be closer to the truth.

Sitting in my Intro to Eastern Religions class, I overheard a guy in the row behind me blabbing about how he'd been paid to give blood. Now, this seemed totally nonsensical; my high school had held blood drives, and the biggest news out of the auditorium was always how people were passing out and/or puking. Surely I would have heard if the blood bank had started paying people for their donations. But he sounded so convincing! He even gave me directions, albeit inadvertently. I just had to go, bleed a little bit and they would hand me a check. I could even go back in a week and do it all over again!

Oh, and did I mention that I was a little strapped for cash? Never mind why -- the details are sordid but boring -- but I was relieved/thrilled/elated to discover a quick source of cash. Who knew there was, in fact, money running through my veins?

I found the donation center and stormed through the door (in my own way of course). There were about seven other college students in the waiting room, clipboards in their laps, social security cards and licenses at the ready. I approached the counter where a bored-looking receptionist was working on a sudoku puzzle. She asked if I was there for a whole blood or platelet donation. I answered and she pointed in the direction of a surly man in a paper lab coat. I immediately knew that I'd answered incorrectly, but I didn't know how I could take it back at that point.

He took my vitals and stuck my finger. Then he asked me all sorts of personal questions about my sex life: Had I ever had sexual contact with a man who had received money for sex after 1974? -or- Had I ever had sexual contact with a man who had used needles to take drugs? After 1974? It was very invasive, and I was a little put off. "I don't know" was not a possible answer, so I said no to all the naughty bits, hoping maybe there'd be a cash prize for being virtuous.

The needle stick was quick and mostly painless; it had probably helped that I'd been looking out at my comrades in the lobby, but I barely felt it. That and my fascination over my fast-moving blood really outshone any physical sensations. I just stared at it shoot through that empty tube, bloating the bag like a big breath of fresh air, like a direct lifeline from my arm to a bag and into someone else's arm...eventually. I thought of that Frida Kahlo painting. And wine.

After what felt like about 90 seconds, I was knocked out of my trance by the surly phlebotomist telling me to stop squeezing. He wrapped me up and directed me to the cantina, which made me think of the Mexican War of Independence. (Don't ask. I didn't voice this thought, but I did chuckle to myself.)

"Eat until you feel strong enough to be on your feet. Thanks for your donation."

Now I knew I'd said something wrong. Hippie boy had totally gotten his story wrong! Obviously, he'd been donating some other bodily fluid and saying "blood" was just a cover-up. Plus, Mr. Fake Nurse had been totally rude: he sounded just like some frat boy on the morning after. And let me tell you, their refrigerators are never stocked with more than Coors Light and Vlasic pickles...so I've heard.

So I was back to where I'd been when I'd arrived, minus one pint of my gorgeous, powerful, life-giving Type A blood. I looked down at the package of Grandma's Cookies I was picking at, ambivalent about my donation. I was the only gringa in the cantina and no one was watching me. I may not be compensated monetarily, but this cornucopia of pre-packaged junk food could really come in handy later when I can't buy groceries, I realized. Slowly, slyly, I slid handfuls of Grandma's Cookies, Rold Gold pretzels and mini cans of apple and orange juice into my purse, along with a couple sleeves of peanuts and raisins, to keep it healthy.

I walked out feeling vindicated; not only had I screwed over those who would dare screw me over, but I'd also done a good deed. I couldn't deny that. Plus, I had dinner in my purse.

I felt fine the rest of the afternoon and shrugged off the warning to not drink alcohol for the next 24 hours, which really helped my agoraphobia after my roommates dragged me to another friend's house party. No, I kid! I went willingly. I think I actually made some friends. See, I like to contain myself when I'm drinking, but that night the mere alcohol fumes were enough to promote every stranger there to my best friend.

After that I started donating blood as often as I could (which was not once a week as the hippie boy had led me to believe), trying to correspond epic social events with my donation rotation. I never made a dime, but I got tons of free swag: besides the obvious slices of pizza and baggies of junk food, I was showered with free T-shirts, pens and sticky notepads, minor league baseball tickets, cheap plastic sunglasses, bookmarks, and vouchers for free everything from sandwiches and ice cream to movie rentals and bowling games. I think maybe even a free shoe shine? I don't remember; I own no leather shoes.

I eventually found a legit way to make money, in case you were wondering (you probably weren't, am I right?), but I got hooked on giving blood. Some of it was materialistic (see above list of swag) and narcissistic (I puffed up whenever I caught someone checking out my bandaged arm), but one day I was broadsided by just how important my blood could be.

I was sitting in the chair, with a needle in my arm, blood flowing out of me, when I started to get lightheaded. I frantically tried to keep it together, wondering if I'd eaten lunch, wondering if I would pass out and start drooling before they could revive me. Fortunately, the kind lady taking my blood turned around just in time to see my skin turning translucent, and she propped my feet up.

In my hazy state, I started meditating on blood, on the way in was pouring up my legs like the Nile flowing "backwards," bringing me back to life. My blood, giving life to me and others. How awesome is that?! Almost passing out is just another yawn-inducing side effect of giving blood, but I couldn't think of it the same way after that. I started taking fewer cookies, fewer vouchers, repenting a little for having been such a mooch before. I stopped taking my blood for granted, dammit.

Which is why I'm pretty bummed now. My last three attempts at the blood bank have proved fruitless. My iron has been sufficient, my blood pressure and pulse freakishly low (read: pristine), but I have not been able to give blood. I mean, I just can't. The needle goes in, but no blood comes out. So they remove the needle partially, dig around a little bit with the tip as I grimace at the wall, and jab a little deeper. But still nothing. I figured the third time would be a charm, but my last attempt was no better than the others.

I asked my phlebotomist why this complete lack of bleeding would happen. "Sometimes the blood just wants to stay with the host," she said sagely. I looked down at my icy fingers. The color of my nails was inching its way to purple, and I began to doubt the presence of any blood in my body.

I hopped off the chair and made my way toward the door, but a tech stopped me and wheeled me to the cantina. I felt like a fraud sitting there, with my bogus bandage crisscrossed around my elbow, sipping on apple juice. Health advocates always advise "listen to your body," but I tend to hear my body and promptly tell her she's wrong. I don't like giving my body a break, and she'd struck back by hoarding my blood.

I sheepishly accepted the free movie voucher and T-shirt. And on my way home I took a detour to the theater to rest my bones.

A Fond Farewell

Songs for Waking Up

Sometime around the end of grade school I started to get angry. And it was good.

My new state of mind was the product of a few things, including, but not limited to, an Ani Difranco record my brother slipped me, saying, "I thought you might like it." Who knows if that was before or after I stopped wearing a bra to school in protest of dress code regulations; the songs might have influenced me, or my emerging rebelliousness might have directed my brother.

I listened to that album over and over, soaking in the sound of angry fists clenched against a patronizing pat on the back. It felt like waking up. Suddenly the world seemed bigger and my problems much smaller. I felt like fighting, like I had a reason to. So what that I was a feminist who'd never really experienced sexism, except maybe in an Ani D song, and I felt like the solution was talking about it.

Complex issues boiled down to black and white: World peace was possible; we just all had to be nice to each other; once I got to high school, I would be happier than I was in grade school. I don't remember thinking that I wanted to be anything in particular when I grew up, but I had a fool's sense that I could do anything -- and everything -- that I had on my ever-expanding list of ambitions.

Skip to now. Skip to college graduation. Skip to any moment when the realization that I am in the world and not just observing it has paralyzed me. Because now that it's my turn to make something happen, I find my hands are tied by fear. That's what it boils down to now. I may as well be afraid of my own shadow. There are so many things broken in the world, so many people suffering, so many people fighting their neighbors. What could I possibly do that would make a dent in the centuries of disparity and decay? (And secretly I wonder: What would I have to give up to make it possible?)

So I find solace in trying to control my life. I am the same, everyday. It's not an obsession; it's a way of life. I am unhappy and unfulfilled, but I am afraid to give it up because then what would I have?

There's no sense in placing blame or tracking my steady descent to here; I've been doing that pretty consistently for the past year and a half. But I have hope that I'm not alone, that everyone reaches this spot at some point, when he or she assumes going nowhere = stability = success.

I have a destructive habit of clinging too tightly to things that aren't working for fear of losing control. Once, a few years ago, I had a defiant sense of adventure, but it was stolen from me or I dropped it somewhere along the way, and I've had a hard time recovering it.

Lately, though, miraculously, I feel like I'm waking up again. I've opened up a trapdoor in my heart, swept out the dust and let the sun filter through. I start each day at the beginning, greeting it with open arms, awaiting whatever comes my way. And the world is spilling wisdom at my feet, telling me that everything I want is just outside my comfort zone, that I should be content with what I have but never with who I am, that I should do what scares me... And so I intend to. I miss being a righteous babe, and there's no reason I can't be again.

Like Ani says, "I've got better things to do than survive."

Good morning.