My Bloody Tuesday

Last night I went to a blood drive held at a local churchhouse. I'm not a regular donor, so I think I was a little out of the loop with how things work. Apparently, they don't just stick you on a table now and suck your blood out through that crazy-straw thing anymore. Turns out they've got all sorts of options for the McDonald's generation of charitable bleeders.

So I'm sitting in that little booth answering all those questions ("Hare you spent more than three years in any subterranean cultures?" "Have you breathed on anyone with AIDS?" "Are you a mudblood?"). Then the tech comes in and stabs me in the finger with that needle that's tipped with whatever poinson makes your hand hurt for the next three days. He takes a look at my donor card and says, "Well, your blood type is O Awesomesauce, so would you be willing to hubbidy hoobidy flup flup?"

I, of course, don't want to admit that I don't know what he's talking about, so I throw my arms in the air and say, "Who wouldn't?"

Turns out what he was asking was if I would like to donate red blood cells instead of whole blood. Basically, they strap your arm to a Hoover vacuum which sucks out the blood, spins it in a centrifuge to remove all those tasty red blood cells, and then pump whatever's left back into your arm mixed with some Cherry Coke.

Meanwhile, you've got technicians walking past and asking you constantly how you're doing and whether you're experiencing any pain. I never know how to answer that question, because there's a NEEDLE in my ARM!!! Of COURSE I'm in pain!

Also, one of the lab techs says I look like Carlos Boozer. I'll admit it - I had to look up who he was. I'm not sure I see the resemblance.

All bald people look alike.

Anyway, once they get me all un-blooded and centrifuged, they sent me over to the snack table. They always stock those things so full of cookies and juice that you'd think you were at a pre-schooler picnic if it weren't for all the bags of blood lying around. After all, pre-schoolers like their blood free-range.

There's a friend of mine staffing the snack table, a girl who has taken an unhealthy interest in my romantic life. Unhealthy for whom I'm not so sure. She seems to be doing fine.

Anyway, we chat for a minute, and she tells me I need to sit down. I say I don't want to, and I feel fine, but that only makes her more insistent. She offers to go get me some juice, and I tell her I don't want any juice. Never before have I felt quite so much like an old man.

Finally, she just snaps at me and said, "You need to let yourself be nurtured by a woman." Then we both laugh loudly and very uncomfortably, because what else can you do at that point?

So that ends my adventure with the Red Cross. It was a thrilling experience, and one that I'll probably be repeating in four months. Next time, though, I'll be sure to take along a little sandwich baggie full of prunes.