Temperature taken. Iron measured. Eligibility questions answered. I relax into my own blue, lounge chair lined up beside a few others, waiting to be asked which arm that I’d like to donate from. I volunteer my right arm, knowing that I have small veins and no one has ever been able to find a large enough vein in my left arm to donate.
Arm swabbed and blood pressure cuff tight around my bicep. I bite the inside of my cheek while the needle is inserted, trying to steady my nerves by breathing slowly. As my life blood flows into a little plastic bag in a scale below my chair, I open and close my fingers as per directed. My thoughts are with the blood, wondering what person might need this life-giving vehicle to sustain them after a horrific accident or killing disease.
I can help their healing.
The Legacy of Giving
My mom used to give blood when I was young. She’d come home with a huge bruise across the inside of her elbow, and little child me would be distraught that she’d allowed someone to do that to her. “Mommy, why do you let them take your blood?”
“I think it’s important.” She repeated this each time because my question would be asked every time she donated.
I’d shudder and declare. “I will never give blood!”
Why I Donate Blood
My mother’s words stuck close to me, and her constancy in giving despite her physical discomfort branded itself in my memory. When I came of age to donate, I did it in honor of my mother and her father before her. The pain and the bruising no longer scared me, and the possibility of helping someone live inspired me.
My veins are small so donating can be difficult and often times unsuccessful. I keep going back.
I think it’s important.
What About You?
Do you donate blood and what’s your story that keeps taking you back to donate?
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