Bloody Hell!

“Are you or have you ever been a prostitute?”
Well, I don’t hear that every day.
I click “NO,” because obviously the American Red Cross wouldn’t like it if I joked about life on the street corner. Not that I know what that’s like.
I deny that I’ve ever dated a monkey from Africa or that I lived in Europe during the ‘70’s. I finish the questionnaire and stand up. The nurse comes back and tells me to sit down next to her. I wonder what kind of ridiculous questions she has for me. How odd to be interrogated – I thought pretty much anybody could donate blood!
“Okay, please roll up your sleeves so I can see both of your arms.”
My arms check out.
“Now I need your finger.”
Ha! What, was she going to check my fingerprints or something?
But then she pulls out a needle. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. NOT OKAY!
I look away, but as she squeezes my finger I know that there’s blood. And she’s taking it. Taking it away! For some sick, mutilated experiment! The HORROR!
I feel her put on a band-aid, which obviously makes my finger feel 100% better. The nurse gives me a troubled look.
“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “I just hate the sight of blood. Or anything that has to do with blood.”
I ignore the nurse’s puzzled stare as we walk to the next station where she hands me what appears to be a massive, dead jellyfish. Upon closer inspection, I realize that these are bags, with tubes. Bags with tubes that are going to be filled. With my blood. I gag a little. No one notices.
I sit next to a calm looking chap and try not look at the people already laying on the over-sized lawn chairs or their disgusting bags of bodily fluids.
“So, come here often?” I ask, too nervous to consider personal space.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he says, all cool and unfazed like we aren’t surrounded by needles and blood bags. “I am a double red.”
“Like, what? Communism?”
“No, like I give twice as much blood. And then they take out the red blood cells out of half of it and put the plasma back in my body. It takes twice the time but I think …”
I feel my face whiten. It was a bad idea to be social at a blood drive. Where there is blood.
Someone calls my name and I sheepishly hand my tubey bags to a friendly-looking woman in white who tells me to sit down. I try to get comfortable, but I feel like I can hear the blood leaving the veins of my neighbors. And it is not pleasant.
Suddenly the girl next to me starts to convulse and then flops over in her chair. I gasp as she is surrounded by a group of people in white, all touching her face and repeating her name.
“Is that going to happen to me?” I ask my white-clad friend who is hooking up my empty bags.
“No, honey, you won’t faint. Now just hold still.”
“Hold still? Why? Is it time to put the …”
And then a needle is in my arm. Oh the awkward sensation! My elbow hurts, my hand is numb, my stomach is definitely not okay with this! I debate telling the nurse that I am not cut out for this job and I need to leave because I am late for an appointment with a cat or the president or something.
Instead, I look away. There is not a needle in my arm. I am not strapped to an old lawn chair in the Great Room of the Pryz. No, sir, I am not in the least bit uncomfortable. Or at least this is what I try to tell myself. It doesn’t work. My arm still hurts. There is still blood leaving my body.
The two girls sitting across from me burst into genuine laughter. Oh, hi, girls why do you get to party at the blood drive while I’m sitting here holding my breath so I don’t vomit on myself? I can almost feel my blood pressure rising; am I angry?! Yeah, I’m pretty pissed. I am miserable and everyone else is having the time of their lives while their blood is getting sucked right on out of them. WHY ME? WHYYYYY?
Okay, fine. It’s my fault I didn’t come prepared with a friend or any hilarious jokes. Sorry about that, American Red Cross! Next time I will bring a magazine or maybe a funny YouTube video or something. No really, if this goes faster, next time I will be in a better mood. Actually, I take that back. If this goes quickly, I will never donate blood again. Instead, I will take on the life of Mother Teresa. I might even consider getting within twelve feet of babies or (gulp) elderly people! Just, please, blood, pump faster. Gag.
Wait, this is already a really nice thing to do. People need my awesome O+ blood. Yeah, I’m going to be queasy for, like, an hour, but what about people in car accidents? Or freak machete accidents? They need this blood way more than whiney little me does.
“Are you okay, there?” one of the nice women in white asks. I realize that there are two single tears down my face. How emotional. And ridiculous.
“Yeah, there’s just … a needle in my arm,” I say slowly, remembering that my stomach really wants to yack right now. “Am I almost done?”
She checks my bags. “About three more minutes,” she says with a nice smile. Ugh, she’s so nice. I bet she doesn’t even wince when she gives blood because she is such a nice person.
But three minutes! That’s better than three hours. I mean, my arm must be dry as a raisin now, but just three more minutes. There are so many good things that only take three minutes. Like eating a Chipotle burrito. And singing a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I can accept three minutes. I have the power! I am so excited, I think I feel a song coming on …
“Okay, I think you’re set,” my nurse friend says, starting to undo the tape holding the needle in my arm. And then I saw blood.
And passed out.
Oops.