Blood and Cookies

Donating blood makes me think of my father, who donated regularly for years. He earned something like the ten gallon badge. That’s a lot of blood. As a girl, I remember getting calls at the house when the Red Cross needed more of his type, O Neg, and he’d head down to the hospital. It seemed like he was a quiet hero, saving babies, and I wanted to be like him.

I received one of those calls this summer myself. I don’t donate regularly, but I’m in the database, and they had another shortage. So I went in yesterday.

It took a while to get screened, and then the donation itself lasted about 8 minutes. Afterward, I sat drinking juice and eating Oreos for ten minutes, giving my body a chance to adjust.

As I lingered at the table in the senior center, surrounded by other volunteers, some lying on the tables, others lined up in chairs by the entrance, still others helping with the nametags and cookies, I thought about my dad. He was an inspiration to me in so many different ways. I also recalled my novel, Promised, where a certain desperate blood transfer occurs in a critical scene. I have no doubt that I had the idea for that scene because of my own donation experiences and the people I love.  Life and art are certainly intertwined.

We may be a world of strangers, but we can share blood. I find that’s powerful stuff.