Today, I’m planning on giving blood for the first time.
The appointment is set. I don’t have evening practice. I will get a full day of work done. (I wrote this post in advance.) I will eat. Then I will head to the parish hall, where the blood drive is being held.
Then, if I understand correctly, a bunch of Draculas will leech life-sustaining fluid from my body with Shop-Vacs, using a gift certificate to a local ice cream place as bait before they perform their evil magic voodoo on my veins. (Your understanding may differ slightly.)
Yes, I’m nervous. I don’t really need accolades, because in theory, donating blood shouldn’t be a big deal. I’m not doing anything heroic. What I would appreciate is the reassurance that I will not die. (Perhaps I have slight hypochondriac tendencies, which may also explain why I’ve never donated blood before.)
So I talked to a friend who has donated blood several times. He’s slightly more level-headed about this. For one thing, he is certain that I will not die and chipper about the fact that I’m intentionally getting a needle stuck into my arm.
“At the end,” he said, “you’ll feel pretty good about yourself. Just make sure you eat those cookies right after.”
True. It may not be heroic, but it may nonetheless be lifesaving. And I’ll be overcoming a fear in the process. In that regard, I really have plenty to gain and nothing to lose.
Well, except for that pint of blood.