They know how to say, “thank you.”
The gray day seemed fitting for the first following Christmas. Clouds covered the sky, holding back rain as if to mock weariness from the recent activity.
While catching up on emails I was notified Christmas Eve was the eight-week point, I was eligible to give blood again.
I was eager to comply. While still in my teens I began the practice. It was sort of an inherited trait. Also, I felt like a full adult doing an adulting thing. For several years I would enter the tent, hospital, bus, cafeteria or any other place the Red Cross was setting up a blood drive and offer my arm and my one-of-a-kind personal nectar to anyone who might be in need. Plus, it could make one an optimist, my type was B Positive!
This continued until a point when my offering was no longer welcome. It was in the 90s. I had been stationed in Italy and enjoying the good life there when I found myself ineligible. It seems the Italians had a penchant for beef from England. Since I was a vegetarian, once removed (cows eat grass, I eat cows), my being had been subjected to Mad Cow Disease. I’d seen the videos on the news of English cows stumbling about and falling. My thoughts were that it was actually Irish cows returning from a pub. The disease name didn’t seem fitting. Stability-challenged cow disease, or as mentioned, intoxicated bovine syndrome would be a better moniker for those animals as they staggered about the English countryside.
Following a decade or more of blacklisting, the ban was lifted, and I’d found out I was once again clean enough to have a needle stuck in my arm that extracted, rather than injected. I discovered a more local source to bleed; it is the Community Blood Center of the Ozarks (CBCO). They headquarter in Springfield, MO, but they reach out through southwestern Missouri and into northwestern parts of Arkansas. I like the idea my donation stays local.
Today was my first to pour out my life source at Phelps Health, the closest medical center to my residence. I had to descend into the bowels of the hospital cafeteria to find the donation center. At least I didn’t have to eat there. Memories of hospital food are not fond.
I was introduced to Cecelia, but she wasn’t breaking my heart or shaking my confidence daily. She limited her activity to screening myself for dreaded things like traveling out of the country or getting tattooed or worse. She also insisted on pricking my finger and taking my blood pressure. The finger-pricking was to check my iron level, the blood pressure was for signs of life.
My story got past her judgement, and I was introduced to Rachel. I garnered her permission to share her name and promised I wouldn’t disparage her about any blood thirstiness she might engage in. I assumed she was a nurse, but in actuality, she was trained to this one task, carefully and, in a sanitized manner, remove a pint of blood and offer it up to meet the needs of anyone it could be a match for.
Their work is inspiring. All are friendly and professional. They bribe with bottled water and flavored drinks with snacks once the needle is removed. Most visits are rewarded with a t-shirt, a sports jersey or tickets to a nearby attraction. Today’s was timely, a comforting logo wrap for curling up and resting from the holiday hassle.
They know how to say, “Thank You!”