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Tuesday, June 19, 2007 Drove into town yesterday morning, took care of errands. As I started the ride back home, I passed the Vermont College Quad, saw a big Red Cross truck parked in front a building, remembered seeing ads around town for a blood drive. The last time I'd given blood: three years ago, during the days after the bombings in Madrid. The sight of the Red Cross truck sparked a sudden, vivid memory of sitting in a blood donation bus in Sol, in the heart of the Spanish capital, people from all over the Spanish-speaking world around me, all trying to contribute in some small way after the catastrophe. That image did something: I suddenly found myself pulling into a parking space, locking the car, walking past the truck into the hall. Inside: people, noise, activity. Two gray-haired 60-something women sat just inside the door at a table stacked with clipboards holding forms to read and sign. They handed me one, I asked for a writing implement. They pointed at my clipboard, I grabbed hold of the elastic coil that should have secured a pen and waved it at them. They fell against each other laughing, handed me another clipboard. I sat, read, signed, stood up, handed it over. They motioned me to the next station, I drifted in that direction. A nurse met me, ushered me into her cubbyhole: a desk, two chairs, a laptop, all hidden away behind wheeled screens. Nice person. We chatted, then she launched into a long list of questions, a long, long list that seemed to stretch on and on. I commented that it seemed like a lot of work for a pint of blood. She pointed out that one pint could potentially save three lives, suggested that ten minutes of Q&A might not be an outrageous amount of effort for that kind of payoff. I could only agree. Once done, she herded me over toward the chaise lounge area, where someone else herded me to my very own indoor plasma-loss lawn chair. A 30-something gent in a lab coat, shorts, sneakers, prematurely graying hair, and an eastern European accent told me to get comfy. Once he'd finished with my neighbor -- an attractive 40-something woman with a patrician nose, looking like an older version of the young Patricia Hodge -- he returned to me, asked questions, set up bags and tubes, began feeling around inside my elbow for a likely puncture point. Seemed to be having trouble finding one, felt and probed and poked and searched and felt and probed some more. Me not being an intravenous drug type, having an abundance of blue veins clearly visible to the naked eye, it began making me nervous. After a while he painted the inside of my arm with iodine, got ready to do the plasma-sucking thing. There was a time when I worked in an ambulance, working six long, miserably-paid months as an EMT. The me of that time got used to blood and gore and needles and all that. These days I'd rather not watch something pointed go into my skin. So I don't. I look away, watch something else. When eastern Europe guy finally pushed the needle into my arm, I was admiring an attractive 30ish woman, one of the Red Cross staff. Needle in. Squeezing fist. Blood oozing into bag. In the background, a radio played an old ZZ Top song ("Legs"). People came and went, some who knew each other called out hellos, exchanged hugs. Eventually, E.E. dude returned, finished up, removed needle, bandaged my arm, sent me off to eat/drink. I found a chair at a table across from a burly 30ish army type, dressed in fatigues. We exchanged heys, he asked how I was doing, I said I thought I was doing just fine. I grabbed a half-sandwich, bit into it, realized I was ravenous, inhaled the rest. Grabbed two more, inhaled them, chased them with some grapes. Restrained myself from wiping out the entire tray of sandwiches, got to my feet, returned to the car. Drove home via back roads, appreciating the fluid that runs through my arteries and veins. A Monday in mid-June. Northern Vermont. España, te echo de menos. rws 7:24 PM [+]
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