So you may assume that I probably donate blood all the time. But, that is not the case. Let me tell you why.
It all began last summer in California. I had just turned 30, and was dealing with that trauma, when Brian and I accompanied the youth group to the Mennonite Youth Convention in San Jose. And the Mennonites, in an attempt to be good global citizens, supported a blood drive at the convention. Perfect. Brian and I and a number of really wimpy youths signed up. (Seriously, all the youth fainted or turned pale or cried.) I greatly anticipated it all week.
We arrive to give blood, Brian challenges me to a race to see who can give blood faster. (He won by using a secret hand pumping technique that I did not know we were allowed to employ.) I get set up in my chair and the lovely man who is taking my blood begins making small talk. We chat pleasantly for a few moments when he asks, "so are you a senior this year, or did you just graduate?" I sat stunned, trying to process what he had just asked. I then replied in a voice barely able to squeak out sound, "Sir, I am 30 YEARS OLD!" He finds it hard to believe and, needless to say, I become a little giddy with this boost to my morale. The rest of my blood-letting went off without a hitch and I ate my cookies, drank my juice, and received my sticker and free T-shirt. It was a great success. And for the rest of the week I made sure no one forgot that I could pass for an 18 year-old. (Little did I know it would be the last time I would taste those delicious cookies or happily apply a sticker to my shirt telling the world to be nice to me because I gave blood.)
A few weeks later in the mail Brian receives a packet from the American Red Cross thanking him for donating blood and letting him know what his blood type is. The packet is filled with magnets and stickers and all kinds of cool stuff thanking him for saving "up to three lives." I sort of wonder where my packet is. I figure it must have gotten delayed in the mail.
A week later I receive an official looking envelope from the American Red Cross with a red stamp on the front that says, "OFFICIAL DONOR HEALTH INFORMATION." I open it up with shaky fingers. Turns out that the man who thought I was 18 gave me "the hep." Okay not really but I still sort of blame him. My blood had tested positive for hepatitis C. When they re-tested my blood it did not. They were clear in the letter that the first test had been a false positive and that I had nothing to worry about. I did not, in fact, have hepatitis. HOWEVER, because of that false positive, I HAVE BEEN BANNED FROM EVER DONATING BLOOD AGAIN! Can you imagine? I, who love nothing more than watching my blood fill up a plastic bag, can no longer save up to three lives! I, who do not get squeamish or faint but, in fact, immensely enjoy the whole process, now has to silently ignore pleas from the Red Cross to save lives by donating blood. I want to save up to three lives at a time. All the time.
The letter from the Red Cross said that I could donate blood for my own use if I ever need it. Where is the joy in that? Woo-hoo. So, I'm currently on the search for an alternate blood bank, one that won't know my past history of exotic travels and strange men who think I'm young, one that might still accept this tainted blood.
