It's In the Blood

I gave blood last night. I give blood every few months because I've found it's just about the easiest way I can help other people while not inconveniencing myself too much, which is the true motivation for charity, after all.
Kidding.

Often during the summer months, the blood supply drops to critical levels. There is usually a reluctance on the part of most people to give blood at any time of the year, but during the summer, when there are so many other things to do, it becomes even harder to find donors. That's why, in addition to the signs the Red Cross posted all over town announcing the blood drive and explaining that there is a critical need, this particular drive had special gifts for all donors: Red Sox t-shirts.

Sam, now a proud graduate of first grade, saw the signs around town and began lobbying to go to the blood drive. I've taken him when I've donated blood in the past because I think it's good for him to see that donating blood isn't a big deal. He now knows that giving blood doesn't really hurt, that the people who take the blood are generally friendly, and that there's always cookies and juice when you're done.

Since it's been more than 56 days since I've given blood, and since both of my sons are now hooked on the Red Sox, I decided to take both Sam and Owen with me while I donated a pint.

Giving blood is a fairly formal procedure which befits the serious purpose, I suppose. You walk in and the first thing the greeter has you do is read a big poster on the wall that outlines the dozen or so reasons why you can't give blood. Once you've read through that list and decided to press on, you're handed a packet of laminated sheets of paper that repeat some of the same things that were on the poster, but also add many, many more things to the list, such as recent tattoos, coming into contact with someone else's blood, taking certain medications, and spending any time in prison. I'll be honest here and say that even though it was only yesterday, I don't remember everything, because there are so many questions and because I find it hard to concentrate when I have two kids hanging all over me and when I've just been asked if I've ever had sex with a man for money, even once.

Anyway, once you make it through the questions, the medical portion of the donation begins. First, your blood pressure is taken. Next, the nurse takes your pulse and temperature. Finally, the nurse uses a special device to stick your finger hard enough to draw blood. The idea here is to get enough blood onto a pipette so that it can then be dropped into a solution of copper sulfate. If the drop of blood sinks within 15 seconds, your iron level is satisfactory for giving blood. And then you're ready to lay down on one of the folding beds and give blood.

I mentioned that giving blood is a fairly serious procedure. I suppose blood is always serious business, and things get even more serious when there are a lot of people in white coats walking around. Add to this the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom, which meant that the place was big enough for everyone to have plenty of room to sit far apart from one another, and that the acoustics were not great for light conversation. This meant that the mostly solitary process of giving blood was kind of magnified. Let's face it, blood drives are not really places to be sociable. You're in a big room with strangers, you're about to be stuck by a big needle, and the only things running through your mind are, "God, I hope I don't faint when I'm done," and "I wonder how many of these people lied when they answered those questions about all of those crazy diseases and risky behaviors?" You pass the time waiting for your turn on the cot by wondering why the people who walked out before making it as far as you have couldn't donate today.

But it seems that the Red Sox are the one thing that can break through all of this tension and formality. First of all, it seems that the idea of free Red sox tickets proved to be intriguing enough to bring people to the blood drive. Then, when I was reading though the first packet of material, I overheard one of the workers explaining to one of the "customers" that one of the other workers was Doug Mirabelli's cousin, though the worker had not yet been successful in bringing Mirabelli to one of the blood drive events. The Sox, it seems, was the only topic of conversation that wasn't related to blood, allergies, and other health issues. Of course, the prize for most people who gave blood was a Red sox t-shirt. Honestly, that's why I was there. Not that I am ready yet to actually wear a Red Sox t-shirt, but to get one for my kids. Nevermind how one t-shirt would satisfy two young baseball fans; I was taking things one step at a time.

Owen was the one most interested in the t-shirt. At every step of the process, he asked, "Now can we get the t-shirt?" I explained to him each time that we wouldn't get the t-shirt until after I'd given blood. You can imagine how confused he got after the iron test when we still didn't get a t-shirt.

I guess the newness of the situation kept Owen's frustration at bay, but there was no way that was going to last indefinitely. Once Daddy got poked in the arm with a needle and blood began filling the bag beneath the table, Sam and Owen decided to take matters into their own hands. One minute, I was concentrating on squeezing the rubber ball in my hand every few seconds as I listened to Sam explain to Owen how the blood had to fill the bag, and the next minute, Sam and Owen had disappeared. Then they were back at my side, each holding an adult XL t-shirt.

"Can we put these on?" Sam asked.

"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."

Once the shirts were on, the game of imaginary baseball began. "I'm Big Papi," Owen declared. He then took a big swing with his imaginary bat and began running the imaginary bases. Sam, playing the role of wise and protective older brother, shook his head at his little brother's antics. Then he looked at me and pointed one finger at the side of his head and made a circular motion: the international sign for "he's crazy." But then he leapt off of the chair and ran over to Owen to correct some transgression of the rules and before I knew it, they were both playing.

The nurse came over and began untangling me from the needle and tubes. "Did you see the game last night?" She asked.

"What game?" I said. She looked at me for a second like I had two heads, but then she must have realized that I'd just given blood and might be a bit woozy and took a measure of pity on me. "The Red Sox game," she said. "Big Papi hit another one. They're looking good."

I read once that everyone talks about the weather because it's one of the few things in life that affects everyone. The same can be said of the Red Sox in New England. Whether you like them or hate them, the Red Sox affect you, if only because they affect everyone around you.

As Owen and Sam continued their game, I went over to the cookies and juice table to recover. I looked into the faces of the other donors to see if my kids' antics were bothering anyone. I didn't see anyone glaring, but I did see quite a few smiles. And while I'm biased because I am the Dad, I think it was good way to break the tension in the room.

That's the closest I've come to wearing a Red Sox t-shirt, or any other type of paraphenalia. I asked Owen when I got home if I could wear my t-shirt, and he told me that Sam was wearing mine. You can guess what Sam told me when I asked him the same question.

They wore those shirts to bed that night and put them on again after school the next day when they went to visit their grandmother. The shirts were so big, it looked as if they were wearing graduation gowns. In a sense, I guess they were, because with those t-shirts, the ante has been upped, I'm afraid. Now everything will have to be Red Sox and the next shirts will have to be real jerseys with a player's name on the back.

See what happens when you try to do something nice like give blood? It comes back to haunt you in ways you can never predict.

When we got home after the blood drive, Carrie asked Owen if he had fun. "I like giving blood," he said. "From you," pointing to me.


I liked giving blood, he said. From you.

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