Blood, sweat and fears

I’ve got something they want, and they’re not about to stop until they get it.

“They” are the people of the Indiana Blood Center. They’re desperate to tap into what courses through my veins. ESPECIALLY what courses through MY veins.

I’m among the 7 percent of the population with type O negative blood.

People with type O negative can give blood to people with any other blood type. O negative is the preferred type for accident victims and babies needing exchange transfusions, according to the American Red Cross.

You bloody well better contribute

Unfortunately, the charity goes just one way. As an O minus, the only blood I can receive should I be a quart low is blood just like mine. Negative on the O positive, even.

Since I was typed O negative several years ago I’ve discovered how valuable a commodity I possess. It’s like I’m part of some biological version of the crude oil market, except I’m the oil field and the blood center is British Petroleum. They know reserves sit just micro-inches below my skin, and they want to drill.

The corpuscle cartel won’t take no for an answer, either.

Every few days, usually around dinnertime, the phone rings. It’s a blood center worker, thanking me for my previous donations and asking if I can drop by and contribute again. I usually tell them I’ve been meaning to get over there but just haven’t gotten around to it.

It’s true – to a point. I understand how important it is to give the gift of life through blood donation. I know that if I were the one needing blood I’d hope others were as generous. I’m fully aware of the critical shortages that blood centers almost always experience.

And yet, I’m hesitant. I’m not a huge fan of large needles, particularly if they’re being inserted in my arm. I get a little nervous watching the tube fill up with red liquid and then empty into a large plastic bag. I entertain bizarre thoughts about surrendering a pint of my precious O negative, and what would happen if I needed that pint in one hour and it already belonged to someone else.

I’ve wondered what might occur if I were on an operating table and the surgical team found out my blood type. I can almost hear the conversation:

People with type O blood are the oil wells of humanity

Surgeon One: This guy’s O negative! Should we give him the transfusion?

Surgeon Two: What do YOU think?

Surgeon One: I’m thinking we drain him of every last drop of plasma he has left and send it over to the blood center. He’ll never know. We’ll tell the family we did everything we could do.

Surgeon Two: I’ll get the industrial-size bag ready.

Okay, so that’s not likely to happen. Doctors do take the Hippocratic Oath, don’t they? Or is it trumped by the Is That Covered By Your Health Insurance Pledge?

Whatever, I’m torn between what I see as my duty to mankind and my responsibility to myself.

If the blood center just offered more than cookies and orange juice after I left a part of me in that bag, it might help me muster more courage. Something of equal value to my contribution. Something that would make me feel better about rolling up my sleeve and taking one for the human team.

Something like a coupon for one free pint of O negative.

Yeah, that just might work.