Gen-3 Gift

Yesterday I heard something that warmed my heart. It was a little thing, really, but Amanda announced that on Wednesday she would be giving blood in a drive at school. In her words I heard both reticence and determination. She was doing it despite her fears. Following my dad’s example, I started giving blood at 16 and tried to give every time a blood drive crossed my path. My desire to give only intensified when my dad could no longer give. Now I can’t give either. Maybe that is why this really warmed my heart. People are funny about giving blood. They either do or don’t. If you want to be a “don’t” there are many low-hanging excuses available that assuage conscience well as long as you don’t think about the hollow excuses much. I’m not talking about medical conditions, being under-weight or something; I’m talking about the lame excuses. One lady at work once said, “Oh, I can’t give blood because I hate needles.” Wow. Really? That is your reason? You know, I probably gave 30 times and not once did I look forward to (or enjoy) the prick. It hurts. That is why it is a gift. If it felt like a foot massage, they wouldn’t need to have drives. It stings a little, OK? I don’t like the idea of metal piercing my body but maybe, just maybe, the value of a pint of my blood trumps my little likes and dislikes. I don’t like peas either, but if my wife prepares them for dinner I eat them. I hope Amanda feels what I did in the Erringer building back in 1981. Somewhere between the prick and the parting cookies and orange drink, I felt a gladness envelop me that I was helping someone. I would never know who and they could never thank me, but that was OK. Better actually.