There’s a certain satisfaction one derives by doing a good deed. And the good feeling is enhanced when others notice it.
So it was as I lay on a padded table at the United Blood Services lab in Santa Fe last week, donating blood as part of my three-times-a-year regimen. Of course, Las Vegas has its own blood drives — one very successful drive for the motorcycle rally in the summer.
I don’t know why I’ve chosen Santa Fe as the place to make deposits; it might well be that I’m on a first-name basis with two of the phlebotomists who draw my blood. They’re Connie and Jerry, each with more than 20 years’ experience.
Most of the time they’ve been successful in locating the proper vein in my arm, but on at least one occasion, when they looked for blood, they searched in vein. I read somewhere that giving blood is healthful on at least three scores: It earns me another t-shirt, with “Hero” in bold red letters across the front; it sets a good example in an act that just might help another; and finally, I recall, for men it prevents excessive buildup of iron in our system.
But I’ll stop playing doctor, lest someone write to say my information on the third advantage is wrong.
After the blood donation, the tech applies a stretchy bandage around the elbow. Connie began to wrap a purple bandage around my arm, but I pointed to the yellow bandages instead, explaining that yellow is a brighter color and therefore more noticeable. After all, what’s wrong with showing off a good deed which just might inspire others to donate?
In spite of perhaps a 40-year history of donating blood, I haven’t learned ever to feel comfortable with 1) looking at the needle as they’re inserting it into my arm; 2) looking at the blood. People sometimes pass out, although it’s never happened to me — and that might be because I refuse to look.
A few decades ago, the county health clinic was located at the front entrance to the courthouse. In those days, because of the threat of whooping cough, polio and diphtheria, most people received a yearly vaccination at the courthouse.
My mom, Marie, had a devilish way of giving us five children a pep talk about what she called our “special day,” when Dad would borrow a car from Werley Auto and drive us to the courthouse for our shots. Mom’s logic, on that special day, was to start with the oldest and strongest, Dolores, who set a good example. After her vaccination, she’d pass by me with the words, “There’s nothing to worry about, Mannie.”
Next was Dorothy, the second-oldest, who simply had to be brave, to convince Mom that she was a “mujerota,” Mom’s word for a brave daughter. Third in line was Severino, about whom I was convinced lived only to torment me. He had that devil-may-care attitude and look that said, “I love shots. In fact, why don’t you give me 10 more?” Of course, my brother’s heroics were destined to earn him an “hombrote” label from Mom and Dad. What a man!
Bingy was something else, ever ready with the waterworks. Now Mom’s strategy about placing us from oldest to youngest didn’t do much for my confidence when Bingy let loose with the laments. She’d say to the nurse, “Please be gentle,” and I’m convinced the nurse ignored my sister’s pleas, modifying the Brylcream slogan, “A little jab’ll do you.”
Do we even need to write about my turn at the vac station? Well, since you asked, here goes:
By the time the nurses got to me, their pleasant demeanor transformed to a Hells-Angels type, wielding a hypodermic whose business end was the size of a garden hose. Suddenly I imagined a huge tattoo on the nurse, bearing the words “Born to Raise Hell,” while on the other arm I read, “No pain for you? No fun for me.”
As she approached, I visualized the needle taking on the size and shape of a medieval lance, with the nurse mounted on a worthy galloping steed.
I too broke into tears, which quickly evaporated when I realize the ordeal had been over for a couple of minutes. Isn’t the mere anticipation of a vaccination usually worse than the deed itself? And yet, for years after our annual “Special Day,” I was still able to detect the smell of rubbing alcohol in that part of the building.
If you’re one who also had a “special day,” walk past that front office of the courthouse to determine whether any odors remain to bring back memories.
The “special” part of that day was walking to what is now Plaza Drugs for an ice cream cone. As we sat there, Mom would bring out an ancient illustrated medical dictionary that showed, or at least described, alternatives to the yearly vaccination. She’d show grotesque photos and illustrations of patients being made to swallow emetics. At age 6, I think I would have preferred the yearly vaccination to the ordeal the patients in the dictionary underwent.
“And that’s what people have to go through if they refuse to take the shots,” Mom would say.