I walked in the blood donor door. The round table just inside was well-stocked with brown BloodSource t-shirts, neatly sorted in piles according to size. Other than the workers, I was the only person in the room. "Are you here to vote or give blood?" a voice to my left asked. There were the usual three volunteers at the table with the books of names of people qualified to vote in this precinct, and the familiar sight of the row of polling places.
"Well, that depends. Who's giving away the best stuff?" I retorted.
"They're giving out shirts. We'll give you a sticker," one of the women at the table answered.
I told them I'd go ahead and give blood first, then, when I was faint from blood lose, I'd cast my votes. The young blond chick at the round table asked what size shirt I wanted. The front on each shirt was emblazoned with 27 white drops of liquid and one red drop. "Be the one...give blood" was the message beneath the raining drops. I got a large, because I need room when I flex.
I was directed to sit outside in one of the chairs lined up against the wall. Most of the chairs had people sitting on them waiting for the doors on the blood buses to swing open. I decided I'd have time for the short ballot, so I left my shirt and the two laminated sheets of warnings, instructions and explanations on an unoccupied chair and went back inside. One of the women, who I knew but whose name I couldn't recall, shoved a book in front of me and told me to sign just below my wife's signature. A second woman, who's name I couldn't recall because I don't think I knew her, handed me a ballot and a pen and pointed me toward the row of empty polling tables. I passed the low one, even though there was no sign of a voter in a wheelchair, and stepped up to the first tall one. I filled in the ovals with the ink from the cheap black pen, then allowed the special machine to eat my completed ballot.
By the time I returned to my chair outside, everyone else was gone. I made small talk with Kristi and the young blond chick until a nurse waved to me from the back door of the back bus. I knew she was a nurse because she was wearing a brown nurse outfit. I can be sharp like that sometimes. I squeezed into the tiny seat on the far side of the narrow aisle, faced Nurse #1 who was now sitting in an identical tiny seat with a tiny table in between us. Music intruded into my tiny space from a tiny speaker next to my right ear, "I am a lineman for the county..." What ever happened to Glen Campbell? Where exactly is Wichata? No time for those thoughts. She asked me my name, and told me she needed to see some picture ID. I took my license out of my wallet and laid it on the table. I just couldn't resist, "Why do you need to see my ID if I am voluntarily donating blood, but the voting people can't ask me for any ID when I'm casting a ballot restricted to registered voters? Do you people discriminate against poor people who can't afford picture IDs?" I apologized after she laughed nervously.
After sitting in a side seat intended for two large people and filling out the usual, invasive questionairre, It was time for the dreaded finger prick. This required entering a tiny room, sitting down and positioning my feet so the large man, Nurse #2, could squeeze through the doorway and past me to his seat. The last time I had been at the BloodSource donation event, they had turned me down because of a problem with my hemoglobin. This was the big test. Had eating all that broccoli, spinach and red meat paid off? Would I be turned away again, after being offered the obligatory donut? No. I passed the first test. O, the joy!
On to the main event. That recliner toward the front of the bus. Being assigned that particular seat/bed meant having my right arm bored into, and it meant facing the rear of the bus. I hate riding facing backward. I made a comment about the sub-arctic air temperature. One of the three A/C vents was right above the aisle next to my recliner. I suggested, to anyone within earshot, which was pretty much anybody in the bus, that maybe they should issue blankets to their patients. I'm no dummy. I made sure there was a jocular tone to my voice so Nurse #3 with the needle wouldn't be ticked off. Everyone laughed, adding their own semi-funny comments to the new discussion. #3 asked if I was ready to give some blood.
"I'm thinking I'm giving blood cubes today," was the reply that nearly brought the house down. I'm telling you, sometimes I really crack myself up! Nurse #3 thought those would go well with a Bloody Mary. Levity can be a good thing when people are lying around with blood pouring out their arms into plastic bags. Nurse #3 was busy with the guy across the aisle from me.
I sat there thinking about my sidewalk project. Should I stagger the bricks or line them up in identical rows? There are eight columns, so that would mean the column on the left would be different than the column on the far right. I pretty much planned the whole project before #3 handed me a squishy cylinder and told me to squeeze three times then hold it. After painting a spot on my arm for 30 seconds, in went the needle. The red shirt proved unnecessary. All the blood went into the tube as planned.
"See the tree, how big it's grown, and friend it hasn't been too long; it wasn't big..." What the heck?! I remember that song. Bobby Goldsboro, 1968. "And Honey, I miss you. And I'm being good. And I'd love to be with you, if only I could." Something didn't seem right, and I said so.
"Hey, do you guys always play dead girl songs while you're taking blood from people?"
After the briefest of silent pauses, Nurses #1 and #3 laughed. After they were sure it was funny, the other three donors chuckled as well.
There was a brief time when I had apparently stopped sending blood into the plastic bag. I know this because #3 told me the bag hadn't gotten any heavier after it was about 2/3 full. I suggested perhaps it had frozen in the tube. She adjusted the needle a little and declared the blood flow once again normal.
In response to people commenting about how funny I am, my wife has told people at various times and various venues that I'm not that funny at home. I say it's all in the ear of the hearer. I brought laughter to a bus (did I mention how tiny everything in there was?) full of people being bled. That can count toward justifying my existence for this day.
Now, back to the original question: What do giving blood and voting have in common? I sure you can come up with some great answers.
