The Ramstein south-side gym crouched against a cloud-covered horizon. Its squat ugliness and dirty-white walls contrasted sharply with its new purpose. Instead of supplying airmen and soldiers with exercise bikes, strength training equipment, or a basketball court, today the gym housed a blood drive.
Only six days before, I had heard a plea on AFN radio for blood donors. Like many other Americans around the world, I had felt helpless after the terrorist attack on New York and Washington. I wanted to help. So here I was standing in front of the gym, taking a deep breath before walking in. I was determined. I would allow a stranger to insert a needle into my arm.
The gym had been set up in a logical fashion. First, I signed in, picked up the paperwork, and read the literature. Next, I presented the paperwork to a technician who entered it into a computer. At the next stop, my blood pressure, temperature, and hemoglobin were taken. I waited, then talked to a young woman who asked me my sexual and drug history. In less than two hours, I received my donor bag.
Easy? Well, no. Within ten minutes of arriving at the gym, a group of airmen with flak jackets and helmets evacuated everyone at the blood drive. One airman told a donor that she could not leave, but that she had to walk with the other blood donors to a safe distance until the "all clear" was given.
When we reached the courtyard opposite the gym, another airman called us to stop. "It was a mistake," she said. After talking to other blood donors, I concluded that we had just been caught in a military exercise. The result—many of the evacuees left without donating blood.
My next adventure occurred when the blood pressure cuff tightened on my arm four times before the machine finally decided that I had blood pressure. (For a moment, I wondered if I was one of the walking dead.) In the excitement, the technician forgot to write my hemoglobin reading on my paperwork.
I know, I am adult, and I should not whine, but the hemoglobin test requires the technician to prick a donor's finger for a drop of blood. After capturing the blood, it is inserted into a machine, which displays a number. If the number is over twelve, the hemoglobin reading is good. For some reason, the prick for this small drop of blood seems to hurt more than when the needle is inserted for the blood donation.
Well, I can proudly say that I was pricked twice. My technician, a red-haired freckled Botticelli angel, was properly apologetic. "I know your hemoglobin was good," she said. "I just can't remember what it was." I submitted again, and went on my way.
In each stage of my blood-donor journey, I waited and waited. Those of us in line began exchanging blood types. I am an O positive, I would say, what are you? A negative, A positive, B negative, O positive, and O negative were some of the answers. Once the ice was broken, we would exchange private information. I am here with my husband. I work as a civil servant. Or, I am a soldier or airman.
One young airman was giving blood for the first time. He reminded me of the first time I gave blood. I was a student at Brigham Young University and was a shy, scared twenty-one year old. Another student ahead of me calmed my fears by telling me that he was an AB negative, a very rare blood type. Whenever the Red Cross needed his blood, he said, they would call him in to donate. I told the airman what this student told me—it won't hurt . . . much.
Finally, at the end of this journey, I sat on a blue chair watching the lab technician wash my arm with iodine and prepare my vein for the needle. A sharp stab, then the blood began to flow. I chatted with a young woman who was waiting her turn. "What was the fastest time anyone filled a bag?" she asked the technician.
"Four minutes," he said. "But the man had veins like a freeway."
Twenty minutes later, the technician snipped off my donor bag. I looked at it. The bag hung limply from his hand. "Is it enough?" I asked.
"Well, it might be considered low-volume," he frowned, looking doubtful. "But thank you for coming. We really need the blood." Then he added, "Tell your friends."
Despite the evacuation, my pricked fingers, and my low-volume donation, I will give blood again. Why? Because as I shared my stories with other donors who were waiting to give blood, I realized that even though I was not in the military I was part of this community. I had shared a gift that would save someone else. I had given life.
Published in
Stars and Stripe 2001.
PS... Because of my disease, I cannot give blood. Thankfully, when I needed blood over 4 years ago, it was there.
