To commemorate the possible departure of one of my novel's characters, I donated blood, one of my favorite acts of altruism.
My blood is type O negative, which means I can donate to anybody, regardless of their blood type, but cannot take from anyone except another Type O negative. They call me a universal donor, but I think "martyr" is more accurate. When donating I avoid, as best I can, fretting that only six and half percent share my blood type, or the reality of national blood shortages, or the myriad catastrophes --- hurricanes, floods, terrorist attacks --- that have plagued our country this decade.
Take it. Just take it.
Emblazoned across my breast shirt pocket my red heart sticker says, I'm a Super Blood Donor. I display it proudly, regarding non-sticker wearers with my eyebrow arched, as if to inquire, "What did you do today, hmm?"
Before I donated I also guzzled a huge cup of coffee. True, I was a little sleepy and needed the caffeine myself, but I also like to give my recipients the top shelf; the gift of life, but also something a little something extra. I know, I know, as if low cholesterol and high iron content weren't enough, but hey, I aim to please. Somewhere I'm sure there's a jonesing hemophiliac who wonders if there's any more Cooney in the ice box. "You got any more of that good stuff you gave me last time, Doc? I need a pick-me-up, Homes."
The Savior Complex
1 month ago