Let her bleed, let her bleed

Two people who don’t know each other told me this week after Cheer Amy Up conversations, “Don’t you dare write about me on your blog.” People, am I really that scary? C’mon! I made the vow last week that I wasn’t gonna make fun of people anymore! And that includes not mentioning the SUPER FUNNY rapture site I stumbled over! Even though I really really want to make fun of it. But no, I’m not gonna link to them and their annual rapture conference in Oklahoma. (but if you email me and ask, I might send you the link. With absolutely no editorial comment from me. ☺ )

During my month off, I trotted off to a Red Cross blood drive for my usual Challenge Yo Fear donation, only to be denied because my red blood cells decided they were too depressed to come out and play. When you donate blood, they prick your finger, squeeze a drop of blood out, and run it through their hemoglobin machine. You have to be over 12.0, and I was 10.3. Which had never happened before. To further frustrate things, I had started taking iron supplements to combat the food coma that eating every meal brought on. So when I don’t take the iron supplements, I’m fine. The second I do, I’m borderline anemic. Yeah, that makes sense.

Upon hearing my frustration with the Red Cross (because my low red blood cell count MUST be all their fault, har de ha ha,) a friend had directed me to Children’s Hospital, where she works with cancer kids and families. I didn’t know you could specify where your blood can go, but you can, and she specifically steered me to little Hudson and Abella Wyss. You can read about their story here: www.hudsonandabella.org

Now it seemed most imperative that my red blood cells get off the f’ing couch. Forget the fact that I don’t have a job, I’ve got a five year old and a two year old with rare brain tumors that NEED MY BLOOD.

And yet at Children’s Hospital, my red blood cells were whining that I signed up with a useless new temp agency that hasn’t placed me anywhere, and still didn’t come out to be sociable. 10.4 was the reading (11.3 on the other hand.) “Can’t we just push this one on through?” I begged the technician, “Little kids with brain tumors need this stuff.” The technician was unmoved by my declarations that I didn’t care if I got sick from anemia related complications because life is one big sick leave when you’re not working, and sent me home with a list of iron rich foods.

Several burgers, tacos, spicy tuna sushi and bacon strips later and I’m ready for round number three. I show up last Tuesday, and ask the receptionist if we can do the hemoglobin machine first before the paperwork. Since there’s nobody else in the donation center except me, she says sure.

I haven’t been this stressed about a test since senior Economics class back in high school (I think I got a C on that one, by the way.) The nurse pricks my finger, slides it into the red Hemoglobin Machine O FUN! And we both stare at the machine. And wait. And wait. “No whammies, no whammies” I’m muttering under my breath. The machine seems to be taking an awfully long time to return a reading and just when I think that must mean I’m once again flunking, the reading beeps out. 13.6

BOO YAH!

“YES!” I shout, pumping my fist. I’ve never been so excited to get jabbed with a needle, one of my most feared things in the world. The nurse thinks this is the funniest thing she’s seen all day, and hangs out with me as I’m filling up the bag. I’ve forgotten to bring my Bible-As-Blanky, so we watch the HG channel (the ward is tricked out with TVs) and the nurse comments on how there’s far too many pillows in the bedroom they’re redecorating.

I got my cookies, I got my orange juice, I got my free pass to not work out for the next 24 hours, and Hudson got a pint o blood from me, which I think he used this week, according to their online journal.

Now I’m prepping myself for my next challenge: Donating Platelets. That’s where they take your blood out of one arm, run it through a machine that separates the platelets, and return it back through your other arm. It’s totally hard core, it’s a two hour process, and if I can master that one, I’ll still be a selfish whiny bitch BUT I will be a super badass. ☺

Enforced Secret Joy #46: Ginger Puppy hanging out by my feet when I’m writing. (She has eyes, you just can’t see them through the fur.) She’s totally only hanging out because she wants to be petted 24/7. But sometimes she’ll sleep with her fuzzy face on top of my feet. And that rocks.