Irwin Blood Center

Today I donated blood and some other blood-related stuff. Afterward, at the snack bar, I ate an old-fashioned chocolate donut.

Above: Red cells, plasma, and platelets that were formerly inside my body.

I think the first time I donated blood, it was because all the cool kids were doing it. A blood-mobile was visiting my high school, and all my hip, altruistic friends eagerly lined up to get stuck in the arm, so that they could anonymously share the gift of life with total strangers, not expecting anything in return. Well I thought that that was pretty cool, so I faked my mom's signature on the consent form and headed over to the blood-mobile during my lunch.

My phlebotomist was a middle-aged Russian woman. She seated me on a couch and started to prepare my right arm. "Excuse me, but I need that arm," I said. "I have classes later today and I need to take notes."

"Ha!" she said. "Always are students making excuses!" She continued to swab the inside of my elbow with an alcohol wipe. When it came time to insert the needle, I couldn't help but scream a little bit on the inside. As a child, my mom had to hold me down while my pediatrician gave me a chickenpox vaccination. One pint of blood and a cup of cranberry juice later, my limp arm and I sat through Mr. Shimmon's afternoon Psychology lecture.

Since then, I've become a regular blood donor. I kept coming back, partly to confront the terror of the needle and partly to help people in need. People need blood like neighbors need sugar, infrequently. Besides, do you really need all that sugar for yourself? It'd just be plain greedy to hoard all of that sweet goodness for yourself, now wouldn't it?

Day 93

I am, and forever will be, an unrepentant picker of scabs. I just can't help it. It always starts out with me staring at a scab. This lasts for perhaps ten to thirty seconds. The staring makes the scab feel extra itchy, if only because I become more aware of its presence on my body. After some staring, the feeling of itchiness becomes unbearable, and the compulsion to pick is overpowering. The act of scab picking provides far more satisfaction than mosquito bite scratching for the simple reason that picking has the payoff of clawing out bits of one's own flesh and scratching does not. Instead, scratching turns into a feedback loop that only induces more itchiness. Once the flakes of scab have been picked off, I always enjoy seeing the blood bead and coagulate, the water tension holding the droplets of blood together in little spheres. I usually end up wiping away the little blood droplets, and for some reason I always make a point of smelling the pennies smell that blood makes before I wash it off of my hands.