This is my blood, donated for you
When my arm is stretched out and blood is trickling out of me, I find myself thinking of Jesus.
I’m always surprised by how brown blood is, flowing out of my arm through a tube and into a plastic bag at a blood drive. My childhood mind still imagines that blood is always bright red, like cherry tomatoes or strawberry candy, the way it is when it bleeds into the open air. Inside the plastic, it looks brown or maroon, even vaguely purple—my clergy brain can’t help seeing communion wine. But wine is translucent, and the blood in the donor bag is opaque, creamy with iron and protein.
It is somewhat nauseating to feel and watch your blood dribble out of your arm, even inside plastic tubing. It hurts to have a needle stuck in your arm, and it’s unnerving to squeeze your hand to speed the flow of blood out of your body. Giving blood is painful, dull, and clinical, but it has come to feel like a spiritual discipline in my life, a kind of ascetic practice. Not as a penance or purification, but as an offering.
It’s not dangerous to give blood, but you may pass out or throw up. A staff person is continually asking: “How are you feeling? Are you doing OK?” If you’re not, they’ll recline your seat, elevate your feet, and put a wet cloth on your head. I’ve gotten woozy a couple of times, and once both my arms went numb. I’ve learned to drink a full bottle of water during the intake process, to plump my body with hydration.
