Journal of a Living Lady #101
The chronic dropsies. That is what I call it. In the past week, at different meals, I have deposited food in the middle of the kitchen floor. First it was a bowl of home-cooked spaghetti. Then it was a plate of fried okra and finally a tray of baked potato skins. If the linoleum had been spotless enough, we might have reclined like the ancients and feasted with our fingers. Unfortunately it wasn’t. This didn’t keep Oppie, our Chihuahua, and Snowball, our cat, from declaring the food theirs. It was a chore for Buddy and me to keep them away as we scooped up the mess into the dust pan along with shards of shattered glass.
My strength has been ebbing little by little. Buddy whispers to all our friends, as if I don’t see him, that my color is off. He hasn’t fussed a bit over the lost food though I tend to think it is my klutziness instead of weakness. He just cleans up and tells me it is no big deal.
I finally gave in and made an appointment with my doctor. He immediately sent me to the hospital for a transfusion. I expected so.
It was a disappointment that my designated donor couldn’t provide blood for me. I have known this guy since the day he was born. I know he exercises regularly and normally eats right. Grilled meat. No mayo. Water to drink. To my knowledge he has never touched drugs or alcohol and isn’t a smoker. What an ideal donor. He even has my blood type, Rh A negative, not extremely rare, but not common either. Charlie gives blood regularly anyway. Why not to me, his mother?
Seems that there are other factors involved. Something called antibodies that may or may not match even if the type does. Another deterrent was that he just recently returned from Africa and might have picked up something his healthy immune system could handle, but not my impaired one. Bottom line. I had to have a stranger's blood.
As always, there was mountain of paperwork to complete. Checks and double checks. The strangest form was the one that made me acknowledge in writing that nothing could replace blood. I sort of knew that anyway. Even the ancient scriptures say that “the life of the flesh is in the blood.” While that inspired statement has theological implications, it has practical ones too.
As the infusion trickled into my veins, I fanned Buddy to keep him from fainting. Quietly I wondered who supplied this blood for my benefit. Was he or she a pillar of society or a homeless human being? Was he Republican or Democrat? Was he of Christian belief or not? Was he black or white? It didn’t matter. Precious crimson blood shows no prejudice or partiality.
Thank you , donor, whomever you are.
+++++++++++
