give life

I come in, give my name.
"Have you read the 'stop sign'?"
Well, now I have. I make a mistake with its information, laugh at myself, get a smile from the receptionist along with my booklet.
"Please read this thoroughly."
I've read it at least a dozen times, but I acquiesce one more time, though my definition of "thoroughly" may be different than hers. I take it back to her, return to my seat . . . and commence waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.

I've never waited this long before.

All around me, people are getting called, people who came minutes or even longer after I did.
A bell rings, and four white-coated people rush to the table behind us, snatch a woman, lay her on a cot, put her feet on risers. I glance at her face; she's dead white.
The room quiets. Names are still being called. I stare at the guy straight across from me, trying to figure out how the liquid in the bag next to him is so clear. He probably thinks I'm creepy, or disturbed, but he smiles and I smile back, apologizing.
A scream sounds, from the far corner, behind the cardboard partitions. "Get it out, get it out, get it ouuut!" Two women's heads appear over the top of the partition, jerking back and forth in a strange dance, then one of them looks up, blushes a little, and calls, "Just a bug." The whole room laughs a little, then settles back into its suffocating waiting.
Mom and I have both used the restroom twice (we're super well-hydrated) and are starting to get slap happy. Forty-five minutes into the wait, we play a two-out-of-three Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament to figure out who gets to go first. I win, but neither of us have been called, so we make it three-of-five. I win number four, then number five.
"Katie?"
I glance up, into the white-coated woman's face and ask if my mother can go first.
"It takes me longer," Mom explains. The woman in front of me chuckles.
"Slow bleeder, eh?"
The white-coated lady takes Mom away, into one of the cardboard-partitioned rooms. I try to slow my breathing and pulse, sit relaxed straight, keep my hands warm, and avoid crossing my legs.
"Katie?"
I regret my decision to let the lady take Mom, when I see that the white-coat waiting for me is a giant man without expression. I know I'm going to have to tell him all sorts of awkward things about myself, and as he leads me toward a flimsy cubicle, I also know my blood pressure is spiking.
I give him my card, and he scans it and makes me confirm my name and age and social security number about six times. I thought that the card was supposed to remove that extra step. Apparently not. I know the questions, and the answers, so I fly through them and his fingers sprint over the keyboard. I want to ask him how on earth such big hands can move that fast. He asks me to put my arms out, turn them so he can check for needle marks.
"Good, great," he says, and I want to tell him that I've never even thought of sticking anything into my arms. I leave my left arm on the table, and he places his hand over my pulse . I try not to stare, but it's hard when I can see that his two fingers nearly span my wrist. He punches in the number, tells me some ridiculous number that I know is born out of the cardboard walls and needles hovering just outside the fake doors. It's low enough, though. His hands fly over the desk, grab the sanitizer, use it, toss it back down.
"Put your middle finger out, just like this." He shows me, and I obey, surreptitiously rubbing my hands together just before I do. He rubs my finger with alcohol, pricks it, and I watch, fascinated, as he squeezes out three crimson bubbles, rejecting the first two and taking the third. I wonder Why always the third? but this giant hurried man is not the one to ask. He pushes my slide into the small machine next to me.
"Twelve point five or above and you are good to go." I lean forward to see the screen, holding my breath a little. It's totally blank, and I feel miserable, like I've already failed. But then, then, the numbers come up and they are beautifully high.
"Fourteen point nine," he says. "You've been hitting the spinach." I lean back, smile a little.
"Whoa. I've never tested that high the first time."
"I'll take credit for that." His face is serious, but there's a little twinkle in his eyes, and I flash him a smile, a real smile that I think he finally deserves. Then, oh relief, he sets up the computer, leaves me and the awkward questions alone for awhile.
I answer them, only saying yes twice, but I know that twice is quite enough to flag me.
In comes the white-coated lady who took my mother. She makes me confirm my name, age, SSN, then she sees my flagged answers. She fires a series of rote questions at me, but it's not until I tell her, "We pierced my ear with a sewing needle," that she really pays attention. I want to huddle miserably, but she's kind of staring at me, and I think to myself, Maybe my iron numbers were so high they won't reject me. So I plunge on, doubting it will help. "I mean, we sanitized it, and he even wore gloves, but it was a sewing needle, and--"
"I'm sorry," she tells me. I see the donor-desperation in her eyes as she tells me, "No, not today." She asks for the exact date, which I suddenly realize was not November at all but October 28th, and she gives me a letter of deferment, apologizing again. I think she's sorrier than I am.

Walk of shame, back to the seats. No one knows why I've been deferred--stupid confidentiality--and the giant doctor knows that my iron is more than high enough. He probably thinks I got flagged for some insanely horrific question. I slump, trying to be small, but the kind lady finds me and slips me the donor gifts, even though I didn't give. I smile at her and put them in my purse, feeling guilty and disappointed. Somehow, though, it's hard to be too disappointed when I feel like I'm winning the game called Iron Levels that I've never before quite mastered.

It's not until late that night, when I take off the bandage on my finger, that I realize my finger is purple and yellow where the giant fingers squeezed out my blood. That has never happened to me before, no matter how low my numbers were. He bruised me, I think, He bruised me no matter how high my iron was, and somehow I think this is funny, and I'm even a tiny bit proud of it.

I can't go back until October--October 28, 2011, my letter informs me--but somehow it's okay. I think this trip will last me at least that long.