Blood from a stone

I gave blood yesterday afternoon. I would like to imagine that I gave blood because I'm that kind of guy, a mensch who does his small part to make the world a better place. One my better days, that is probably the case. But mostly it was because they were bugging the shit out me. I could expect a call from the Red Cross about once a week, reminding me how critically low the blood supply had become and could I please make an appointment to give? For a while I ducked the calls, and made excuses, and then I made and broke a few appointments, and over the holidays I made an appointment and then couldn't keep it because I couldn't find the damn Blood Center in Durham. So when the called me earlier in the week, I finally said screw it, I'll make an appointment on the weekend and just get it done.

I had forgotten how much giving blood takes out of me. I came home feeling wonky and tired, and wound up going to bed early. None of which would be so bad, except that I have other obligations crashing down around my ears and can't really afford to knock off early in the middle of a crunch. I suppose it's even possible that I gave blood to avoid having to face the stress of dealing with everything else in my life.

So here I am, with a genuinely worthy act under my belt, and feeling like a loser. Virtue is often like that. Even when we do the right thing, we don't always do it for the right reasons. Making a commitment to give blood, or build a community, or be present with the family, sometimes just leaves you frustrated and tired, and conscious of all the things you didn't do instead.

But . . . and here's the surprising thing . . . it's still good. Somebody, somewhere, who is undoubtedly having a worse day than me, will use my blood. I doubt they will care much about the mixed-up thoughts and feelings of the donor.