When you think of blood, you think of the most visceral thing. For example, the adage, blood is thicker than water, implying that family ties rise above all else; or the phrase shedding blood, meaning a life taken violently. But more than anything, when you think of blood, you think of life. Of thick red fluid pumping through your heart into your arteries.
This past Sunday a local synagogue on the Upper West Side, OZ, hosted its annual blood drive. It was dedicated in memory of a dear friends mother who only recently died.
So I felt connected and it was important to me to participate and donate blood.
It had been a while.
Over 20 years ago I came upon a scrapbook-like booklet of inspiration. It was comprised of writings of a young Lone Soldier who had volunteered in the IDF, and tragically fell in battle. I wish I remembered more about it because I have tried to locate this brave young and courageous soldiers thoughts, but I dont remember all the details exactly. His name was Alex and I think he was from Ohio.
At the time, reading his eloquent and insightful reflections meant a lot to me. One of the topics he wrote about was donating blood. The way he expressed it, a contrast between donating blood as an Israeli versus an American, was poignant.
It went something like this: In America you feel like a hero for donating blood, you are plied with an I gave blood today sticker, your presence communicating the good deed you did that day. In Israel theres no sticker, there are no special snacks afterward, its just what you do, and the next in line steps forward.
A fair or unfair description, it moved me.
When I moved to Israel and one day was walking home from downtown Jerusalem, I encountered an ambulance parked in front of the Mashbir department store. It was there for a blood drive; I was ready to put out my arm.
I had immediately thought of Alex, and donated. I wanted to be the kind of person who was a blood donor, the kind of person he had written about.
Like I said, this past Sunday had been quite a while since I had donated blood. So I was actually looking forward to it.
Its such a beautiful way, such an easy way, to make a difference in someones life.
WHEN YOU think of making a difference, you often think of big ways of making a change or influencing a life.
Meanwhile, donating blood takes at most one hour. Its such an incredible feeling knowing you are helping someone, somewhere.
I used to think about it too much. I would ask myself, what if my blood will go to help a bad person live longer? What if the person lives to commit evil, if its done with my blood, then I have a part in that . . . Then one day, I just let go, mentally embracing the opportunity to use my body, my gift of health, in helping a perfect stranger, and leaving the rest to G-d.
A blood donation is human to human, something we rely on from one another. There are no stocks and bonds on blood. You cant import it from China. Its just something to be shared . . . our G-d-given blood.
As I was filling out the questionnaire, I reached the question about medication. Darn! I happened to have just picked up a prescription. I was instantly disqualified from donating blood that day.
Also, there was some stress when I had arrived at the blood drive, as it had been in progress for a few hours and not many people had shown up yet. It turns out that the New York Blood Center has a 30-pint donation requirement in order to return the following year.
Since it was in memory of a friend’s mom, and I couldnt donate, I felt bad.
I decided to pop into some of the nearby kosher establishments and see whether I could pick up some people to bring back to the synagogue to donate.
Im not one to normally approach strangers in the street, at a supermarket or a restaurant, but this felt different.
AS I approached people telling them about the blood drive and the concern about meeting the 30-pint minimum (I admit, in those moments, I felt like a living embodiment and caricature of Jewish guilt personified!), suddenly it got very personal.
I hadnt given it much thought, and I suppose I had passively assumed and prepared myself for yes/no responses, or matter of fact responses like sorry, wish-I could-but-am-busy! type of thing.
The next thing I know, total strangers were unburdening to me. I deeply wish I could donate, unfortunately I suffer from . . . or, another person delving into her fear (actually, a phobia of needles), while another person looked pained and said he couldnt donate. And those were just a few.
I wasn’t expecting this.
There was one positive response, someone who shared how he is a faithful, life-long blood donor, nearing his five gallon pin. However, he had recently donated, and there is a mandatory period between blood donations. But most of the responses were somewhat sad and very very personal.
SO, YES donating blood might, mechanically, be simple enough. But it hit me: donating blood is very personal.
It also brings up a lot of emotional stuff for people. Many of the people I approached talked of loved ones who had benefitted from blood transfusions, even if the stories turned out to have sad endings; how the blood transfusions added weeks, months or sometimes even years to their lives.
Who knows, maybe just maybe, its your blood donation that can be the difference of even days for someone who is desperately clinging to life.
Because more than anything, when you think of blood you think of living.
Copyright © 2016 by the Intermountain Jewish News
