“Mom, can you still donate blood if you smoke pot?”
I am sure that all 18 year olds ask their mothers questions like this. Right?
“I think so.”
“Well, E…, told me he can’t donate blood because he smokes pot.”
“I think he can, but you can ask, when we get there.”
Aaron and I were driving to the Blood Center to donate.
Okay, Aaron and Sarah and I were. Aaron to donate, me to try to donate, and Sarah to get some pop while watching the whole thing.
I recently counted. In the last 13 times I have been to the Blood Center, I have been able to donate twice. That is a new all time low for me. That is despite taking iron tablets at bedtime, somewhat religiously..….Well, when I don’t’ forget. And avoiding caffeine and a lot of liquids in the 24 hours before trying to donate, and taking a short brisk walk before going into the Blood Center. And chanting “Hemoglobin, Hemoglobin” in a little sing-songy voice, as they draw my blood.
Okay, not the last one.
I haven’t yet tried to switch blood samples, though. At least not yet.
They take us in to question us separately.
This is to preserve confidentiality.
Of course, with us, that makes very little sense.
One of the first times I went with Aaron, he came out of the cubical where he was questioned, his blood was drawn to make sure he wasn’t anemic and his blood pressure and temp were measured and he said, “Hey, Mom, they asked me if I had sex with any males since 1975. And I wasn’t’ even born then.”
Like, out loud, like to everyone.
Personally? I fid it endearing, but I think our visits give them palpitations.
So, they took him off to his little cubicle and I went off to mine.
While the lady was taking my blood pressure, I started worrying, maybe Aaron had forgotten to ask. Oddly, I didn’t’ worry about his not asking because he might feel intimidated.
“Can you donate blood if you smoke pot?”
She thought a moment. “Well, they don’t’ ask any questions about that, so I bet you can.”
A few moments later, I was sitting out in the hallway waiting for my blood to spin and for them to tell me that I was just a little anemic…..
When Aaron comes and joins me.
I tell him, “I asked the lady, and she said she thinks you can give blood if you smoke pot.”
My son thinks this is very interesting, since it goes into your bloodstream. He wants to know if this has an effect on the patient who gets the blood.
I tell him, probably. But I didn’t’ think they would complain.
And Aaron tells me that he did ask. All three of them.
Three?
He had a technician with two trainees. According to Aaron, the technician supervising the trainees “working” on him got all huffy and said, “Well, I don’t know and I have never smoked anything in my life!”
I told Aaron to ignore him and take the information I was given.
The postscript is that when the technician came out and told me I could donate; I got up and did a little celebratory dance.
Hey, didn’t embarrass the people I was with.
Well, maybe a little. But no more than usual, at any rate.
We left a few ounces of blood lighter, with coupons for free pork sandwiches at the State Fair ( and trying to figure whom we can pawn them off on) and with a copy of Indianapolis Woman. The very same magazine we had been searching the city for, two days earlier.
And maybe I did embarrass my kids a bit when I went and asked the receptionist if we could take it…but only a bit.
(Incidentally, it is a free publication that is available at the grocery stores and pharmacies, but we had missed this month’s issue. The one that we belatedly found out featured a WNBA player.)
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