I believe in donating blood.
When I was a kid, my Dad would talk about all his blood donations, and particularly how he enjoyed donating at a certain local hospital that gave you a shot of whiskey to revive you after a donation. That was his story and he stuck to it.
At six, I remember a day when my Dad and uncles went as a solemn group to donate replacement blood for my Babcia. When they came home, we had a family party.
Then at 18, when my father’s blood was deemed medically inappropriate due to an earlier jaundice, he drove me to a luxurious suburban hospital to donate for the first time. It was to be replacement blood for our next door neighbor’s surgery.
With that start, I became a regular donor at college, and in every area of the United States I have lived in. My estimate is that I have donated between 3-5 gallons of my B negative blood type.
It disturbed me that my Godfather, who donated blood regularly at work, was unable to get the daily 6-7 pints of his blood type as he struggled to survive cancer.
I was proud when my Step Son donated for his first time at a blood drive at his Community College. And my husband has also become a routine blood donor.
In a world of violence and complexity, I believe the simple act of donating blood makes a vital difference to complete strangers.
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