Donating Blood
It occurred to me that my recent articles have been too heavy. So, I am letting loose with a funny life story. In high school, we had a blood donation program with the San Diego Blood Bank. The idea was that kids would donate, and then if a student or their family member needed blood for an emergency/surgery, they could get it for free. Nice!
We had an assembly to tell the kids and teachers about the program, and a bunch of us signed up. A week later, we donated at a San Diego Blood Bank bus in the school parking lot. As I recall, this lasted for four days twice a year. That was my junior year, and I signed up again for my senior year, but one time I could not get the right time slot for the parking lot donation, so I booked a weekend appointment at the downtown office.
The hijinks began when the parking lot machine did not give me a ticket to validate. Inside, the unfriendly receptionist said, “Well, you will just have to pay the full price for a day’s worth of parking.” Writers call this foreshadowing.
So, I signed in and said, “I’m part of the Morse High School blood donation program.” They looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and asked, “Who?” I told them about the program, and they agreed to look into it. I knew they were lying.
The waiting room was empty, and despite arriving 15 minutes early, I had to wait for 90 minutes. Other people arrived during this time and were seen ahead of me. When I was eventually escorted to a nurse’s station, a very grumpy person looked at me as if I were the worst person in the world. Still, I gave a friendly “hello,” and they glared 100 daggers at me.
The nurse threw me a clipboard with questions, and I dutifully read each one. That was not fast enough, so they grabbed the clipboard and filled it in without asking. This behavior struck me as incredibly odd, as I knew the questions were super important. This was 1988, and recall that AIDS was an enormous concern. There were five questions on that topic, and the person answered NO to every remaining question. Wow!
Then, they asked about a bandage on one of my fingers, and I said I cut it on an oil-filled capacitor. They asked what this was, and I explained it was an electrical device used to start a motor. The person took off my bandage without asking and probed around, causing it to bleed again. “Did you go to the hospital?” “Were you poisoned?” “Did you take pictures of the incident?” Keep in mind that the first clipboard question was, “Are you in good health?”
Despite answering every question pleasantly, they hissed, “You’re not being honest.” I kept my anger in check, and the person grabbed my other finger and deeply poked it three times with a needle. (Could they not use the blood from the already bleeding finger?) Then they massaged with their gloved hand as blood spurted out until it had completely covered my entire finger and dripped down my hand. They dripped a dot into the solution that checks for iron and a dot onto a test strip. Then the person took a dry cotton ball, tore it in half (I am not exaggerating), for me to clean up the blood.
I glared at the person while suppressing curse words and grabbed 20 of the balls from the box. Why yes, they yelled at me. Then I grabbed the alcohol dispenser and used both to clean off the blood. Then I grabbed two 4x4 gauze bandages to dry my hand. Why yes, this person howled at the top of their lungs, causing many people to stare at us.
Then, I was presented with the form to sign. I noticed the person had changed the answer for the second box, which said something like, “Do you consent for us to use your blood?” from yes to no. We got into an argument, and after I threatened to go to management, they crossed it all out and wrote “YES.”
A nice orderly escorted me over to the blood donation area, and I told them what happened. Then I said, “Look, if you’re not going to use my blood, we can save a lot of time.” The person laughed and said, “We get complaints all day long about that person.” “So, you’re going to use my blood?” “Of course.” “Why is that nurse still working here?” “We have meetings every week about that person and are not allowed to tell donors what’s going on.” “Oh.”
So, I hopped onto the blood donation table to lie down and noticed everything was immaculate. Not a speck of dust on any surface, and the floors were sparkling bright white—more foreshadowing. Then I noticed a television news crew. They were crowded around a large medical device in the corner, and a patient was donating blood. The orderly explained that they were starting a super-donor program. This machine filtered the blood (often to recover plasma) and then returned the filtered blood to the patient. This meant putting a needle in each arm, and it takes (I recall) an hour to donate.
An NFL football player from the local San Diego Chargers (they have since moved to LA) was donating, and the local news was there to do a “good for the community” piece. Something was going drastically wrong, and three people were working on the machine, assuring the football player that everything was fine, all while trying to talk positively to the news.
Even though this man was a tough athlete, it was clear he was in extreme pain. This prompted the reporter to ask, “How bad does this hurt?” And questions to the people operating the machine: “Why is this not working?” “Why don’t you stop?” At the same time, everyone wanted this to be a success, including the news, because they needed a feel-good story, but it was turning into a horror-movie shoot.
While all that was going on, they put a needle in my arm and started the donation. My experience was not too bad, but the super-donor situation went from bad to worse. The player screamed that the needles be “ripped out,” and the three people were holding him on the table. Seeing this chaos raised my anxiety through the roof, and the nurse attending me could see my concern. They did their best to reassure me with, “This will be over soon.”
Finally, I filed the bag; they took the four vials of blood for testing and then removed the needle from my arm. DONE! As they were filling out the final paperwork, one of the vials fell on the floor and broke. This created a near-perfect circle of blood. My blood. It instantly turned fluorescent red against the ultra-ultra-white tile. Um, err, ah. Now, I was not doing well.
“No problem,” the nurse said, and an orderly brought over a towel that must have been dunked into a tanker load of bleach because it was ultra-ultra-white. They swirled it around, turning the red spot from two feet across to five, then went to a trash can to shake off the glass from the vial. I was, of course, watching and saw four square feet of fluorescent red bloody towel. Now, I was really not doing well. My big dilemma was deciding whether to faint or to vomit.
The nurse again reassured me and said they just needed a quick jab to get more blood. No, I was done. This upset the nurse, who said they could not accept my donation. No, I was done.
So I went into the waiting room, where donors had to relax for 30 minutes before driving, and I did my best to calm down. Why, yes, they were out of donuts and orange juice, which was a big perk of donating. So, I drank some water from the water cooler, which was warm. As I waited, the football player ran past me at lightning speed and out the door. He was holding his left arm as if it were in pain. Then, a nurse ran after him, and I heard screeching tires in the parking lot. A long moment later, the nurse slowly walked back in with their head down. Wow!
After my 30 minutes, I went to get my free shirt. They gave these to everybody who donated, and it was a bragging point to show up to school with. The person at the shirt booth said I could not have one because I had not completed my donation. I said something foul and left.
In the parking lot, I got into my dad’s blue Chevy van and took some deep breaths to focus on the drive. When I got to the lot attendant, I explained that the ticket machine did not work and the lobby receptionist refused to help. He smiled and said he knew about the issue and would let me out without paying. Then he told me his own funny story. He said the last driver was in an extreme hurry to leave and handed him a fifty-dollar bill to open the gate as fast as possible. I had a good chuckle on my way home.
That was a Saturday, and on Monday, I told everybody at school what happened. I even stood up in my English class to speak. I got some good laughs about the football player chickening out. (I remembered his name at the time, but have since forgotten it. They did not show the super-donor segment on the news.)
About a week later, I was in the school office requesting an official copy of my transcript for a college application. While I waited, I noticed a San Diego Blood Bank pin on the person next to me. So, I asked, “Want to hear a story?” I told them everything and, in the middle, they asked, “The nurse filled out your donation questions for you!!! That’s completely illegal!” They were utterly appalled and apologized three times.
It turns out they ran the outreach program to get companies and other organizations interested in group blood donations. The person said they were going to have a mandatory meeting of all employees to discuss the incident. I gave them my address, and they promised to send me three shirts in my size.
I never got my shirts, but I still donated blood a few times over the years, mostly at work events. So no, the incident did not sour me, but it did give me a good story.
You’re the best -Bill
September 23, 2026
Hey, book lovers, I published six. Please check them out:
Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.
Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.
Cable Ties. A slow-burning political spy thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.
Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.
Pushed to the Edge of Existence. Just when Kim, Gabe, and Emma’s lives start returning to normal, a mysterious government organization orders them to use their telepathic abilities, and then they travel to an alien planet.
Cable Pairs. A sprawling international spy thriller where stolen secrets, compromised networks, double-crossing spies, and a collapsing economy collide in a high-stakes race to uncover who is really behind the conspiracy.
These books are available in softcover and in eBook format.
We had an assembly to tell the kids and teachers about the program, and a bunch of us signed up. A week later, we donated at a San Diego Blood Bank bus in the school parking lot. As I recall, this lasted for four days twice a year. That was my junior year, and I signed up again for my senior year, but one time I could not get the right time slot for the parking lot donation, so I booked a weekend appointment at the downtown office.
The hijinks began when the parking lot machine did not give me a ticket to validate. Inside, the unfriendly receptionist said, “Well, you will just have to pay the full price for a day’s worth of parking.” Writers call this foreshadowing.
So, I signed in and said, “I’m part of the Morse High School blood donation program.” They looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and asked, “Who?” I told them about the program, and they agreed to look into it. I knew they were lying.
The waiting room was empty, and despite arriving 15 minutes early, I had to wait for 90 minutes. Other people arrived during this time and were seen ahead of me. When I was eventually escorted to a nurse’s station, a very grumpy person looked at me as if I were the worst person in the world. Still, I gave a friendly “hello,” and they glared 100 daggers at me.
The nurse threw me a clipboard with questions, and I dutifully read each one. That was not fast enough, so they grabbed the clipboard and filled it in without asking. This behavior struck me as incredibly odd, as I knew the questions were super important. This was 1988, and recall that AIDS was an enormous concern. There were five questions on that topic, and the person answered NO to every remaining question. Wow!
Then, they asked about a bandage on one of my fingers, and I said I cut it on an oil-filled capacitor. They asked what this was, and I explained it was an electrical device used to start a motor. The person took off my bandage without asking and probed around, causing it to bleed again. “Did you go to the hospital?” “Were you poisoned?” “Did you take pictures of the incident?” Keep in mind that the first clipboard question was, “Are you in good health?”
Despite answering every question pleasantly, they hissed, “You’re not being honest.” I kept my anger in check, and the person grabbed my other finger and deeply poked it three times with a needle. (Could they not use the blood from the already bleeding finger?) Then they massaged with their gloved hand as blood spurted out until it had completely covered my entire finger and dripped down my hand. They dripped a dot into the solution that checks for iron and a dot onto a test strip. Then the person took a dry cotton ball, tore it in half (I am not exaggerating), for me to clean up the blood.
I glared at the person while suppressing curse words and grabbed 20 of the balls from the box. Why yes, they yelled at me. Then I grabbed the alcohol dispenser and used both to clean off the blood. Then I grabbed two 4x4 gauze bandages to dry my hand. Why yes, this person howled at the top of their lungs, causing many people to stare at us.
Then, I was presented with the form to sign. I noticed the person had changed the answer for the second box, which said something like, “Do you consent for us to use your blood?” from yes to no. We got into an argument, and after I threatened to go to management, they crossed it all out and wrote “YES.”
A nice orderly escorted me over to the blood donation area, and I told them what happened. Then I said, “Look, if you’re not going to use my blood, we can save a lot of time.” The person laughed and said, “We get complaints all day long about that person.” “So, you’re going to use my blood?” “Of course.” “Why is that nurse still working here?” “We have meetings every week about that person and are not allowed to tell donors what’s going on.” “Oh.”
So, I hopped onto the blood donation table to lie down and noticed everything was immaculate. Not a speck of dust on any surface, and the floors were sparkling bright white—more foreshadowing. Then I noticed a television news crew. They were crowded around a large medical device in the corner, and a patient was donating blood. The orderly explained that they were starting a super-donor program. This machine filtered the blood (often to recover plasma) and then returned the filtered blood to the patient. This meant putting a needle in each arm, and it takes (I recall) an hour to donate.
An NFL football player from the local San Diego Chargers (they have since moved to LA) was donating, and the local news was there to do a “good for the community” piece. Something was going drastically wrong, and three people were working on the machine, assuring the football player that everything was fine, all while trying to talk positively to the news.
Even though this man was a tough athlete, it was clear he was in extreme pain. This prompted the reporter to ask, “How bad does this hurt?” And questions to the people operating the machine: “Why is this not working?” “Why don’t you stop?” At the same time, everyone wanted this to be a success, including the news, because they needed a feel-good story, but it was turning into a horror-movie shoot.
While all that was going on, they put a needle in my arm and started the donation. My experience was not too bad, but the super-donor situation went from bad to worse. The player screamed that the needles be “ripped out,” and the three people were holding him on the table. Seeing this chaos raised my anxiety through the roof, and the nurse attending me could see my concern. They did their best to reassure me with, “This will be over soon.”
Finally, I filed the bag; they took the four vials of blood for testing and then removed the needle from my arm. DONE! As they were filling out the final paperwork, one of the vials fell on the floor and broke. This created a near-perfect circle of blood. My blood. It instantly turned fluorescent red against the ultra-ultra-white tile. Um, err, ah. Now, I was not doing well.
“No problem,” the nurse said, and an orderly brought over a towel that must have been dunked into a tanker load of bleach because it was ultra-ultra-white. They swirled it around, turning the red spot from two feet across to five, then went to a trash can to shake off the glass from the vial. I was, of course, watching and saw four square feet of fluorescent red bloody towel. Now, I was really not doing well. My big dilemma was deciding whether to faint or to vomit.
The nurse again reassured me and said they just needed a quick jab to get more blood. No, I was done. This upset the nurse, who said they could not accept my donation. No, I was done.
So I went into the waiting room, where donors had to relax for 30 minutes before driving, and I did my best to calm down. Why, yes, they were out of donuts and orange juice, which was a big perk of donating. So, I drank some water from the water cooler, which was warm. As I waited, the football player ran past me at lightning speed and out the door. He was holding his left arm as if it were in pain. Then, a nurse ran after him, and I heard screeching tires in the parking lot. A long moment later, the nurse slowly walked back in with their head down. Wow!
After my 30 minutes, I went to get my free shirt. They gave these to everybody who donated, and it was a bragging point to show up to school with. The person at the shirt booth said I could not have one because I had not completed my donation. I said something foul and left.
In the parking lot, I got into my dad’s blue Chevy van and took some deep breaths to focus on the drive. When I got to the lot attendant, I explained that the ticket machine did not work and the lobby receptionist refused to help. He smiled and said he knew about the issue and would let me out without paying. Then he told me his own funny story. He said the last driver was in an extreme hurry to leave and handed him a fifty-dollar bill to open the gate as fast as possible. I had a good chuckle on my way home.
That was a Saturday, and on Monday, I told everybody at school what happened. I even stood up in my English class to speak. I got some good laughs about the football player chickening out. (I remembered his name at the time, but have since forgotten it. They did not show the super-donor segment on the news.)
About a week later, I was in the school office requesting an official copy of my transcript for a college application. While I waited, I noticed a San Diego Blood Bank pin on the person next to me. So, I asked, “Want to hear a story?” I told them everything and, in the middle, they asked, “The nurse filled out your donation questions for you!!! That’s completely illegal!” They were utterly appalled and apologized three times.
It turns out they ran the outreach program to get companies and other organizations interested in group blood donations. The person said they were going to have a mandatory meeting of all employees to discuss the incident. I gave them my address, and they promised to send me three shirts in my size.
I never got my shirts, but I still donated blood a few times over the years, mostly at work events. So no, the incident did not sour me, but it did give me a good story.
You’re the best -Bill
September 23, 2026
Hey, book lovers, I published six. Please check them out:
Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.
Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.
Cable Ties. A slow-burning political spy thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.
Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.
Pushed to the Edge of Existence. Just when Kim, Gabe, and Emma’s lives start returning to normal, a mysterious government organization orders them to use their telepathic abilities, and then they travel to an alien planet.
Cable Pairs. A sprawling international spy thriller where stolen secrets, compromised networks, double-crossing spies, and a collapsing economy collide in a high-stakes race to uncover who is really behind the conspiracy.
These books are available in softcover and in eBook format.
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