"You're So Vein"

By Jerry Zezima

Romance is in my blood. And I recently proved it by taking my wife for bloodwork.

On our anniversary.

It was the most romantic thing I have done for Sue since I took her to a landfill on our anniversary four years ago. I’m surprised she didn’t leave me there.

It’s a good thing she didn’t because I wanted this latest expression of love to be in vein, not in vain, which is why I was inspired to be a blood donor.

I used to give blood regularly. In fact, I donated so often that I was a member of the Gallon Club, signifying that I had given a gallon of blood, though not all at once, which would have made me even dizzier than usual.

I stopped donating a dozen years ago, when I was two years away from turning 60, because I didn’t think anyone would want old blood, even though it was fortified with red wine, which has been medically proven to be good for the heart.

But I decided to go with the flow again when I saw my physician, Dr. Sanjay Sangwan, who had ordered bloodwork for me.

“Your results are perfect,” he said.

“I took my wife for bloodwork on our anniversary,” I told him.

“On our anniversary,” Dr. Sangwan said, “my wife said she wanted to go to a restaurant where you can watch them prepare your meal in front of you. So I took her to Subway.”

“I’m thinking about being a blood donor, but I just turned 70,” I said. “Would it be safe?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Your blood is good and you’re healthy, so you can give once or twice a year. Just don’t get into a competition with someone.”

“I guess the reward would be blood money,” I said.

After my appointment, I went to Long Island Blood Services, a division of the New York Blood Center, to sign up.

“The paperwork will take longer than the bloodwork,” said Marianne Jahoda, the very nice receptionist, who looked me up in the system and saw that I hadn’t donated blood in a long time.

“That means you have plenty to give now,” she said before directing me to the office of phlebotomist Heather Pflug, who took my temperature and blood pressure and asked if I take aspirin.

“Baby aspirin,” I replied, “because I’m a big baby.”

“The biggest babies are the burly guys with tattoos,” said Heather, adding that she was going to prick my finger to get a drop of blood.

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

“I won’t feel a thing,” Heather said with a smile.

Then it was time, after all these years, to make a donation.

Cindy Cadicamo, a phlebotomist with a gentle manner that put me at ease, set me up on a blood donor chair. She asked me to roll up my sleeve, found a suitable vein in my left arm, rubbed it with a disinfectant and said, “Look anywhere but at your left arm.”

So I looked at my right arm.

“You’ll feel a pinch, followed by a brief burn,” Cindy said just before inserting a needle that would carry my blood into a bag.

“How much does it hold?” I asked.

“A pint,” she answered.

“I could go for a pint,” I said.

“Come back after 5 o’clock,” Cindy joked. “It’s happy hour.”

When I told her that I had taken Sue for bloodwork on our anniversary, she exclaimed, “What a guy!”

I asked if I was the oldest donor she had seen in her 20 years as a phlebotomist.

“No,” Cindy said. “We had an 83-year-old woman come in to give blood for the first time. And she came back to donate again.”

“What a gal!” I exclaimed.

By then, the bag was full. Cindy took out the needle, sat me up and asked if I felt lightheaded.

“I was born lightheaded,” I said. “But I’m fine.”

Cindy walked me to a table that had chips, cookies and other snacks.

“Would you like apple juice or cranberry juice?” asked volunteer Marie Rotolo.

“No beer?” I said.

“Sorry,” Marie replied. “We’re all out.”

“I feel bad for the guy who gets my blood,” I told her. “He’ll probably grow a mustache and start telling stupid jokes.”

“It could be a woman,” Marie said.

“Even worse,” I noted.

On the way out, I was thanked by the wonderful staff for helping to save lives.

“I hope we’ll see you again,” Cindy said. “And next time, bring your wife.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima