Bleeding Arts

The first time I ever tried to give blood, the Red Cross worker told me she had ethical issues with extracting blood from someone as green as I was.  I was seventeen years old, I hated needles as much as I did when I was 5 and needed recovery cookies after shots, and I about keeled over when they pricked my thumb.  In case you can’t picture this, here is a photo from my first “about me” post (http://allisonbody.blogspot.com/2011/09/fabulous-life-of-allison-marie.html) showing my bravery at getting my ears double pierced:

Now picture that, but instead of a half a second, fifteen minutes of blood draining.  It wasn’t happening.  I thought that I was destined never to be a donor, but I discovered in the second to last week of my junior year of college that I am capable of giving blood.  Motivated by some combination of bravery, altruism, and pure nerdiness, I traded my blood for a ticket to the play Little Shop of Horrors. 

It all started a week earlier when Dr. Miller, my mentor for the Rockhurst Review, offered me two tickets to a piano and violin concert at UMKC (She wanted to go but was hosting a fabulous dinner party for another group of performers—how I envy the life of Dr. P.C. Miller).  I went with a fellow culture lover, Ryan, and we discovered that Little Shop of Horrors—a musical I had always wanted to see and one of his favorites—was playing at the Kansas City Repertory Theater.  Unfortunately, tickets were $20, and we are broke college students.  Undaunted by this setback, some fierce Googling turned up a potential option: if you participated in a blood drive hosted at the Repertory Theater, you could get a free ticket.  Somehow, Ryan and our other friend Colin talked me into doing it with them, assuring me that it wasn’t that bad, I was a big girl now, yes I could have a cookie when I was done, and yes they would hold my hands if I wanted. 

So we went.  I made it past the finger pricking part, which I considered to be a hugely successful step, but I turned a little green when they actually started to prep me.  All of the workers were so amused by my attempts to conceal my panic.  I was totally playing it cool.  It must Ryan and Colin’s concerned looks every 30 seconds that gave them the impression I was scared.  When the moment came to stick the needle in, my nurse directed me to talk to another nurse sitting nearby.  I casually inquired if any other donors ever got a little nervous.  It came out something like this: “DOES ANYBODY ELSE CHICKEN ME DONATE?!”  To his credit, he just smiled and nodded, and the needle was in!  Besides a panicked moment where I informed the nurse that my entire body was tingling, the rest of the donation went smoothly.  I was a little nauseous afterwards, but I happily munched my Nutter-Butters and Sprite (when there are two weeks left in school and you inexplicably only  have green peppers and oatmeal in your kitchen, you do not turn down free food under any circumstances) while texting half my phone book that I had survived. 

So I got my ticket—close to the stage even!  The show was great—one of the many reasons why I am so glad I go to school in a city like KC. 

So there is my tale.  Either a success story of an altruistic girl overcoming her fears, or an example of an arts nerd willing to trade blood for culture.  I like to think it is a nice combination of the two.