And his name was Angel...

Earlier today, I found myself crammed into a 4 by 4 foot square room with a man named Angel. I’d only known Angel for about 10 minutes, but our relationship progressed rapidly inside that little sound-proof room.

“Are you feeling well today?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. How nice of him to ask.

“Have you been to Europe or Canada in the last three years?”

“No.” I’ll be there soon though, I thought.

“Have you ever had sexual relations with a man that has had sexual relations with another man?”

Say what?

I’ve often heard of people hesitant to give blood. They give many excuses: the needles, the possibility of passing out, the blood. No one warned me about Angel and his sexually explicit questions.

Lucky for me, I’ve had no prostitutes, mad cow disease or anything else of that nature in my past. Angel gave me the nod and the paperwork, and I moved on to round two: Vitals.

Another 4 by 4 foot room but this time, a nurse with curly black hair and a warm smile.

“You’ve never given blood before?” she asked.

“First time for everything,” I shrugged.

Good answer. She beamed and told me I had a great attitude and pulled out what looked like a white-out tape dispenser. I breathed a little easier and felt my shoulders relax, and she started to swab my index finger with some sanitizing solution. I vaguely wondered why and heard her say something about a little prick. That’s when I realized that the dispenser she was lowering toward my finger did not dispense white out. Or tape. I didn’t actually know what it dispensed, only that it would make me bleed. My shoulders tensed back up.

True, blood was the reason I was there. True, I fully expected to be jabbed in the arm with a needle in a few minutes. But no one had mentioned the prick. And certainly not the dispenser of the prick.

Her hand was holding mine hostage, and the looming dispenser descended. There was no stopping it. I winced before the thing even touched my skin and looked away.

Cla-click.

Ouch.

A crimson bead appeared on my fingertip. The nurse slurped it up with a clear, skinny tube. I was mesmerized. She pressed against my finger and milked my little blood bead until the tube filled up. I’m pretty good at bleeding, I noticed.

A band-aide, temperature check and blood pressure reading later, Angel was back with more questions. This time, at least, we were open of the blood bank bus, and I was reclining in a cup-shaped chair.

“Apple or apple strawberry?” he asked.

Tough question.

“Apple strawberry,” I said.

I lay there awkwardly with my feet and head at the same elevation and sipped on my juicy box while another nurse tapped at the veins in my left arm. She seemed calm. Too calm. Like I was just another student waiting to donate blood. I was not just another student. I was a first-timer.

But this nurse worked quietly, offering no explanation. Chills crawled up my spine as I watched her smear a yellow substance on my skin. She Velcro-strapped a belt around my arm so tight that it cut off the circulation. But maybe that was the point. Or maybe not. Suddenly I was longing for Angel and all his questions.

Then the nurse put a red stress ball in my hand and walked away. Was I that obvious?

She came back and fiddled with my arm some more.

“Squeeze this for three seconds,” she motioned to the stress ball.

Finally, some instruction.

“Are you ready?”

“Uh, I guess,” I said quizzically.

She told me I could look away, and I did gladly. More chills. Someone pressed a pause button on my heart. Big breath in…

“Mosquito bite,” she said.

Must have been one of those giant African mosquitoes.

But it was over fast, and just like that I was donating blood. I sighed in relief and watched the blood pumping out of my body through another clear tube. Pins and needles tickled my left hand, and I asked Angel if loss of feeling was normal. He loosened the circulation strap, and the pins and needles disappeared.

Four minutes later, I slurped the last of my Mott’s apple strawberry, and the nurse told me I was done. She wrapped a “Give Blood” bandage around my mosquito bite a little too tightly, and I got up to leave.

Angel came over for one last time. Our 35-minute relationship was coming to an end almost as rapidly as it began. He handed me an oversized T-shirt and some Oreos as a parting gift, and somehow I felt like I should reciprocate. A hug, maybe? Uh, we weren’t that close.

I walked to the door, and looked back briefly. Our eyes met one last time.

“Congratulations,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” I said back.

Blood wasn’t the only thing I lost today.

Farwell, Angel, man of many questions.