#InItTogether

This is Governor Mike DeWine's hashtag related to our response as Ohioans to slow the spread of COVID-19. At any other time in history, I would probably scoff at such a trite phrase from an elected official (no, not probably—definitely). Today, however, I felt those three words in my bones when I donated blood at a local church.

I carry my own pen to correct
instances of "Mary."

Over the weekend, a friend of mine told me she was planning to donate. I had been struggling to believe that I was making any significant or good contributions to humanity (staying home is not hard for introverts). Her nudge helped me to sign up. Then, the anxiety kicked into high gear. What if I get sick after donating, not because of the blood donation but because I will need to be around people. You can't take someone's blood from six feet. I seriously considered not going. I fear this virus, and I fear having to ride it out alone—or worse—if I contract it. As the afternoon wore on today, I felt the quivers inside. The governor says daily that we are at war, so I tried to think about our ancestors who sacrificed much in previous generations, including blood. I thought about my dad who is a champion blood donor, giving faithfully every 56 days and earning plaques from the Red Cross for donating gallons of blood. I remembered the last time I gave blood three years ago when I was unemployed. Then I was also hoping to do some good for others at a time when I felt very self-centered.

Thoroughly convinced of my duty but not necessarily calm about it, I decided that my pint of A-negative could make an impact down the road. Upon checking in and going through the intake process, I was surprised that I passed the temperature check at a perfect 98.6 degrees, that my blood pressure was 95-over-70, and my pulse was its normal 58 beats per minute. I also passed the hemoglobin test, which I was secretly hoping I wouldn't because I lost my slow-release iron tablets weeks ago somewhere between home and the office. There was no turning back now as I sat in the social hall waiting for my turn.

The needle is out of the shot
because once I look, it's all over.

The gravity of this moment in time struck me. It was surreal in many ways. Everyone present had a purpose, from donors like me to the Red Cross staff working diligently to ensure a safe and clean collection process. It was mostly quiet, except for some 2010s pop music playing from a Bluetooth speaker. I overheard a few donors say they had not donated in a long time. One woman was giving for the very first time. The staff made some jokes about the restricted areas inside the half-circle of gurneys as being "lava" and donors made sure only to follow their staff person to the right place. Laughs in the midst of serious business.

Once that needle was in, I was proud of my choice and proud that I conquered anxiety, at least for a few moments. When it was over, Tyrone said I could go to Cookie Land. I didn't do it for the cookies, though, or even the organic juice box; I did it because we are truly in it together.

PS. For my oodles of followers, I am sorry for skipping yesterday's entry. My Mac decided it needed to do a major, overdue upgrade, and by the time it finished, sleep beckoned.