The Sign Up Sheet I Should Have Passed Along

Once upon a time, I looked down at a sign up sheet being passed around during church and thought "Hmmm... Only one other person has signed up for this! I can't let that happen!" So I put my name down in slot #2 for:

The blood drive (bum ba ba bum).

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Bad deal.

I have donated blood 2 or 3 times in my life without a problem. I cruised right along and munched on the free treats-- happy as a lark knowing someone was going to need my blood and I could help them out. Well, almost a year ago, I took my best friend with me to a donation and assured her that it was easy as pie.

Yeah, well, I passed out. It was my first time passing out while donating blood, so it was quite the experience. It doesn't seem fair that you not only can hardly remember where you are when you wake up, but you also immediately feel very, very nauseous. Totally not fair. My poor friend was traumatized and no sooner looked at me all limp in the chair before getting very sick herself. I wouldn't blame her if she never believed a word that came out of my mouth from then on!

With that horrid experience being a year ago, I thought I was good to go for the next round. I left my husband with the assignment of taking the zucchini bread out of the oven while I was gone, and went to donate my bodily juices alone.

Apparently, my body doesn't like sharing its juices.

I couldn't shake the feeling of "relapse" once I walked in the door, but I worked hard to keep myself calm. I tend to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor, so I immediately tried making friends and cracking jokes with the workers, the other donors, the table legs... basically anything that would sit still and listen. I succeeded with a guy in the recliner (a.k.a. uncomfortable lawn chair that tips you onto your back) across from mine. He had filled his bag in about 6 minutes and 18 seconds. I teased him that I would totally beat his time. I hadn't even started at that point, so it was pretty tall talk. All I was really trying to do was give myself the pep talk that I would live to see the other side of filling the bag.

I studied the tiles of the ceiling while the phlebotomist prepared the needle, hoping I wasn't going to have time to count them a dozen times before I escaped. I filled my bag in 6 minutes and 6 seconds (take THAT mystery man whose name I don't know and whom will never see again!) and thought I was free and clear. The little dude who was assigned to work with me started filling the vials that accompany the blood for testing purposes and I recognized the feeling the second it hit me. I immediately felt the color drain from my face but I couldn't muster the strength to say something. Luckily, another phlebotomist turned to look at me at just the right second and asked if I was feeling alright. I squeaked out a "no" and she told me to uncross my ankles.

That's the last thing I remember.

I kind of remember having a dream at moch 90 with a bunch of fleeting images and then hearing my name being called. I woke up to the same lady asking if I remembered where I was. I nodded my head before I really knew the answer to the question. It was kind of like, "Well, I know I should know where I am so if you give my brain 2 seconds to catch up, I might be able to answer you." It was right about then I wished I could just pass out again because my stomach awoke with all the warm fuzzies of a rouge chainsaw.

I must have looked a sight with fluttering eyelids (when they tell you to keep your eyes open, you should get a gold medal if you can humanly succeed) and a giant red garbage bad that looks like it came out of a hazmat truck on your lap to catch whatever may come out of your tummy. They tell you to cough after you've passed out for reasons unbeknown to me... I must have missed that memo. But to add to my image, they kept demanding I cough while they layered me with ice packs. I was giving it my best, but I think they kept demanding I try again because I must have sounded like a chipmunk with the hiccups.

I can sit here and say "Bad, bad, bad deal" over and over and that wont come close to describing the bad deal-ness of the whole situation.

I hadn't been awake for long when I looked up so see my husband poking his head in the door looking around for me.

"That was nice of them to call my husband" I said to myself. Then I thought "Wait a minute. They didn't know who my husband was or how to contact him..." Turns out he was worried when I took so long to come home so he came to check on me. Thank goodness he did! I don't know what I would have done if he weren't there to comfort me and shoot crusty looks at the whole institution because he thinks taking that much blood from someone CAN'T be legal.

It probably took me a good 20+ minutes to be able to sit up, let alone walk and drive home. That says nothing of the day and a half it has taken my body to recoop and the constant convincing of my stomach to not turn into a category 5 hurricane every time I ingested anything more than water and the occasional saltine cracker.

Bad deal, folks.

It was an especially bad deal because that same night my husband was scheduled to race his (our?) truck at Rocky Mountain Raceway (RMR) with the new compound turbos. Every body and their dog showed up to support him except his wife. Classy. Very classy. I felt so bad! I wanted to be there so bad I contemplated dragging my limp, sick, freezing cold body out of bed and hitchhiking to the track regardless of my mother and mother-in-law's advice to the contrary. Instead, I demanded a near constant update from everyone there. It was almost like the real thing... but without having to smell all the cigarette smoke or body odor of the other spectators... but without the adrenaline rush and fun, either.

But enough about that.

I woke up this morning with a stomach that still refused to be content if I tried to eat more than approximately 10 cheerios, but I was SO excited to go to church! It's been a shamefully long time since I've contemplated what a true blessing it is to be able to to go church and learn more of His gospel.

I bear testimony to you that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is the only true, restored gospel on this earth. We are lead by a prophet of God, and he receives revelation straight from our Father in Heaven. The temples that now dot the earth are literally each the house of God on earth, and what a blessing it is to be able to go inside and learn the sacred truths taught there! It still blows my mind to think of all that I have been blessed with.

I may not be able to donate blood successfully anymore (p.s. They couldn't even use my donation because I passed out before they filled all the vials they needed! Why can't they just pump the blood back in me in that case?!? I obviously need it back! hahahaha!), but I have so many other ways to serve and to give. I have been blessed with wonderful talents to enrich and enliven the lives of those around me, as well as myself, and I couldn't be happier.

Sunday is truly a blessing to all those who strive to keep it holy, and while I'm not perfect, I try my best to always do what the Lord commands. I know that that is the only way to be truly happy. Trust me. I KNOW. =)