We Should Thank the Stinkin’ Vampires

Years ago, I crawled around the innards of a hospital working as a phlebotomist. Few things evoke rabid rejection faster than a gal in a white lab coat appearing in the middle of the night with a tray full of needles. Most patients were reluctantly cooperative. But then others could get downright ugly.
“You’re a stinkin’ vampire, that’s what you are!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Boondoggle, but I have to get a little blood for the lab.”
“And what am I? A pincushion? Can’t you get all the blood you need with one poke? I know your kind. You’ll be back, wanting more.”
“Thanks, Mr. Boondoggle. We’re all done.”
“ Uh, could I get a Bugs Bunny Band-Aid on that?”

Phlebotomists take a lot of grief for something over which they have no control. Doctor’s orders and lab test protocol determine who gets the needle and how often. But one advantage to the job is that you witness all the fascinating aspects of a hospital. It’s like having a backstage pass to “Gray’s Anatomy.” Not everybody begrudges your visit, and often you meet interesting people who understand that you wish you were delivering flowers, too, but somebody has to get the blood.

When I was a kid, I visited my Aunt Ora at John Elliott Blood Bank in Biloxi where she worked as a nurse. One of my summer jobs was in a plasma donation center. I have written articles about hemophilia. Here and there, over the years, I have learned about how blood plays a vital and indispensable role in saving lives. But it wasn’t until I visited my friend Teresa in Arlington, TX that I fully understood its value in terms of borrowed time.

Teresa passed away in January after losing her battle with breast cancer. She was 38, the mother of two and a great, great gal. She taught elementary school, loved animals and music. Her easy smile is what I will remember most about her.

In her last months, Teresa went to the hospital nearly every other day for blood transfusions. My friend Anne and I sat with Teresa on a Saturday while she received a bag of platelets and a unit of blood. It took just over six hours. We talked and laughed and reminisced. Teresa dozed some, but mostly she shared concerns for her family and their future without her. It was the single most bittersweet day I can recall, smiling through tears and hating cancer.

As the fluids dripped steadily through a catheter into a port on Teresa’s chest, I realized what an incredible gift someone had unknowingly provided her. When she needed blood, and she needed a lot, it was there because someone took the time and made the effort to donate. That blood bought her time with her family. It gave her the strength to make it through Christmas and New Year’s. And even though it could not cure or save Teresa, blood given by strangers made it possible for three friends to gather one last time. To pray. To hope. To exchange that unspoken final goodbye while Teresa still could smile.

Right you are. Needles are no fun. But when you consider the burden of those who need blood to stay alive or to cherish their dwindling days on this earth, a little discomfort and inconvenience pale in comparison to the powerful and lasting impact held within just one unit of blood.

And when you’re done and feeling good about saving lives, Mr. Boondoggle? Don’t forget to thank the stinkin’ vampires.

Go to http://www.unitedbloodservices.org/ for more information on blood donation.

Periodically, fellow writers will share their work. I'm certainly no poetry expert, but I thought this verse to be well written and likely of interest to those of you directly affected by Hurricane Katrina.

Thanks for agreeing to share this, Ron!

Voices within the Hurricane
by Ron Moses, Hattiesburg, MS

Birthed in the warm ocean waters between
Africa and the Americas, testing her baby strength
By skipping across Cuba, then, as a teenager
Storming over Florida, denied the old fountain
Of youth, ranting in the dark as a woman scorned,
Typhoon Katrina spun into the Gulf of Mexico
And attacked at daylight, taking out the lights
Of a coast line which once twinkled with life.
She swept the sandy cities from the sea shore,
Tossed gambling casinos across highways,
Howled around the windows of the poor and rich,
Peeked in with her black and stormy face
At the terrified trying to keep their doors from
Shaking apart, floated soup bowls up into attics,
Then made a run North, the popping pine trees
Sounding like Civil War cannons signaling a charge.
Toppling the towers of communication and
Tilting the smokestacks of factory production,
She raged for a day and a night, “Know that I am
The Queen of Utter Destruction.”

But other voices can still be heard within
This hurricane. One says, “Fear not,
For because of the twists of my tornadoes
Rare seeds were cracked open,
And vine-like cities will flourish,
Will reach with long fingers toward the sun,
And grace us with flowers
No one has ever seen or smelled before.
Other horns will wail the blues to the moon.
All that once was will be given a new skin.
Know it is the agony and the blessing
Of humans to create again.”

Another voice says, “Now you have a choice
Whether to show us the rose of your angel, or
The thorn of your devil.
Will you help or hinder your neighbor
Couched upon a rooftop, or
Buried in a maze of splintered timber, or
Wading through sewage looking for water, or
Honking at tail lights as you wait in a gas line,
The telephone poles wrapped in tin?”


“But what of our loved ones?” the grieving say
Within the center of their whirling mass of black.
“What of those dear ones twisted up
Into the clouds rushing through the heavens?”
“They are being touched now by a Love
That passes all understanding,” say the breezes
Which still have leaves left to spin.
“Let them continue their journey to that tower
Of light where no wind will ever touch them again.”

Wrestling Gives Mom the Glory

Parents understand that as far as awards for “best performance in a leading role,” the trophy goes to, well, there are no trophies for parenting. I love watching the Oscars, especially when someone stands at the microphone and tearfully thanks his or her mom and dad. I would imagine it feels pretty great to be internationally validated as the mom who changed the Best Director’s diapers. Most of us realize from the outset, though, that the rewards of parenting have little to do with recognition. It sure is nice, though, when someone happens to take notice.

My friend Kel Coleman-Potter lives in Poneta, Indiana. We both write columns for our local newspapers and try to incorporate worldly themes in our work, but we often end up writing about our kids. We have resisted being pegged as “mommy” columnists. The truth of the matter is that everything I find worthy of writing somehow relates to my children. Whatever our purpose in life, being mom always tempers our dreams and reminds us that even when editors reject us or agents rebuke us or the muse refuses to inspire Pulitzer material, our kids have a way of making us feel successful in the ways that matter most.

Kel shares tales of her two sons, Aaron and Ethan. They are close in age to my son and daughter. They are boys full of all that makes young men both a blessing and a challenge to parent when adolescence descends and blood pressures rise. Kel marvels at how the baby boys who used to cling to her with adoration and sticky fingers now relegate her to a less lofty position as dispensable old Mom, that troublesome woman who insists on a good breakfast and a decent bedtime. Sometimes, this parenting gig proves fairly thankless. But then, out of nowhere comes serendipitous gratification, an unexpected and complete verification that having kids is a magnificent endeavor.

Kel found hers at a wrestling match.

Wrestling, a sport older than the Olympics is a very big deal in Indiana and in schools throughout the Mid-West. Matches pit two opponents against each other. The winner is the one who either successfully pins his or her opponent to the mat or scores the most technical points. It seems Kel is always running to a practice or a match. There is the constant struggle to keep wrestling gear clean, accessible and in good repair. And then she has that gnawing, endless worry of impending injuries and the sting of defeat.

Ethan, relatively new to wrestling, embarked on his third match with two losses under his belt. Competition can be fierce, so Kel sat among the crowd of onlookers with a familiar knot in her gut, the same one that formed whenever her older son Aaron competed. Any parent who has perched atop bleachers and digested the churning ball of agony that forms when your child loses a game understands how sometimes it’s just too hard to watch. But within a matter of minutes, Ethan toppled his opponent and wrangled him into a position that landed the novice his first win.

The referee locked arms with the champion, as is customary. But he delayed proclaiming the winner until he located Kel in the audience. He positioned Ethan so that his gaze met that of his cheering mom among the throngs and, finally, threw her young son’s hand in the air.

Yes, we know that winning is not everything. In the grand scheme of things, a box of medals or a shelf of trophies ultimately means that you were acknowledged for winning in an instant. They are tangible ornaments of momentary glory. But the award presented to Kel by that referee was the kind of lasting recognition a mother cherishes for the long haul. “Here. Look. It’s your boy. Good job, Mom and Dad. You win.”

It’s not the trophy or the title that makes for lasting keepsakes. It’s the feeling you get when no one is watching, when you sit at your computer and try to write of consequential things, the very life of life. Our children, if we love them right, give us all the notice we need.