Plays = Life

In my attempt to understand my "process" as a playwright, I've forgotten that writing plays is just a different form of "writing." And that "writing" comes from "life." And so, whatever I'm "writing," is working on a play... So, here's an essay(?) I wrote earlier this winter:


I gave blood on Monday. I hate giving blood. Well, not hate, but it scares me. Everytime.

I don't like the way it feels, like it's sucking my energy out through my arm. But I do it. When they call me at home, I do it. I figure I may not be able to give my 10% to God in money, so I give my blood, platelets actually, which is a slightly more involved process.

I go to the blood center in the hospital-- it's on the second floor so I've been taking the stairs. I used to use the elevators, but that seems like such a waste of time, energy, and electricity. When I get to the waiting room, I fill out the same forms, answering yes or no to questions about living in Europe or Africa or getting vaccinations or dental work or using needles or drugs or sex with men or being pregnant. Are there people that would lie on this form? I wonder what kind of a person would agree to give blood, but lie on the clearance form and send disease flowing to other people...

After the form is filled out by circling my "Y's" and N's" and sometimes "N/A's," I end up with a doctor in the small screening room. It's always a crapshoot. Will it be the nice female doctor who smiles at me, I think her name's Laura, or will it be Greg or Craig or whatever his name is. I only know him as "that mean doctor with the beard." Sometimes, in the back of my mind, I call him "Mean Ol' Beardy." And maybe he's not mean, maybe he just needs to work on his bedside manner or maybe he's just had a series of bad days... each time I've been there...

This Monday, I hear my name called. I look up. It's Beardy. We go to the small room and go over my form. Why was I deferred before? Dentist appointment, my gums bled. What medications? Albuterol inhaler. Singulair. Flovent inhaler. And a new one! Zyrtec for allergies. When I was a kid the list was: Ventolin inhaler, Intal and Albuterol for the nebulizer. Ah, the good old days of wheezing and breathing machines. Times have changed.

Finally, I start to relax a little, telling myself, "You wimp. This isn't so bad." Then. Time for the finger prick-- and I'm back to the reality of the situation. I'm going to have to offer up one of my fingers to a needle. My mind floods with images of diabetics for whom this is a daily occurrence. Oh look! There's BB King! Brave souls. Thrice a day, they prick their skin to draw a drop of blood. Surely, I can offer a finger of mine this one time... For the good of tests and analysis to approve my giving blood. The left hand, quivering, has volunteered to be the victim. Oh, brave Lefty. Righty is proud of you. My hand is clamped by Dr. Beardy's hand, he pulls it to him across the table. "I like me a ring finger," he sys. He washes the finger with a swipe of alcohol. Did he just say, "I like me a ring finger?" I wonder, and then SNAP! The needle in the mechanism thrusts into my flesh, a drop of blood flows in a flash, but Dr. Beardy captures it in little vial using a small plastic tube that resembled an anteater's nose. He squeezes my finger, searching for more blood, each escaping drip is captured.

About 10 squeezes and he's done. I squeeze gauze to my finger tip and Dr. Beardy flips the little vial of my blood quite methodically. I've noticed that each doctor does this exactly the same. Is this little "vial dance" part of medical school? Take the vial in your thumb and pointer finger and twist your wrist, turning it upside down. Flip. Flip. Flip. No shaking. Just even flips. Good. Now, with music. A waltz. Slow. Flip-two-three, Flip-two-three...

I've survived the process this far. I suddenly get cold. Soon, Dr. Beardy will be back with the results, "Looks like everything's good," and I'll be off to the chair. And the machine. The machine is scary as hell. A plasticy computery thingie with these blue knobs and cranks that make the machine look as if it were designed by Michael Graves and should be sold at Target. The machine sucks out my blood, separates the platelets, and then shoves the blood back into my arm with some "citrate," which keeps the blood moving, an anti-coagulate. I call it "Super OJ." It makes it easier to consider the fact that it's being pumped into my body that way.

The first time I gave platelets, they pumped a lot of citrate into me and took a lot of platelets. The citrate makes it feel as if my mouth is coated in aluminum and turns my breath into metal. They give me Tums in hope that the chalk will release the metal from my tongue. That first time, my brain shut down, I almost passed out. My stomach turned, I was peacefully frantic. My blood pressure was way down. They had to flip the chair so the blood, or what was left of it, would get to my head. From then on, they took less platelets and gave me less citrate. Part of the reason I think Dr. Beardy is mean is that he has always tried to take a little bit more platelets, upping the number I should be giving, AND it took him several times of me nearly passing out before he read the notes, or follow the notes and lower the platelet donation and the Super OJ levels. Monday, he remembered.

And I sat in the chair. It's a heated chair and yet I still shiver. Because I know what's coming. He pulls up my sleeve a little further because I apparently didn't do it to his satisfaction. A little bit of iodine on a tiny sponge scrapes into the fold of my elbow. Then more iodine from a capsule that snaps. He drags it from the place he plans to attack on my arms, dragging a circle, creating a mustardy bullseye.

He puts a foam hand in my hand. Squeeze. A blood pressure thingie is put on my arm. Squeeze. "That's a good one." His finger taps on my blood vein. He finds the needle connected to a long line of tubing. A plastic snake whose bite I'm really starting to dread. "A bee sting," says Dr. Beardy as he places the needle towards my arm. Bullshit! No bee's stinger is that fucking long!

I turn away. My toes crunch. I try to relax my arm. The bee strikes. My muscles relax. My eyes sneak a peek. The snake's body is slowly filling with my blood. The blue "Michael Graves" knobs turn and click slowly. Goodbye platelets, this is where you get off. Minutes pass. I watch a tiny TV screen, but nothing's on. No good cartoons on Cartoon Network, so I watch CNN. Stupid news. My arm, where the snake sucks, is now covered. Thank God. I don't want to see its bite. Suddenly, the knobs click faster, my mouth fills with metal. Super OJ has found its way into me. After chomping on two or three Tums, I sip some milk from a carton through a straw. Why is this always the sweetest, most delicious milk I've ever tasted? What brand is this? I should buy this at the store. Creamy, dreamy, whoa... How much blood has left me?

Metal invades the spaces between my teeth, my tongue is heavy. More Tums. Chalk. Save me, Chalk. What is meant to be a "fruit" flavor mingles with the metal. After four or five more Tums are downed as if they're cookies, my mouth and stomach are still not content, but at least their complaining has quieted. At this point, I'm deaf to the machine clicks. I look up at the bag above my head, yellow goop. It looks like an organ, a jellyfish. Is that what "life" looks like?

A sing-song beep from Michael Graves' machine calls a doctor over. I'm finished. The plastic snake is freed from my arm, but more blood tries to escape. Gauze held by a tourniquet and the drips are caught. Dreamy and no longer filled with fear, but with a haze of passive happiness, I eat some cookies and have another carton of that succulent milk.

I go to the front desk to check out.

"Would you like to schedule an appointment for your next donation?"

I think. "No, not now."

"Okay, we'll call you."

"That sounds fine."