The Red Cross
I followed with eagle-eyed vigilance the large needle invading my pale flesh. Smells of skin cleaner lingered chemical. A dark red liquid snaked through the plastic tubing and into my vein. The doctor, parental in his hovering, said my hemoglobin was low, and I could have died. I tried to explain that it was the Red Cross, and they wanted my blood. They needed my blood. It was the Red Cross that landed me in the hospital. But every time I tried to tell my story, the medical staff refused to listen. So I made my pleas even louder.
“They called me at home,” I said, wrestling with the leather restraints that bound my arms and legs to the stretcher.
“They called me at home!” I said again, but even louder into the space that was my medical cubicle.
This time, I drew the ire of the drunk in the next room who shouted back, “Ya wanna drink my piss?”
Why doesn’t anyone listen? I always listen. So I yelled, again and again, competing with the drunk. I made enough noise to aggravate the nurses. Within minutes they arrived in a small pack, jabbed a large needle into my thigh against my protests, and then disappeared cackling the words antipsychotics and Haldol.
Before I surrender to the drug, I need to clarify that I am not crazy. I answered the phone.
It was 8pm when I got the call, and it was not my routine to get calls in the evening. I know because routines are my life. Without routines I can’t survive. And I need order. Many people say I am unique. Others say I’m special. I prefer the term efficient.
The phone rang, and I answered on the third ring. Not because I didn’t hear the phone, but because I always answer on the third ring. Three is the ideal number. Not too eager. Not to standoffish. So I answer on three. On the line was a pleasant automated female voice with a distinct human quality.
“THIS IS THE AMERICAN RED CROSS; YOUR ONE BLOOD DONATION CAN HELP SAVE THE LIVES OF UP TO THREE PEOPLE. MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS. GIVE BLOOD THROUGH THE AMERICAN RED CROSS TO HELP HOSPITAL PATIENTS. VISIT THE RED CROSS TODAY.”
I listened to the message with diligence as I do with every message. Then, I copied the message verbatim in my notepad and continued with my day. That was Monday. Monday is the first day of my week.
On Tuesday evening the phone rang, and again I answered on the third ring.
“THIS IS THE AMERICAN RED CROSS; YOUR ONE BLOOD DONATION CAN HELP SAVE THE LIVES OF UP TO THREE PEOPLE. MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS. GIVE BLOOD THROUGH THE AMERICAN RED CROSS TO HELP HOSPITAL PATIENTS. VISIT THE RED CROSS TODAY.”
I am not one to shirk my social responsibilities. I attend to my duties. Blood donations must be at a shortage; I thought to myself. So during my scheduled one hour and fifteen-minute lunch break, I made my donation. The donation was painless, and I left pleased. There is satisfaction in being pleased.
I finished my day at the usual time and headed home. At six-fifteen that evening I cooked my microwave dinner for three minutes and forty-five seconds. Then I sat and watched the local news. The news is my routine. Being informed has value. At 8 pm the phone rang. I answered on the third ring.
“THIS IS THE AMERICAN RED CROSS; YOUR ONE BLOOD DONATION CAN HELP SAVE THE LIVES OF UP TO THREE PEOPLE. MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS. GIVE BLOOD THROUGH THE AMERICAN RED CROSS TO HELP HOSPITAL PATIENTS. VISIT THE RED CROSS TODAY.”
During my scheduled one hour and fifteen-minute lunch break, I returned to the donation center. After checking in, they scanned my donor card. There is a donor card in my possession because the Red Cross gave me one. And I placed it amongst my other cards in alphabetical order. I waited for the women behind the counter to say I met my limit to donate, but she did not. And that meant everything was okay. I know this because the Red Cross doesn’t make mistakes. Again the donation was painless, and again I left pleased. On my way out the door, I inquired how often I could donate. The receptionist responded, “You must wait for at least eight weeks (56 days) between donations of whole blood and 16 weeks (112 days) between double red cell donations.”
I stopped, door propped half open with my left foot. “I donated yesterday,” I said.
The woman scanned my face for hints of sarcasm, dropping her hands to the keyboard, she tapped out a dozen keys.
“We have no record of your donation yesterday.”
I ran my finger along the bend in my arm, noting the small hole.
“There must be an error,” I said letting the door swing closed. Errors are disruptive. I don’t appreciate disruptions. I finished my day at the usual time. At six-fifteen that evening I cooked my microwave dinner for three minutes and forty-five seconds. Then I sat and watched the local news. At 8 pm the phone rang. I answered on the third ring.
“THIS IS THE AMERICAN RED CROSS; YOUR ONE BLOOD DONATION CAN HELP SAVE THE LIVES OF UP TO THREE PEOPLE. MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF OTHERS. GIVE BLOOD THROUGH THE AMERICAN RED CROSS TO HELP HOSPITAL PATIENTS. VISIT THE RED CROSS TODAY.”
During my scheduled one hour and fifteen-minute lunch break, I returned to the donation center. I checked in, and they scanned my donor card. I have a donor card because they gave me one. The women behind the desk struggled to acknowledge my presence. Few people do.
This routine lasted two weeks. Every day during my scheduled one hour and fifteen-minute lunch break I donated more and more of myself. I felt needed. And I am never needed. It was unfortunate this routine ended the day my face met the floor at work, pale and unconscious. And that was not my routine.
Now I find myself adrift. The sedatives working through my blood stream. I am uncomfortable with the loss of control. And I am uncomfortable with being restrained to the bed. The psychiatrist sitting bedside, a pigeon on his perch, he makes me uncomfortable. Then my phone rings and rings. I look up at the wall clock. It’s 8 pm.
But I cannot answer on the first, second, or third ring and I find myself perplexed by the rush of comfort in not answering.
Maybe it’s the Haldol.
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R E Hengsterman
R.E Hengsterman is a writer and film photographer who deconstructs the human experience through photographic images and words. He currently lives and writes in North Carolina. You can see more of his work at www.REHengsterman.com and find him on Twitter at @rehengsterman
Everyone has their routine: poor mister OCD, and so does the Red Cross. It might help to make it clear at the outset that Mr OCD has a cell phone, not a land line. There is a Kafkaesque turn in the Red Cross’s routine of robot calls while not keeping records of visits in response to them. it might be worth considering a tweak in the next to last line: “…and I find myself perplexed by the absence of concern about failing to answer that third ring.”
You nearly lost me at the start, but the tale is short enough to persevere. I’m glad I did.