THE BLOOD BANK and ME

The infusion

From my earliest memories, the sight of blood has been my own symbol of terror, pain and hurt. Little hurts, a skinned knee. Also puncture wounds, to myself or to my father. Mother's reaction reinforced my own feeling, that losing a few drops might be fatal. Dad attempted to hide his injuries and I would not tell mother but she always noticed everything. He couldn't sit at table without being found out. This was long before Bandaids. A strip of cloth was tied in place to cover the site. There was iodine and salve between the rag and the wound.

I have never "given blood'. I think that blood banks came with the Wars, which were to follow. This aversion I have carried on into my 80's.

Before my knee implant was scheduled my surgeon said that it would be good to reserve two units of my own blood. This would replace probable losses during the operation. "Bones bleed badly." " I will be more apt to call for it if it is your own." I resolved to do just that.

I went with a real ‘fear and trembling' to the USC blood bank. Here was parking reserved for donors! So they drew samples and tested and whirled them. The nurse had me sign a waver that should it be proven that my blood contained certain traces, it could be used for me. But my name would be listed at other banks for rejection. Then a conference followed. They said that because of my 80 plus age and that I had failed the stress test, "Using my blood so close to the operation was not indicated."

Note: There is a very small window of time between drawings, and also between uses as whole blood.

Here they were weighing the balance of benefit to me, of my own blood and the blood of others. We were now trusting that the bank blood was checked as carefully as was mine. Unit by unit it is kept separate and collected and stored carefully.

All of this was put out of mind as preparations were made, carried out and the operation performed.

There were days that I didn't remember. But I am aware of being in Bed 323A, on my back and hooked up to things. People injected drugs and extracted blood for testing. Pneumatic devices squeezed my feet and blinking lights told of drips into my arm. Vital signs were telemetered to the nurse's station. Twice one night the nurse said, "Wake up, Mr. Weisenberger, You have to breathe!" Perhaps the next day, the Doctor team stood by the bed and I heard one say, "I am giving him two units."

I purposely didn't watch. Soon a new tube was attached to my shunt. I felt sickly warm as gravity pushed –someone else's- blood into my arm to slowly mix with my own. There was no pain and no bleeding but I felt so UNWORTHY.

Some one else had done what I wouldn't do and now could not do, for any other or myself. Without a word I bowed my head and quietly let it happen.

" It is tomorrow, Mr. Weisenberger, you look so much better this morning."

(Someone else's blood was coloring my pale face!) I was pleased with the compliment. When the Doctors made their visit they uncovered the swollen leg. "That is where his blood loss went. It is in the tissue instead of in the veins."

* * *

Christ's shed blood was not infused into us. It mixed with the earth at the foot of the cross. Yet He did for us what we could not do for ourselves or any one else. His sacrifice infused us with innocence. God sees His sinlessness, glowing in our face.

Only by humbly accepting this Free Gift do we please God. Reject Him and we die.