So the wife and I went to the hospital today to donate platelets. To recap: My son’s best friend, 3-year-old Andrew Cohen, has been diagnosed with a form of stage-four cancer. He needs platelets and well, we have them. All of us have them.
Arrived at the hospital at 1:30, filled out all the forms, made sure we met all the requirements. No, I haven’t had sex with a man since 1977 (a serious question). No, I don’t have HIV. Yes, am healthy. They pricked my finger for blood, then brought me into the donation room, where they hook people up to a machine. To say I hate needles is too mild—I loathe needles. Just wig me out. Hence, wasn’t so thrilled when the needle they inserted into my arm was a pretty thick one. And then I thought about it: A kid is seriously ill. And if he doesn’t use my platelets, someone else seriously ill will.
So I anticipated sitting there, needle in arm, for 90 minutes. Broought books, the new SI, my laptop.
I was rejected. As was my wife. We didn’t have enough platelets to give. A selfish side of me was happy—Get this needle out of my arm! But mostly, I was saddened. I want to help this boy; want him to come home and laugh and play and find adventure with my son. We’ll come back to donate blood, but, well, it feels incomplete.
That said, they gave us cookies. And a free mug.