Blood on my hands (because no one else wants it)

I just called Memorial Blood Centers to make my regular donation appointment for tomorrow. I was all excited; I actually really like giving blood, partly because I do it so well (that stuff just shoots out of my arm) and partly because I feel like I’m genuinely helping someone in true need.

Ah, but that excitement was short-lived. I was informed that due to my lovely Mexican vacation – apparently in a “high malaria risk zone” – I can’t donate blood for an entire year.

I’ve been quarantined.

What the hell?! As Adam noted this morning when I told him the news, “There wasn’t even a mosquito down there!” And I certainly didn’t participate in malaria-favoring activities, like sharing drug needles or becoming blood sisters with a newfound Mexican friend. And, heaven forbid, it’s not like I was in somewhere “dirty” – it was a seaside tourist town! The most people I saw the entire time was when I ventured into Playa del Carmen to eat at -sigh- Senor Frog’s. (ha! Maybe that sole dining experience was enough to put me on the list.)

I’m glad the blood people have standards, and all. But I’m a little offended. A year? That seems dramatic, particularly for such a dedicated customer such as myself (every three months). Think of all the helpless orphan hemophiliacs who might need my blood in a year! What if the Pope needs some blood, but they’re exactly one pint short because I’m not allowed to give? What if Adam needs a sudden, roadside transfusion and the only people around are me and a trained phlebotomist who can’t donate because she’s pregnant?! WHAT THEN?!

Maybe I’ll find something else to donate. Maybe some little cancer kid wants a 2-inch-long Heather wig from Locks of Love? Maybe someone has some sort of disease where they can’t make saliva, so I can spit into a jar for a few weeks and donate that?

I’m itchin’ for a donation fix!!!!!