flashquake Nonfiction

FALLING
by A. Leigh Jones

For months I've been meaning to donate blood, and now the local paper says hospitals are delaying surgeries because the shortage is so severe. I read the story to my husband, and he says we'll go on Saturday, but then we don't.

A week goes by, and then another, and I decide to go on a Monday morning, but once I'm there, they say I don't have any extra to give away. My iron is low, and one of the volunteers sends me home with a sticker and a pamphlet about increasing my blood volume. I raise an eyebrow, laughter ready, but if she notices the irony, she's not letting on.

Outside, the snow is falling again. There's no wind to speak of, and the big flakes are beautiful, drifting, like tiny dancers. We've had more snow this winter than is usual this far south, and even though I know it'll make the blood crisis worse, I can't help enjoying it this morning.

Still, donating matters to me; the shortage strikes close to home, and I want to help. I take my multi-vitamins every day, drink plenty of water, and eat my leafy greens. Three weeks later, I'm back at the Red Cross. I forgot to make an appointment, though, and there's half a dozen people already waiting this afternoon.

Luckily, I remembered to bring a book, which helps, but sitting there, stiff in those skinny blue chairs, I'm getting nervous. I make it through the preliminary interview, No I haven't been to Cameroon lately; Yes, I'm over eighteen; No, I haven't paid for sex in the last twelve months, not even once, and when they jab my finger for a sample, my blood sinks in the pale blue fluid, all the way to the bottom. My blood is heavy, iron-rich, just like it should be.

I can donate today!

But first there's more waiting to be done. And then some more. And then they can't find a vein. Finally, I'm all hooked up, and after, when it's juice and cookie time, I'm more than ready.

It's probably been four hours since lunch, but I'm feeling pretty good, filling out their how'd-we-treat-you survey and nibbling on a heart-shaped goodie. And then the poor guy beside me drops his pencil, says he's a little woozy. I inch away from him, like it's catchy or something. I try not to look. I feel sweaty.

I'm flat on the floor, feet dangling over my up-ended chair, a face I don't recognize telling me it's okay, telling me to keep my eyes open, telling me to breathe.

Turns out, wooziness is catchy.

Ice behind my neck, can't stop shaking, three quilts piled on my lap. People staring, pretending not to, pretending this is normal. The volunteers give me a special t-shirt, and give one to my faint-mate, too. Extra-large. Scratchy. Every Drop Counts, it reads. Get it? They smile, fake laugh, pat my arm. They call my husband at work, and he comes and collects me, as if he's bundled me home many times before. Only he hasn't.

It's been a dozen years since I've passed out in public, damn it, and this feels like a fall from grace. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

My husband helps me get settled on the sofa. He brings me ginger ale and pecans, props my feet up on the coffee table, kisses my forehead. He calls me spaz and it sounds like sweetheart; he tells me to stop apologizing. Later, we juggle the cars.

In the morning I find a box of Godiva chocolates on the counter, a big one with gold wrapping, and a yellow sticky note, black ballpoint scrawl already blurring. I can read it through my tears, though; I could read it with my eyes closed. I love you, it says. Always. He is a good man, my husband. I know this already, but this morning my heart aches with the knowing.

Today is Valentine's Day, and it's like falling all over again, only this time, my feet never leave the ground.

Copyright 2003 by A. Leigh Jones

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