Blood, It’s in you to Live.

This summer, I went to donate blood for the first time. In my mind, this was a way to get some free cookies while making sure I didn’t have AIDS—the donation part was a positive after effect. I half convinced myself I was ready to donate, though I made a few critical errors in my preparation.

 

It was another August day dubbed a ‘heat warning ‘ and I’d been at the beach all afternoon and did not stay adequately hydrated or nourished. So I walked into the donation clinic with my pink flamingo swim trunks and a sunburnt face to match. I went through the questionnaire, answering “no” to questions like, “Do you do cocaine or butt sex?” Though I’m sure they were more elegantly stated. I was given a sticker to wear that said, “Be nice to me, it’s my first time.” Like every dude before me, I thought about making the joke about wishing I had this sticker when I lost my virginity, but I decided against it as it was low-hanging fruit, and I’m better than that—sometimes.

 

I made it through the initial testing and got hooked up with an IV and a collection bag. The blood started to flow but the lady couldn’t quite figure out my pressure cuff so she called for backup. The two of them eventually got it figured out and gave me a stress ball to squeeze to help the blood flow. If that last sentence made you uneasy, then you’re like me. It was soon after squeezing this ball that my vision started to fade and my head got light.

“How are you doing?” the lady asked me.

“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” I said, which she knew right away meant, I’m going to pass out within ten seconds. I’m sure she’s heard that exact phrase countless time by sissy men trying to play it cool.

 

“We’re going to stop it right there,” she said.

She unhooked me and my arms began vibrating. She placed cold, damp towels on my forehead and behind my neck and flipped my chair back so my head was lower than my feet. I was given an apple juice and some bits and bites. In my purgatory state of consciousness, I caught a glimpse of two old ladies on chairs beside me, having a good ol’ laugh.

 

“So will we see you back again?” asked one of the old ladies as she turned toward her friend and laughed some more.

Before I could get a chance to respond she continued.

“This is my sixty-third time donating.”

Big fucking whoop, lady. You’re as old as the sun, I thought.

She continued, “It’s always the big, strong guys who come in acting tough who end up fainting.”

Ok, lady, let’s get it right. Number one, I didn’t faint. And number two, I’m not a big tough guy. But she wouldn’t stop talking.

“The wives come in with their husbands and the husband passes out and the wife is like, ‘I married a wuss!’” She looks at me again, “I’m not saying you’re a wuss…welllll.”

 

So after a few minutes, I took what was left of my pride to the break area, grabbed a couple of Oreos and hit the road. Some days you’re riding high, other days you’re being laughed at by old ladies. Life’s a motherfucker.

 

Image: https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/healthy-living/blood-organ-tissue-donation.html

The Pyjama Pants Story

This has been one of those posts where I start a sentence, delete it all, and start again. This week has kind of been like that. It feels like I’m stuck in the mud and the wheels keep spinning but I’m not getting anywhere. I’m not going to rant and complain anymore than I just have because that’s not what this blog is about. The whole idea for Peace of the Shore started as a hub for my sea glass crafts, but over the course of the year it’s evolved into something a little more. I see no need to halt the evolution just because it doesn’t fit the initial mold. Let it grow, baby, let it grow.

So what I have on my hands is now a hub to work out ideas, share any insights and stories, and ultimately bring peace through creation, reflection, and contemplation. No, I’ve never taken a philosophy course but I have lived up until now. So this post is my attempt to get a little traction and get past this writer’s block. Though ‘block’ feels like an understatement; right now it’s more like a writer’s subdivision and everybody’s on vacation.

This week I’m going to share a story…A story I’ve told to friends…A story as clear in my mind now as the day that it happened.

 

The Pyjama Pants Story:

It was a snowy January evening on Brackley Point Road. I was fifteen. Dad was in the kitchen making ham and scallop potatoes. I was down in my room, flexing in the mirror or spraying axe body spray (or whatever else insecure fifteen-year-old boys do). Regardless, I could definitely count my chest hairs on two hands. As I looked in the mirror and challenged my reflection, “what you got?”, Dad shouted down for me to come upstairs.                                                                                                                                                                  “I need you to go to Needs to get some milk for the potatoes,” he said.

We lived right across the street from the convenience store, which made the name all the more appropriate. I was wearing my Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon pyjamas and didn’t feel the need to change into pants just to go across the street. So I put on my jacket and jogged across the snowy street towards Need’s convenience store.

The flurries were illuminated by the streetlights on Brackley Point Road, and the buzzing convenience store porch light lit up the steps where I noticed three girls and one guy out having a smoke. They looked to be a couple of years older than me, so I continued my jog up the ramp beside them to keep out of their way. Something I didn’t take into consideration was the ice underneath the snowy ramp, so when I got about three quarters of the way to the top, I slipped and had a good fall. I landed on my back, and though I was fine physically, I was frozen with embarrassment. That being said, I contemplated staying down. I don’t know why I thought to do it but I just lied there, unsure if I should fake an injury. Anyway, due to my contemplation, I just ended up laying there for an uncomfortable amount of time when all of a sudden I heard one of the girls yell out, “OH MY GOD!” Laughter ensued and I thought to myself, This can’t be right. I’m supposedly hurt, why are they laughing? I lifted my head off of the snowy ramp to see the faces of those laughing at an allegedly injured boy. But when I lifted my head I saw something much, much worse. My penis.

That’s right, my member had come through that useless front flap of my black Pink Floyd pyjamas and the brisk January wind was far from kind. I gasped as my body commanded: “All digits not in use, retreat at once!” Fifteen-year-old me was petrified that anyone had seen it, let alone under these conditions. I was too shaken to think of George Costanza screaming, “I was in the pool,” but I sure can relate to it now. Through all of the terror, I managed to scramble my penis back into my pyjamas and started running back down the ramp, only to slip and fall again. There was no playing hurt this time. I ran back across the street and around the neighbourhood and came home through the backyard hoping none of the step-smokers noticed my entry through the back door.

I opened the door and Dad said, “Where’s the milk?” Now it’s a little foggy but I think I said something along the lines of, “Couldn’t get milk, send Hannah (my sister) for milk.” (The shock has caused some partial memory loss after the experience). For whatever reason, Dad didn’t question me and just asked Hannah to get the milk.

I don’t remember how much ham and potatoes I ate that night but I never brought up the story until several years later. I’ve since told a few people the tale and have seen their tears from painful laughing. I’m forever grateful for the passage of time, and forever skeptical of pyjamas with the front flap.

 

• Max Koughan