Blood for Life: Whose Life?

I must have given blood in high school; then it had benefits like blood tonic, glucose drink etc to help you regain energy. But, with the moral panic created by hiv/aids (we really should write this in small case and stop magnifying it); I drew back from reading through let alone acting on information that has to do with blood donation.

Since I got into the US, the consciousness of war around the globe has made me feel guilty about turning a deaf ear to information about blood drive. So, I made a mental note to give blood and renew the courage to do it again.

When I rushed into the Shafer Street office of OUCU, I had just fifteen minutes to spare. When I entered the room with one person on the stretcher and two others waiting I scarcely noticed the skin color that adorned the room. I asked how long it would take and I was told thirty minutes to which I responded “Oh no, I don’t have that much time.”

Little did I know that I was saving my own life; I did not realize that giving blood would have drained my energy and I may not have had enough strength to drive down to Albany. A friend from the Caribbean later narrated how she collapsed after running a short distance to catch a bus just after giving blood. Another colleague had passed out after giving blood a day or two after her menstrual cycle. Such seemingly flimsy detail like “You can’t drive or run after giving blood” should be included in the information packet.

I carried the guilt as I drove to Albany. “So you are too busy to save life”, “You can only rush to keep appointments because you are alive, why not share life with others”. These thoughts compelled me not to miss the next opportunity. And it came soon enough.

I walked by the Help Desk at Alden Library and saw a notice. “I have a meeting but this is very important” was the note I made on the flier. As I left my meeting to make it in time to register at the mobile station, nothing prepared me for what went on.

I was greeted and offered a seat. Five minutes later a folder containing information was handed to me. While I was at it, a guy in a white overall came in with four people and led two into the computer cubicles. The lady who gave me the folder challenged him but he explained that they had been waiting too – Where? How? When? I was going to rush through the information to stop him from getting the other two ahead of me but since I was hitherto skeptical about giving blood, I tried to read as much detail.

He tried to be friendly asking about my day to which I responded dryly “good”. As he led me into the computer room, he asked again about my day and then asked if I have ever used a computer before. The gaze I turned on him made him re-phrase “Well, all the questions are on the computer and…” “I have” was my solemn response. I really felt like saying, you just viewed my identity card and common sense should tell you that I needed to have used a computer to be a student in a graduate school in an American university! He left after saying I should holler at him should I run into problems navigating.

The questions started out without suspicion but when I started seeing questions like “Have you ever had sexual contact with an African?” “Have you ever lived in Africa? I repositioned myself for the next line of questions which included questions on diseases. At that moment, I see sey yanga don wake trouble wey lie down (I realized I have woken a sleeping dog) but I went ahead to complete the questionnaire. I hollered at him to tell him I was done and he asked if I understood all the questions. So silly, I thought, even a middle school child will. Aren’t questionnaires of such import framed to be free of ambiguity?

He went ahead to ask, “You answered yes to living in Africa, where and for how long”, “Sure, my home country, Nigeria, I’ve lived there my entire life; my study here is the longest time I’ve been away.” To that he said; “I’m sorry, you will not be allowed to give blood”. To add salt to injury, he printed the questionnaire and asked me to sign. “For what?” I asked “That you know and understand why you are being disallowed from giving blood.” “No, I don’t.” I insisted I wasn’t comfortable with signing unless he showed me where it is clearly stated that Africans are ineligible. He did not.

Those who have visited some countries around a certain period were listed as ineligible but Nigeria was not listed. I answered “No” to all the diseases; my being from Africa seems to be the only reason my gift was unacceptable. Why make me waste my time and dribble me with questions when a simple “Caution: Africans are not eligible” could have saved me the time and trauma of finding out that not only am I ruled out, everyone that has lived on my side of the divide and may have had sexual contact with people from there, is ineligible to save life.

With all the effort put into breaking boundaries and building bridges; Red Cross, those who represent her and those with similar initiatives should not leave people doubtful of their intention. As a young girl, I was a member of Red Cross and I obtained a First Aid Certificate, yet, down the line, the color of my skin and my association becomes a deciding factor in my participation.

The question on my mind as I left the mobile station with the free ticket handed over to me in appreciation (of wasting my time) is which blood bank caters to the need of Africans. If Americans are prevented from receiving blood of Africans, I would think that Africans are also prevented from receiving blood of Americans. In the end whose lives are being saved by the periodic blood drive. Whose life?