The blood-drive story

My son called me Friday at work, asking to forge my signature on a permission form for the blood drive, going on that minute. In the few weeks before I was kicked out of my law class, I learned that signing someone’s name with permission — and a witness to the permission giving — is not forgery. I gave him my grace by speaker phone and had done with it.

Naturally, I have a story about giving blood.

I’m afraid of needles, and have been delighted always to be ineligible to participate. You have to weigh at least 115 pounds and not be pregnant.

One evening I came home with a Band-Aid on my krelbow. Fun fact: The word ‘krelbow’ is the word in my house for the inner elbow. I came home to Boulder from a visit with my family in California showing off this new term. My husband, who taught anatomy at the time, laughed at me. ‘Where did you get that?’ I learned it playing Scrabble with  my aunties. ‘How much is the K worth?’ I was suckered, but my pride demands I continue using the word.

My husband pointed at the Band-Aid and raised his eyebrows.

“I gave blood today.” The blood bank used to hold drives every season in the conference room when I worked at the paper.

“Sure you did.”

I did. I lied about my weight, because I wanted the free booklight. Also the cookies were chocolate chip.

My husband shook his head chucklingly. “And how did it go?”

After some sadist with gel in his hair took the needle out, I stood up and swooned. They made me lie down for a half hour with cookies and my novel. I liked that part.

Imagine, after all I went through, my husband having the nerve to tell me the booklight was too bright.

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7 Responses to “The blood-drive story”

  1. Mike Houser Says:

    good one.

  2. Wizzæ Says:

    But if it isn’t bright enough, then you can’t read!

  3. Julia G. Says:

    Im so mad!
    My mom wouldn’t let me forge her signature to do the blood drive… 😦

  4. T. Says:

    I must tell you that my children each had the same reaction when they read this story:
    “Krelbow” isn’t a real word?

  5. My husband talked in his sleep « Stories O’ Mine Says:

    […] By T. The smallest bit of light or noise torments my husband when he’s sleeping. If I put my book light on, he puts a pillow over his face, then crosses his arms over it to press it into his […]

  6. My husband talked in his sleep « Stories O' Mine Says:

    […] By T. The smallest bit of light or noise torments my husband when he’s sleeping. If I put my book light on, he puts a pillow over his face, then crosses his arms over it to press it into his […]

  7. The carpet tack story « Stories O' Mine Says:

    […] This is when I began to consider what would happen when I finally saw a doctor. He was going to want to stitch me with a needle. […]

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