Recently, I dug a stack of yellowing Brahma Tales, the newspaper of San Antonio’s Douglas Macarthur High School from a dusty box in my basement. I wanted to see how my work as a lawyer-blogger compared to the news and sports stories, editorials, and features of my high school days. Should I be pleased or embarrassed that over 35 years the addition of hyperlinks seems the most obvious change in my writing?
Judge for yourself. Here, without any editing, as much as it pained me not to edit it (but I did add hyperlinks), is an article published in November 1975, the fall of my senior year, about my experience as a first-time blood donor. I’ve since given blood many times (and not passed out, even once); it really is the easiest way to save a life. In Denver, Bonfils Blood Centers and The Children’s Hospital are two great organizations that will help you be a hero.
Thanks again for reading.
Blood drive brings out “hero” in Jim Thomas
by Jim Thomas
Why can’t I live a normal life? I mean why do I get these Walter Mitty urges to do things above and beyond the call of duty; death defying acts—like giving blood.
When the great humanitarian in me learned about the November 6 blood drive I should have realized I was in trouble.
I might have heard my mother ask me if I knew what I was doing if I wasn’t watching a three time repeat of Hogan’s Heroes.
But it was too late when sixth period rolled around and my pass came for me to go to the auditorium. The horrible truth hit me. They wanted my blood.
Feeling the need for some moral support, I asked some of my fellow Brahma Tales staff members if they would go with me.
“In there?” they asked, their faces turning green, “Well uh, we got stories to do.”
So to the auditorium I went…alone…the long way.
Through the half open door I saw a scene that reminded me of something out of Dr. Phibes.
I told myself there was no reason to be paranoid, just then I got the stabbing pain in my arm.
As I was seating myself with some other victims, a man, who to my horror looked just like Bella Lugosi, greeted the small group.
He whipped out a small form and started ambling off a list of questions that sounded like part of the Spanish Inquisition.
“Ever have Brucellosis” my interrogator asked. I wasn’t sure if that fit in with chicken pox and measles so I asked what it was.
“You get it from messing around with cows,” he replied.
I told him I didn’t think so.
As he tested my blood for iron I remembered the savage way my Biology teacher sadistically stabbed my finger for a blood test my sophomore year.
At this point a tremendous crash and thud resounded through the auditorium. I looked up on stage, where a donor lay prone on the floor where he had just passed out.
I’ve got to get out of this place, I thought.
No such luck. I was led through a maze where students were lying quietly bleeding to death, my somewhat immature mind added.
The moment had come. Hypnotized, I watched an attendant plunge what resembled an embalmer’s needled into my arm.
I was almost proud as I watched the blood seep through the tube and into the bag, sloshing around like luke-warm black cherry jello.
I was thinking how I was going to be a big hero with my little sisters when a girl asked me why my arm was shaking – there went my hero image.
It was over faster than I thought; I was almost ready to give another pint, but instead I carefully walked over to the refreshment area.
The pride I was feeling about having had no bad effects from what I considered to be a major operation quickly vanished when my fingers stopped responding to my nervous impulses (I lost the coordination in my hands) and dropped my cookies on the floor.
To add to my embarrassment a woman asked me if I was feeling all right.
Sure, never better, I said. But she didn’t seem to believe me because she repeated her question.
I was about to tell her that I felt a little hot, when she told me that the auditorium was too cold for the people who were giving blood.
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| No, that's not me in the picture. I must have been too pale to photograph. |
So instead I asked about people fainting from giving blood. She said that two guys about my size had passed out.
I must have looked pale because she asked me if I was feeling well.
“Maybe” I mumbled and then decided it was time to get back to Journalism.
This post is dedicated to Susan Kemp, my Journalism teacher during my sophomore and junior years at Mac. Not only did she help me believe in my writing, she helped me believe in me.
You were already a writer way back then! One question: why did you know what an embalmer's needle looked like? I'm not sure I have any idea what one looks like to this day.
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