I gave blood earlier this week. Not that I missed it afterwards; life continued as normal. 'This gives me a free-pass on housework for the next six months, doesn't it?' I said to the Donor Carer who was attending to me. She was not sympathetic, but it was worth a try.
The actual donation took about eight minutes; the health checks, identity checks, waiting, etc took up the rest of the hour. I wish I'd signed on to donating earlier- I was in my forties when I began, and want to get to fifty donations (just two needed to reach this point) before I think I may retire; age brings complications.
For those within the faith, it's not so big a leap of the imagination to go from blood to the wine in the chalice at Holy Communion. The wine is meant to bring to mind the blood of Christ, shed on the cross. A sip of the wine is life-giving to me, at the cost of the life draining from the crucified Christ.
I've booked my next blood donation appointment for about twelve weeks' time. I should reach my fifty donations by the end of the year, all things being equal. I only wish that there was the same certainty about holy communion. These covid-months are the longest time I have not taken the life-giving elements. I feel the life draining out of me. But today a local church where I help has decided to open for Easter. A booking, as it were, for a transfusion of life.
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