A Morning's Bloodletting

A quick story, to illustrate my remarkable lack of fondness for needles:

During my senior year of high school, there was a measles outbreak.  Or mumps.  Whatever.  Since I've never had measles or mumps or chicken pox or any of that, I was one of the students required to get reinoculated, or I wouldn't be allowed back into classes or any school activities.  And as one of the leads in a show about to go off and compete in one of the Florida Thespian conferences, I absolutely had to get cleared of this silliness as fast as possible.  My friend Krys was in a similar boat--and she disliked needles just as much as I did.  Shots were being offered at a nearby school, so off we went together, both doing a fine job of revving each other into a fine state of outright phobia.  Rehearsal for my show was already underway, and I was missing it.

We reach the school, and there's a line stretching outside and around, at least 200 people waiting for shots.  Claiming desperate need, and pulling Krys behind me, I cut in front of almost all those hundreds of people, which did not go over well, and soon enough was in the auditorium watching the nurse stick a needle into the arm of a toddler.  The toddler shrieked.  Krys and I went very, very pale, and I'm gonna say she grabbed my hand but it could just as easily have been the other way round.

I'm male, so I go first.  The swab of alcohol.  I turn my head away.  There is the slightest sensation, then I'm being bandaged up.  Stunned, I turn to the nurse.  "Wait, that's it?  No, that can't....  Do it again."

Krys of course thinks I'm just lying in order to make her feel better, which makes her feel worse.  She sits, she gets swabbed, she grips my hand with bone-crushing strength, the nurse does the injection, and Krys turns to her, aghast, and says "No, come on, that's not--do that again."

So no.  I do not like needles.  And over the years I've had various opportunities to donate blood, but never have.  I mastered several excuses and used them all, repeatedly.  When I moved to L.A., I happened to select an apartment that is, literally, a stone's throw from a Red Cross station, yet I never wandered over to donate.  Even after September 11th, when the need was clear and overwhelming, I knew I should donate but did not, and that time in particular, it bothered me a lot.

But I've been considering lately the importance of giving, just giving for its own sake without expectation of return.  (I suppose you might call it a faint glimmering of something resembling maturity, all these many years in.)  So I decided to donate at last, went on the Red Cross's website, and set up an appointment for Saturday morning.  (This was, by the way, a couple days before the earthquake in Japan.  I really did decide because I decided, not because of an external event that shamed me into it.  I shamed myself just fine, thank you.)

Turns out there was some sort of event going on that day, so there were volunteers on the road putting up signs, barriers and balloons.  Tables set up out front of the Red Cross station offering raffle tickets and first-aid kits, and a black-draped booth whose purpose I wouldn't learn till a little later.  I found the room, carefully did not look at the people in the big chairs with blood draining out of them, filled out some paperwork, was given a pamphlet to read that I'd already read online, and sat down to wait.

This is Los Angeles, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when a celebrity walked in, but suddenly there was Jamie Lee Curtis, who it turns out is one of the Red Cross's celebrity spokespersons and who'd decided to just wander in that morning and donate again.  Which meant of course that a Red Cross photographer soon showed up to document the occasion.  (Ms. Curtis blogged about it on the Huffington Post here.)  She was very nice, we had a little conversation after I was handed a button reading "It's My First Time," discussing where the blood might go and how, even though it almost certainly wouldn't go to Japan, it could very well free up resources that in turn help the Japanese.  And then my name was called, and in I went for the pre-bloodletting interview.  No turning back now, not with Jamie Lee Curtis from Fish Called Wanda staring, oh hell no.

I was mildly bothered by the assertion that if I had ever in my life had sex with one male partner I would be put on a list and my blood probably wouldn't be used--particularly since they routinely test the blood for HIV anyway--but neither that nor any other question barred me from participating, and soon enough I was in one of those big chairs as the very nice nurse--who does this twenty times a day, every day--did her level best to put me at ease while swabbing me with iodine.

I was next to a window, and peered out.  To discover that the big black-draped booth was for a puppet show.  Elmo, the Count, several of the Henson muppets, and I happened to be situated behind them so that I could watch the volunteers muppeteers at work, scripts in one hand, muppets on the other, crouching and dancing around each other, swapping muppets as fast as they could, great big smiles on their faces, having a fabulous time.  Almost time for a very large needle to get jabbed into my arm.

At this point my friend Tonyalyn sends me a text about something or other.  So I respond to it then tell her where I am.  She, only five feet tall in her bare feet, texts back that the last time she tried to donate they told her she didn't weigh enough.  So as the needle goes in, I am now marvelously distracted: muppets performing over there, and over here I've got Tonyalyn texting me, saying "bet I could give now!! ;)"

Which is of course brilliant in its own way, since it's impossible to respond to.  Do I say "Yes, I believe you have gained so much weight [a bad thing] that you could now give blood [a good thing]," or do I say "Nonsense, whatever weight you might have gained is so negligible [a good--and true--thing] that I'm sure they still would not let you donate blood [a bad thing]"?  I just stared at the text for a while, marveling at it, and barely noticed that a pint of blood was draining away from me.  I sent off something like "noticeable lack of comment," watched the Muppets for a little while, did a Facebook status update from the chair, and that was it, it was all over.  I'd barely noticed a thing.

One little surprise, though.  Because it was my first time, there would be some bonus bloodletting!  Four tubes that had to be filled in order to test my blood type and other such purposes.  "Shall we draw from your other arm?" the nurse asked.  So they moved me to a different chair where I could no longer see the Muppets, they stuck me again, and this time I felt it more because even though it was a smaller needle, it was necessarily jiggling around a little as they attached and detached all those vials.  Plus, you know--I couldn't see the Muppets anymore, and Tonyalyn wasn't texting me anymore.  Which just left me, the nurse, and the needle.

But having done it, I'll never have to do that part again.  And I'm finding that I'm now really psyched about donating blood.  Giving without expectation of return proves, once again, that in fact there are enormous returns.  Pride in oneself for having done an absolute good, that's pretty potent.  And it beats the crap out of the shame felt for not donating after September 11th.  The nurses are brilliant at what they do, the blood could very well save a life somewhere down the road, there is absolutely nothing about the experience that should keep anyone away for any reason, even if that person is needlephobic like me.  They won't let you donate for two months after you've given blood.  I suspect I'll be in there again, not long after those two months have run.  I'm even thinking how great it might be to become one of those cheerful volunteers outside.  After all, I've never worked a Muppet before, and a volunteer job that lets you save a life with a Muppet on your hand?

Priceless.

Naming Names

Was watching a movie last night--A Single Man, which features Colin Firth's previous Oscar-nominated role. (And for my money, a subtler, richer and deeper performance than the excellent one he just got the award for.)  I liked the movie, and after it was over, as the end credits rolled, for whatever reason I sat there and watched all those names roll by.

Now bear in mind--I'm in the business, I actually know what all those people do, I know how valuable their work is, and sometimes I even know some of the people whose names scroll by five minutes in.  But even I don't generally sit and watch all the credits, for all the obvious reasons.  Last night, though, I had the impulse to give those names their due, so I did.

I'm not suggesting we should all do the same thing all the time.  But every now and then.  Be that person still sitting in the darkened theater while everyone else files out, from time to time.  Give all those names their due.  Because when they say that movies are a collaborative medium, man, they're not kidding.  It really does take all those hands to make the final product that gets on the screen, and they're all people who worked hard and they deserve to have their names up there--even if does extend the running time of a movie by another six minutes or whatever.

One argument against having all those names up there is, Why should these movie people get their names up there when, f'r instance, the people who make cars don't get to put their names on their product?

And I think that's an excellent question.  Why don't they?  When you see one of those labels that says Such-and-Such was reviewed by Inspector #32, don't you wonder who that is?  And what sort of day they were having when they inspected your This-or-That?  Movies are one of the great American exports--they're also a rare exception in American industry where the company gets its name on the product, but so do all the craftsmen who contributed to that product.  Is it too much of a stretch to suggest that the pride generated by such recognition is part of why the product is in such demand around the world?

Imagine if every car had a plate in it somewhere--like the one telling you what tire pressure you need--with a list of the workers who assembled that car?  The writing would be pretty tiny, and most people would never look at it, but so what?  A key grip watching a movie he worked on, he still sits in the theater as the others leave, and he sees his name roll across, and yeah he feels proud about what he did and it makes him a better key grip when he goes back to work.

Strictly speaking, none of us should need that.  The work should be its own reward.  The paycheck should also be its own reward.  Is it not best to do good work for its own sake?  Of course it should.  And of course almost none of us are so enlightened.  When I sat in a theater, surrounded by strangers, and watched my name roll across a screen for the first time, that was a truly great moment in my life.  I remember it often--and as we gear up for the next movie (casting director hired, some interesting names begin to circle), I stop every now and then, and remember the sight of my name in the credits, and I know it'll be there again and that I need to do a really great job because that's my name up there.

Here's a thought: once a year, each of the Detroit carmakers creates one special-edition car.  With all the bells and whistles, the best car they make--but on this one vehicle, each part is etched with the name of the person who made it.  Then they can either auction it off, with money going to the workers' pension funds, or they can simply hold a sweepstakes where one of the listed workers gets to drive off in that car.  It'd probably be one of the most popular things they do every year--and I'll bet those vehicles would become highly sought-after collector's items.

Any manufacturer could do something like that.  A little slip of paper in the box, telling us not just that Inspector #32 is named Marisol, or Joe, or whatever, but that 13 other people actually made the thing you just bought, and here are their names.  I wouldn't read that slip of paper every time, but sometimes I would.  Giving honor where due, and credit where due.  And I'll bet the thing I bought has a slightly better chance of being of good quality because the people who made it knew--those are their names on there.