Shortly
after my Grandma died, my Grandpa got a new "job" {aka a calling} at
church as the stake blood drive coordinator.
Well, he suckered me into signing up for his
stake's blood drive so he could be done with filling donor slots. But
after poking around for a vein in both arms - multiple times - and 45 minutes of squeezing
those little stress balls later, and I still hadn't filled
up my bag! I was sick to my stomach and dizzy. The poor phlebotomists
were trying everything they could think of to get me to bleed {heat pads on my arms, more stress ball squeezing, tapping my arms} but they
finally gave up. I was in tears telling them my Grandpa needed me to do
this! They kept telling me it was ok, but I was so upset that I couldn't help my Grandpa {grief does weird things to you sometimes}.
So every time I donate blood I think of my Grandpa and say a silent
prayer that today I'll be a good bleeder. Today was a good bleeder day!
