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FacebookWay back when–a long time ago in the year 2000–I signed up to be a bone marrow donor. Not because I wanted to. Not because it was the right thing to do. Nope. I did it for free baseball tickets. I remember the day quite vividly. It was an August (or maybe September) and I was at a carnival or festival, or maybe the Orange County Fair (maybe I don’t remember it as vividly as I thought). Anywhos, I was there with my buddy, El Diablo, and we saw a booth giving away free Angel tickets. All we had to do was give a tiny prick of blood. They would put us on the bone marrow donor list and we could each score four free tickets. Seemed fair enough. Heck, seemed more than fair. With eight tickets and only two asses, we figure we could sell the remaining six tickets for $10 a pop and make 60 bucks off the deal.
“It’s not like we actually hafta give them anything,” El Diablo pointed out. He was right. I had no intention of ever “donating” my marrow. I knew little about it other than they had to drill into your hip to get it, and there was no way I was doing that (the only time I ever donated blood I blacked out). Besides, I figured it was my marrow and I’m awful possessive of my stuff.
El Diablo and I got our tickets, enjoyed the game, and pocketed $40 (we were only able to sell four of the tickets since the Angels stunk back then–I should have known there was a reason they were giving away tickets). I hadn’t thought much about it since (or at all).
Last week I received a letter via snail mail from a marrow monger. According to the letter my marrow is a match for a 13-year old girl and they wanted me to come in for further testing. The Wife seemed pretty surprised by this–utterly shocked that I would have taken the time to sign up for anything, let alone a good cause that might actually help someone (when I said “free baseball tickets” she understood–in my life, it pretty much always comes down to baseball). I gotta admit: I was quite surprised they found me. The day I tested was more than ten years ago–it was three homes and two countries ago: I got no clue how they found my current address.
I wasn’t sure what to think. On the one hand, I could help someone in need. On the other, I really didn’t want to. And since my life is defined by things I don’t want to do, donating marrow wasn’t something I looked forward to. So like I do with all things I don’t want to deal with, I ignored it.
Two days later I get a phone call from my mom. Apparently the marrow monger called her house multiple times (which wouldn’t be surprising because that’s where I did live when I signed up). My mom asked what I was going to do, and I told her that I really didn’t want to deal with it. I knew very little about donating other than the hip thing. I imagined it would mean multiple trips to the doc and maybe an overnight stay in the hospital. After my last ordeal in the hospital (ya know, when they tried to kill me), I’d rather spend a Super Bowl Sunday shopping at Ikea than overnight at a hospital. Plus I’m going through a difficult time in my life. My job situation is very fluid. I have little to no money. There is a tremendous amount of stress going on in my personal life. The last thing I need was another thing to do, worry about, or aggravation to my body.
“You probably shouldn’t do it,” my mom said. “Not with what you’re going though right now. But you should at least call the hospital so they can at least try to find another match.”
She was probably right. I thought about it and she made some excellent points. I’m in a bad place right now. It’s going to get better–I’m sure it is–but right now I need less chaos. I don’t sleep much anymore. The stress of my financial situation keeps me awake. I’m tired because of work. I feel very not happy. When I had my tonsils removed I was completely outta whack for almost two weeks. I really didn’t need an invasive procedure that could suck up the little energy I have going for me.
I did a quick Google search on my phone. The donor process looked even more complicated than I feared. The hip thing was true. It was going to take 30-40 hours of my time. Plus the numerous trips to the doctor. I’m working now, but it’s not like I get sick time: if I missed work I wasn’t going to get paid. All-in-all it seemed like a lot of hassle to me. This was not something I wanted to do and, deep down I knew what my decision was.
When I called the marrow monger she seemed very glad I called. Heck, all I had to do was say my first name and her voice immediately beamed. She told me that she was glad I called because she was trying desperately to find me.
“I called your emergency contact listed on the form many times: did El Diablo tell you to call me?”
I paused. “No, El Diablo is dead. He died a couple years ago.”
She gave me her condolences, and told me to apologize to his family for calling so much.
“I even tried looking you up on Facebook. I found a page for you, but the person in the picture doesn’t fit your profile.” I should hope not. My current Facebook picture is a handsome black man. I decided a long time ago no one is using the internet to hunt me down.
I suppose her detective work has little to do with the story–other than to say she looked for me high and low. The point is I’m going to do it. I knew this before I called her. I think I probably knew it when I first got the letter. Yes, it is a major inconvenience for me. Yes, it’s going to cost me money out of my pocket. There’s a strong chance I might even have to miss a softball game. But none of that really matters. We’re talking about a person’s life. What kind of sick, screwed up person would I be if I let someone die because I don’t want to deal with any of those things? I’m an a big of a jerk–I can admit it. I’m a very selfish individual and my best interests are my only interest. But this is someone’s life. If I don’t do it, it’s like pulling the trigger myself (to quote Deputy Dwayne T. Robinson). I have an opportunity to save a life. If I’m not saving a life I’m taking a life–and I couldn’t live with myself if I did that. I know I’m not the kind of person who could take a life. Sure, I’m pro-death penalty and pro-abortion–but it’s not like I’m the one doing the killing. I’m completely apathetic to any news of death on the television (I laughed last week when I heard a story about a woman who fell to her death off the Queen Mary and still get a chuckle about the model who walked into a propeller). But I can do that because it doesn’t involve me. Whether I care or not–whether I laugh or not–it doesn’t make any difference at all. I had no control over their fate. When some dumbass teenagers die because they were participating in some seatbelt-less street racing, I can take enjoyment in knowing they probably deserved it for being dumbasses: I can do that because my feelings don’t change the outcome. Some might call in heartless; I see it as…well, irrelevant. What I do, say or feel means nothing.
But not in this case. I can’t distance myself from it because I am a part of it–a big part of it. Without me, she dies. Maybe they find another donor; maybe not. But I can do something about it. It really was an easy decision. Now I can save a life. All for free baseball tickets.
Makes me wonder what I could get for my kidney