Several years ago, when I was in high school, I tried to donate blood. The outcome of that effort was unpleasant and I was told that if they gave someone my blood it could kill them. I was traumatized. I was 17 and a little overly dramatic. I walked away with my stuffy nose, a piddly little sticker that said, "I tried" and a story that I have been telling for years. A few weeks ago at church a biannual blood drive was announced. I leaned over to the lady next to me to relate the traumatic story of my youth. She sympathized. I again felt validated in my noble effort as a young girl.
That night Earl and I were watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. A show that normally brings me to tears was gut-wrenching this night. The young girl of the family depends on blood transfusions every two-three weeks in order to live. I was brought to tears and realized that it was time to let go of my story, suck it up, and try again.
I signed up for the blood drive and forgot about it until the day before when I was called and reminded. I thought, "Wow, I'm actually going to do this." When I got there I kept waiting for them to tell me that my iron level was to low or something strange like I lived too close to Canada (there were some really intenese questions about going to Mexico or being with anyone from Africa), but I actually passed all the screening. I was finally able tonight to give blood for the first time. I am grateful for the opportunity that I had to help others and so thankful that I now have a better story to tell. 
