The tale of my attempts to save the world through blood-donation is a long one, fraught with mishap and despair. Actually, the first time I ever gave blood, the only despair it was fraught withal was “despair of having a nice pretty arm for the next 3 weeks”, and all the mishaps devolved on my friend Spunkmeyer, who gave blood despite being borderline on the weight requirement, and ended up fainting twice and giving up her cookies three times.

Since that time (1999) my fine O+ blood has graced no greedy bags. On September 11th, I joined a non-merry crew of people trying to do something more constructive than morbidly eyeing the television, and trooped all over the Case area searching for a willing phlebotomist. Despite the high number of hospitals in the area, no one wanted our blood. Sometime later that fall, I stopped by a drive at the Campus Hillel - during Finals Week, I think - and, after waiting and filling out forms, was told I was borderline anemic. I guess skipping breakfast and turning your nose up at cafeteria meat isn’t the healthy person’s choice.

But recently I heard that the Oregon Red Cross was hurting (they are doing much better this week), so I decided it was time to try again. I’d really like to be a regular donor. After all, as soon as [It will be a pirate ship. With red sails. And a pony.|text|my ship comes in], I will travel a great deal and become ineligible. I made an appointment and set out, trusty Yahoo Map in hand, after work yesterday. The only year-round place to give blood in these parts is just over the Willamette in NE Portland.

The Map informed me that Macadam becomes Kelly becomes Arthur becomes 3rd becomes Caruthers becomes 6th becomes 26 W becomes 405 N, and that I should care. “I will follow the 405 N signs,” I informed the map. I soon swooped onto 26 W, and tried to do the two consecutive merges that would preserve my self-determinism. But the cretinous truck drivers of the world had other plans, and I found myself rudely ejected on 12th. “This does not bode well,” quoth I. “26 West!” quoth the map in alarm. “Yeah, yeah,” I replied, and made my way through the heavy traffic back to 6th. I merged left once! I merged left twice! I merged left chicken soup with rice! Or not, but at any rate, soon I was on 405, and the map directed me to go 3.2 miles on said marvel of engineering before turning left on Cook Street.

“Turn left? Turn left off a freeway? No exit?” “Turn left. Cook Street!” the map said smugly. I scanned the horizons for signs of Cook Street. Instead, I saw signs of a fork in the freeway.

I clutched the unfortunate map by the midsection. “Interstate 5? Highway 30? You been holdin’ out on me, Yahoo?”

“Cook Street!” it gasped in defiance. Disgusted, I let it flit back to its seat. Most people were veering right. I hoped Cook Street was popular, and followed the flow down I5. Immediately, my O+ pump sank. I had been here before. Somehow, whenever Matt and I get lost in Portland, we end up here. If I didn’t take the first exit, I’d be headed north until I found a hotel for the night in Olympia. I took the first exit. I ignored the anguished howls of the map, turned around in front of a run-down pub, and headed south on I5.

“Right! This time, I will miss…no…EXITS!” I plunged back onto the bridge. There simply were no exits to miss. “Fine! Fine!” I navigated around a bit and got back on 405 North. “This time I’m just getting off in East Portland!” I noted the names of the streets near Vancouver Avenue (my eventual destination) and flung the map into the passenger-side footwell. I crossed the river again. By this time, any witches on my tail were well and truly flummoxed. I took the Highway 30 fork. I got off at the first exit. “Rose Quarter,” I noted, “I’ve been here, so at least I can escape if need be. There’s even a train.” I scanned the road signs for familiar names. No go. What street was I on? I glanced upwards. VANCOUVER AVENUE! “Ha! Ha!” I chortled.

“Cook Street,” a melancholy voice echoed from the footwell.

“No! We’re-” I glanced up to check the street number. “on WEIDLER?” I thought I heard a papery cackle. I turned, turned, turned, to find the blessed Vancouver. No go. I retraced the same back alleys again. No Vancouver. Was it a mirage? I pondered the advisability of turning my clothes inside out and trying to convince the street spirits I was, in fact, Yticilef Enna. Finally, I stopped the car, got out the 1997 Thomas Guide mapbook, and managed to find my way to the Red Cross, despite the date of the maps and the intensity of new construction in the area.

I was 15 minutes late. Of course, as my appointment didn’t show up on their list, this didn’t signify. I waited for a bitsy, Larry King interrogating Tammy Faye on high above, and answered some questions. I was given a form to fill out. I really wish there was a box that said, “I got my first french kiss in college from my now-spouse, caffeine makes me hyper and I think a wild party involves playing Lunch Money” so that I could skip ahead. At any rate, I finally got my finger sticked by some sort of volunteer. My blood had only 37% iron. This is healthy, but you need 38% to give blood. Primal Scream mounting. “Can I go now?”

“You still have to talk to the nurse,” the volunteer said.

Now, please note that I had in fact had a very hard day before all of this. So this nurse in her early fifties with an intelligent face, a kind smile, and interesting glasses walks in, and before I know it, I’m crying about the fact that I can’t give blood. So we chat and chat, and as I got ready to leave, I said, “Thank you for listening to my non-blood-related problems,” and she laughed and said, “I’m a retired mental health nurse.” I got a hug before I left.