Heartland humiliation

It's been a particularly good couple of days. Sunday was really good. Long, as most Mormon Sundays are, but long in a good way. I serve with some really great men in our bishopric and we were running on all cylinders it seemed yesterday and there was a very decent spiritual feast. I appreciate the way I am challenged to improve as I serve with these men and as we serve our ward family. Anyway, capped the evening with another good episode of "The Amazing Race." I'm digging this 14th season as it has been really good and the teams not too annoying.

Worked from home today and it was one of those Mondays where everything chugged along. Everything clicked today, which can only portend that something is going to go horribly wrong, especially on a Monday.

So late this afternoon I made my way to our local blood donation facility. They had called a couple of days ago seeking my blood for a drive in a couple of weeks. I'll be in China so I said I'd come in earlier and hence my appointment this afternoon. I was prepared - I had a list of all the countries I've been to/through in the last three years so we didn't have to play the geography game. I also made sure that my current dalliance with Naproxin was not going to be an issue - it wasn't. So I'm there and the nurse/bloodletter takes me into that private room to do the question drill/geography review and finger stabbing for the iron test (that has got to be the WORST part of giving blood) and she asks me why I'm taking Naproxin. I told her and she asks if the doctor has talked to me about surgery and I said he mentioned it and I'd know more at my next appointment later this week. Senorita slammed her book closed faster than AIG collapsed and that was it. I would not be giving blood today. She very sweetly said, "You're going to need to keep all your blood. You'll need it." I was taken aback. I mean I'm not even sure if I have to have the surgery and it's arthroscopic, for Pete's sake. I mean it's not like they are going to hack half my leg off to shave a little bit of this lame meniscus (note to self - do not Google Image 'meniscus surgery' anymore - it's not helping).

So I was shuffled off in front of several other donors, whose average age was about 900, and they each had that somewhat judgmental look that people get when you get rejected from something like donating blood. You know the look - you can almost hear them thinking, 'I wonder what he's got.' I probably should have coughed or faked a seizure right then and there to make it worth their while.

I was bummed to not be able to do this. I tell you what I better get referred to the ortho for surgery on Friday now. I gotta have something to show for this foolishness.