Save a drop (of blood) for me

My father is a doctor. He is the proud father of seven children. I am number six, the last of his male children. He had seven chances to father a child who would grow up and follow in his footsteps. Seven chances for one child to study medicine, to enjoy working with blood, and to revel in the human body.

Child 1...EH! COUNSELING
Child 2...EH! EDUCATION
Child 3...EH! BUSINESS
Child 4...EH! EDUCATION
Child 5...EH! REC MANAGEMENT
Child 6...EH! ENGLISH
Child 7...EH! THERAPEUTIC REC

Seven pitches. Seven strikes.

A father could maybe get over the desires of his children and live with their choices, but the fact that all seven of my father's children shrivel up and die at the sight of blood has to be embarrassing.

Example #1
Raymon goes to the hospital (where my dad worked for a million years) to get his blood drawn. The PA there asks how I do with blood (he knows I'm doctor burton's son)

"Oh, I'll be fine. I do this kind of stuff all the time," I reply.

Ten minutes later I am being wheeled down the hall IN A WHEELCHAIR to a room where I can lie down to make sure I don't pass out.

Example #2
I have traveled enough in my life that I have never had an opportunity to donate blood. The American Red Cross came to my work this last week and I gladly signed up for the first time in my life. I am not particularly afraid of needles (I have had my father lay me on the kitchen table and give me shots many times in my life).

However...there is something about the room full of people lying down and gallons of blood that makes me initially uneasy. I tell myself I'm my father's son and that I'll be fine. I pass the test and they begin prepping me for the donation. They bring out the blood pressure cuff and strap it to my arm. I can feel my anxiety rising. There is one thing that I hate more than anything: Blood pressure cuffs. I know, laugh away, but I cannot stand the feeling of having something so tight on my arm that I can feel the blood pulsing throughout my entire arm.

At this point, my anxiety sky-rocketed. They proceeded to KEEP the blood pressure cuff on my arm for the entire 15 minutes that I am donating blood. I freaked out inside. I started sweating and jiggling my feet to try and keep my mind away from the blood pulsing in my arm.

So, at the end of the 15 minutes, when I began passing out and the Red Cross workers had to lie me down and give me juice and treat me like I'm two years, I wanted to scream at them to take the DANG BLOOD PRESSURE CUFF OFF MY ARM!

They eventually took it off. I got better. I went back to work.

I will never donate blood again.

Sorry, Dad. I honestly tried.