Young Writers Society

I pick up the brittle cookie. Whenever I open the container, the sweet smell of them instantly rushes out and fills the room. Nutty and buttery. The buttercream filling isn’t as powerful a scent. Taste wise, though, I find it sweeter than the cookie, so I don’t pile too much on. Hm, I thought smell always preceded taste, or predicted it. Then again, my nose is another part of me that is imperfect. It doesn’t work.

I place the other cookie on top of the filling. I squish the two cookies together a little. Now the reason for all this step-by-step nonsense; I take a bite. It crunches. It’s very crisp, easy to crumble into little pieces and fall everywhere. So I have to bite down slowly, manoeuvre my lips to catch the runaway crumbs, run my tongue along the bite to scoop up the remaining buttercream. Without concentration, I would end up doing that awkward lurch forward while cupping my hand beneath my chin in an attempt to catch the crumbs. Rarely do they fall in my hand.

I remember the event in the lobby. I had seen the red on the sign, the symbol, and it had been obvious what they were there for. Blood donation. My body had twitched as I had passed by. For a moment I had considered stopping and giving my share to the community, but before I had come to a stand still, I remembered that I couldn’t. So, I kept walking, started thinking about how heavy the door to the elevators was. It’s why everyone in rez would hit the handicap button. Even for the simplest things there’s always an easier way.

I couldn’t give blood because I didn’t weigh enough. I wasn’t heavy enough; I wasn’t fat enough. That’s all that was keeping me from giving blood: five pounds of fat. I remembered when I had first tried to give blood back in high school. I didn’t know there was a minimum weight. 110 pounds. If you were under that you were in danger of dying from blood loss, or some health issue like that. I was three pounds away back then. The woman at the registration table said if I could eat three pounds of food, I’d be good.

The buttercream is oozing out the other end of the cookie. That’s okay, I’ve perfected a way to eat cookies. Any kind of cookie. The initial bite doesn’t matter, just pick a spot. Then a half bite to the right, and another half bite to the left of the first bite. Now I have this perfectly shaped bit of cookie in the centre. When I bite down on it what’s left is this semi-circle of a cookie with a bite mark on the flat side. It’s like a smile, or a frown. But the way I’m holding it makes it look like a smile. And smiles are better than frowns, anyway. And with this last piece I take two bites and it’s gone. No crumbs, no mess, no sticky hands.

Why can’t they just take less blood? I had thought in the elevator, waiting to get to the eighteenth floor. But of course there are regulations they must follow, a certain amount they must procure from each individual to fill a blood bag. What they are saying is that if you’re under this weight, your contribution is so small it’s useless to us. Even if you have a rare blood type, like AB-whatever. Don’t those people who need AB+ blood only have AB+ blood transfusions? Or something like that? That really contradicts their advertisements. Blood. It’s in you to give.

I never liked that slogan: “Blood. It’s in you to give.” I always thought, “Blood. It’s in you to live.” That makes much more sense to me. If blood were in my body originally to give, then why would I need it? Why wouldn’t I have just been born bloodless? If they changed their slogan to “live” instead of “give”, they would still get the same message across. You live because of blood, so give a little bit to others what makes you live and they will live too. It’s not such a hard concept to wrap your head around. The word “give” makes it sound like a duty. A responsibility. An obligation. Which sucked because I was physically incapable of giving blood.

Maybe if I eat enough cookies, I can give blood, I had thought after stepping out of the elevator. I’ll make a fattier kind next time; a “gain weight” kind of cookie. I’ll bake pies and cakes and truffles and scones and turnovers and brownies, and I will eat them all until I’ve gained five pounds. I won’t exercise (no more yoga) and I’ll take a taxi instead of walking to places. I’ll eat lots of bacon and fast food, lots of sweet and salty things, and lots of nuts. It’s only five pounds. It can’t be that hard, can it?

It actually was. I remember the summer before then, for two months, I tried to gain weight. Back then I wanted to gain weight to make my breasts bigger and not to give blood. Silly superficial me. I looked it up on the Internet how to gain weight (in a healthy way). It said eat lots of nuts. They have a high content of fat. Eat proteins, but still get your veggies in. Eat foods with lots of carbs. I think I gained one or two pounds. If I want to gain five pounds, I will have to become a couch potato; I will probably be the thinnest couch potato in history, I had thought.

For someone who loves to bake, and eat what’s been baked, and gobbles big bags of chips in one sitting, and eats till one is fit to burst, I sure didn’t gain a lot of weight. Even when I worked in a fast food restaurant in high school, I never gained more than five pounds. That was three years of drinking copious amounts of pop almost every day and eating greasy fatty food almost every day. Then again, I was in soccer for those years. That bit of exercise kept me in balance.

I think I’ll go have another cookie. I’ll save the rest for my boyfriend. Then it’s off to bed for me.

It’s the next day, and it’s cold and dark outside. I’m coming back from grocery shopping. I start to heat up after entering the building. I get warm really fast. Warm and sweaty. I hate it. It’s something I’ve been self-conscious of my whole entire life. Except for when it’s okay to sweat, like during sports, or on the beach. I pass through the lobby.

I can picture the blood donation in the lobby, exactly as it was a year ago when I almost stopped to give blood. It’s not there right now. Instead, there appears to be some sort of religious gathering going on. Or karaoke, I can’t tell. I hit the handicap button to open the door. I don’t feel as guilty this time because I’m carrying groceries. I am temporarily handicapped.

Up in my room I unpack the groceries. In the fridge: lactose-free milk, pop, butter (unsalted), jam, sour cream, coffee cream, and cheese. In the pantry: canned soup, KD, potatoes, ramen, peanut butter, chocolate chips, and sugar. Some frozen dinners in the fridge. And snacks in my room so my roommate doesn’t steal them. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to reapply for rez for second year. I ended up with a crappy roommate again.

I take the bag of pistachios and jump on my bed. I turn the TV on and surround myself with blankets, pillows at my back against the wall. I open the bag, crack a pistachio open, and pop the salty nut in my mouth. I take the half shell and chuck it at the garbage can. I miss. It’s only about two feet away. I have terrible aim. I decide to take a piece of sturdy foam I have lying around from some package I got and use it as a backboard for the garbage can. Perfect. Now I only miss some of the time.

For an hour and a half I watch the Comedy channel, eating pistachios nonstop.

The next day I get up early. I don’t have class until 1pm, but there’s a lot I can get done in the morning. First thing I do is shuffle over to the scale and tap it. I hang my foot over the scale, waiting for the zeros to appear. I quickly but daintily step onto it. A second of dreadful suspense and the magic numbers pop up. 111.6 pounds. I smile.

Today is when blood donations start in the lobby.

After my 1 o’clock class I rush back to rez. I’m rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, excited. I unravel myself from my scarf, hat, mitts, and coat. I feel like I’ve already accomplished what I came here to do.

After the necessary paperwork, I am finally in the chair, slightly reclined.

As the nurse is preparing the needle, she asks, “Do you have a fear of needles?”

I respond, “Yeah, a little, but I just look away. As long as I don’t see it go in, I’m fine.”

The nurse brings the needle close to my skin. She starts talking about how it’ll hurt, but I’m not paying attention. I’m staring at the ceiling to avoid seeing the needle, concentrating on not thinking about it piercing my skin.

“Okay, I’m putting it in in three, two, one–”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck it hurts.

“So, do you go to this university?” The nurse asks. She sounds bored.

I nod.

“What are you taking?”

I don’t think she really cares about my answers.

“Psychology.”

“Is this your first year?”

Pretty sure she’s just trying to distract me.

“No. Second.”

I take a quick peek at my arm. Despite the fact that I’m afraid of needles, I am still curious about how it looks to give blood, from the giver’s point of view. It’s kind of like why I watch horror movies. They freak me out, but I enjoy them.

“I see. Do you want to be a psy… – she’s waking up.”

I open my eyes. Things are blindingly white for a few seconds. I am still looking at the ceiling, but I’m lying down now. I have been taken out of the chair.

“How do you feel?” the nurse, a different one, asks.

I don’t answer for a few seconds.

“What happened?” I finally croak. My throat is so dry. I swallow and sit up.

“You fainted, dear, but don’t worry, it’s pretty common. Some people just don’t take too well to having blood drawn out of them.”

“How long–,” I swallow again, “–was I out for?”

“Oh, quite a while, about a half hour. Here, have a cookie.”

I take the cookie and bite into it. It’s chocolate chip. I take a half-bite to the right of my first bite.

“Considering your reaction to giving blood, I would suggest that you don’t do this again. It could be life-threatening.”

While the nurse was speaking, I had taken another half-bite of the cookie on the left, and then chomped down on the centre. It looks like a smile now.

“I shouldn’t? I can’t?”

“No, you are very light, and you’re just naturally a small person. Girls your size generally don’t give blood because they just don’t have enough in them to give without causing themselves harm.”

“Oh…”

“There are more cookies right there if you want more. When you’re feeling better you can leave.”

She gives me a pat on the back. It jostles me and the remainder of my cookie falls to the floor. It breaks. I frown.

The nurse who was with me when I was in the chair walks up.

“You wanted to know your blood type, right?” She asks.

“Uh… yeah.”

“It’s AB+.” She points to a spot on a piece of paper.

“Oh…”

She smiles, politely says, “I hope you recover soon. Have a good day,” and walks away.

My efforts to do the world some good have gone to shits.