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By REGINA CRAM
I was still chuckling as I left the Red Cross blood drive today with my two younger children in tow. As I’d gathered our coats, someone has turned to me and said, “I hear you have four young children. Why do you give blood?”
“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “When I donate, the volunteers watch my children for me, they feed me, they tell me how wonderful I am, and I get to put my feet up for twenty minutes. It’s a great deal!”
Left unsaid was my other reason for giving, the reason which still chills me when I allow myself to remember. It was eighteen months ago at what was supposed to be the routine delivery of another healthy Cram baby. My obstetrician used to joke that his coffee was still hot after he deliverd my babies. But this baby was different. Just moments before birth, something went terribly wrong; I suffered a rare amniotic embolism which callapsed by blood’s clotting system. As the baby made her rapid appearance into the world, medical personel scurried around with worried looks and hushed voices. My husband stood by helplessly as he heard, “Not much time...extremely critical...prep more blood...can’t promise we can save her...”
Grueling hours later, after emergency surgery and transfusions, he heard the sweet news that I was one of the lucky ones, one of the fourteen percent who survive this complication. It had taken the speed and skill of eight doctors, and the availablity of twenty-five units of blood to save me.
A year and a day later I became eligible to donate blood again, and I could scarcely contain my excitement. My husband was baffled. How could I explain it to him? Somewhere out there are twenty-five people
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