Can't help it, my blood is blessed

  

My blood type is O negative. 

It’s one of those things you’re either born with or not. As it turns out, I’m blessed. My blood is like liquid gold. It can be safely injected into any human on earth regardless of skin colour, age or gender. 

For most things in life, it’s impossible to know whether our achievements are a result of our own doing or the genes we inherited from our parents. In truth, it’s likely a combination of many things, including where we're born. 

To become O negative, I didn’t need to do a thing. Purely genetic. A blessing from on high. You may have good looks or wealth or a vast knowledge of astrophysics – I have a blood type that can be accepted by everyone. 

Allow me to quote from the Red Cross Blood Donation website: “Type O is routinely in short supply and in high demand by hospitals – because type O negative blood is the universal blood type needed for emergency transfusions and for immune deficient infants.” 

My blood is needed for immune deficient infants – the most vulnerable creatures on earth. In their parlance, we are “Heroes for Babies.” 

This is why I receive a phone call from Canadian Blood Services every month requesting a donation, whether I donate or not. I am forever on their speed dial. 

Do I sometimes withhold my precious blood? I’m afraid so. After being denied a chance to donate a few years ago because I travelled to Mexico, I harboured some resentment. They phoned relentlessly and I never answered. 

Then covid hit. Another two years gone. 

Only recently have I garnered the courage to share my treasured blood again. I do it freely, although I tend to think an O negative donor should receive a slight upgrade when entering the clinic. Perhaps a food bar just for us? One with fine cheese and champagne? 

It’s the little things that will entice their most valuable players to come back again and again. Like when they sent me a little booklet in the mail explaining how special my blood was. A year later, I have not thrown it away. 

I don’t hesitate to tell other family members about how I won the genetic blood lottery. I’m not ashamed of it. In fact, I’m humbled by it. It’s a humbling experience to have the most desired blood in the world. You cannot imagine what I go through, knowing my blood is so valued. 

Most people don’t have O negative blood, and that’s okay. There’s nothing you can possibly do to change that. Everyone is made special (give yourself a pat on the back for having some kind of blood). 

When all is said and done, I roll up my sleeve like everyone else. I put on my proverbial pants one pant leg at a time. Sure, sometimes I trip over myself when getting dressed, but that’s because I’m human. 

 Just like Taylor Swift... People think she’s some superhuman, yet she too searches for love in all the wrong places (Travis Kelce? C’mon!) 

For all her wrong-headed choices, I can empathize. You can’t imagine the pressure we’re under. The phone calls we receive. The endless prerecorded messages. The letters in the mail. 

As a universal donor, it’s a life I’ve humbly come to accept. 

 

This Mennonite is attempting to dance

  

I finally understand Ukrainian dance. After carefully observing my daughter prepare for performances last year, it all comes down to this: 

Apply a thick layer of makeup to your face. Then another. Put on your first layer of costume. Then another. Add more heavy fabric in the form of a vest and apron. Attach a tall, elaborate headpiece secured with at least fifty bobby pins. Then slide on some tall red boots with heels. 

You’re ready. Ready to run, jump and spin for five minutes straight. There will be no time to catch your breath or drink water. Allow the sweat to permeate your first layer of clothing. Then the second. Ignore the cramping, nausea, and sweat trickling down your face. And most important of all, keep smiling. 

At the age of 45, I don’t know how I convinced myself to sign up for this. I’m not a dancer or Ukrainian. I’m Mennonite (gasp!). Sure, I married a woman from Ukraine, but that doesn’t mean I can do the splits five feet in the air. 

Someday I hope to do this. Honestly, I had hoped they would train me to solely do the stunts. Isn’t that what Ukrainian dance is all about? The kicks, the jumps, and the flips (okay, maybe not flips)? They look difficult, but so much easier than moving my feet a hundred miles an hour while waving my arms in the air. 

And then there are the positions. Ballet positions! Today's Ukrainian dance, as I’ve recently learned, builds on ballet footwork and movements but with a Ukrainian twist.

As a non-Ukrainian, non-dancing Mennonite, I realize I have no say in this matter, yet I must voice my protest. There’s no way those Ukrainian warriors called Cossacks were pointing their toes while doing their war dance four centuries ago. They weren’t thinking about the “positions” of one’s feet. They definitely weren’t doing bar exercises. They were pumping themselves up, preparing to go out into battle. Hence all the yelps.

I understand, dance evolves. And so I’m learning the basics, like how to point your feet in opposite directions while bending down. Trust me, it doesn’t feel good. 

I can barely follow the bar routine, let alone spin in the air without wanting to throw up. Clicking my heels in the air takes immense concentration. All the while, I’m reminded to point those toes! 

My kind Ukrainian dance instructor, who has likely never encountered a 45-year-old Mennonite in his class, has no idea where to start. “You’re back?!” he yelled as I entered the room for my second class. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to laugh or cry. 

With absolutely no natural dance instinct, I have only one card to play: the fact that I’m a man. We’re a rare species when it comes to dance. Typically, boys will stick around until they’re nine or ten – until they realize other boys may be watching them. Even in our “mature” dance group, they had only one man for decades and he’s now pushing seventy. 

In my daughter’s class, it’s the same ratio: one boy for every 10 girls. Their instructor dares not even make eye contact with one of the boys for fear he won’t turn up for next practice. The girls may get tongue-lashings for missteps, but the boys – well, they receive only positive reinforcement. 

I’m a little baffled as to why any boy would want to quit. Not only do you get to be surrounded by young ladies, you get to do all the stunts. The girls can spin twenty times on one toe and receive meagre applause, while the boys kick one foot in the air and get a standing ovation. 

It’s a man’s world, as it turns out, even when it comes to dance.  

As to whether I can actually kick my foot in the air while dancing, we’ll see.