Tormented donor

I donated blood once in my life. The consequences were enormous, because I had no say in who would receive my blood.

It's a very old event, but I remember it vividly. It happened in 1987. After finishing high school, I started working in a factory and became part of the production line—what they used to call a "work collective." They asked me if I'd go with them on Friday to donate blood, since everyone went regularly a few times a year. I had no idea what I was getting into. Supposedly it was just a simple blood draw, and everyone always managed it without any problems—just a little thing that could save a life…

Deep inside, I didn't really want to go, but after constant urging I eventually agreed. If I had listened to what my inner voice was telling me, I would have spared myself a lot of trouble.

When I arrived at the hospital, they did a blood test to check for any diseases. After a while, a nurse came out and read the names of those whose tests were fine and who would stay for the donation. I was among them. Not long after that, they called me in; I lay down on the bed and waited. A nurse came in, and from her demeanor it was clear she had been doing this for many years.

She asked me, "300 or 500?" I had no idea what she meant, so she explained that it was the amount of blood in milliliters. I said, "I don't know, maybe 500 ml." She looked me up and down and said, "300." She pulled out the needle, inserted it into my vein, and I waited for it all to be over.

After the donation, I sat down and looked around. The nurse said loudly, "Sit on the chair for another 5 minutes so you don't get dizzy."
On the bed next to me was a miner—a huge guy, with hands like shovels. When they pulled out his needle, he roared in his booming voice: "I haul tons of coal every shift, half a liter of blood won't knock me down!" And as he said, so he did—he jumped off the bed like a young lad, took one step, and that was it. The man collapsed to the floor like a freshly cut tree and lay there flat. The nurse looked at him and said calmly, "We've had plenty of heroes like you here. Lie down, and when you can stand up, sit on the chair."

At home I thought it hadn't been that bad. The needle didn't hurt, and the vein didn't bruise. But what happened a few days later was a different story. Night after night, I saw the same man in my dreams, drinking himself into oblivion. He drowned his sorrow and cursed the same things every night. I couldn't sleep—the same dream, again and again, day after day. It was a nightmare that lasted 15 years. When it finally ended, I understood that the man had died.

Unintentionally, I had been experiencing depressive emotions that were not my own. It was terrible—I felt and lived through everything the person who received my blood was feeling. My 300 ml of blood had spiritually bound us together with a connection almost maternal, like a mother tied to her child through the umbilical cord.
Why did I have to live through it? Maybe so I could bear witness to it?

So I asked the Master again.

Question:
Should I share my experience with blood on my website?

Answer:
Certainly. Write about how you lived through all of it—what you felt, and what blood truly means. Many people don't realize that blood is the connection between the soul and the body. When blood stops flowing through our body, it always means physical death. Mention everything you experienced; people don't value this essential "thing" in the body—they take it for granted.

We often don't realize how many functions blood has beyond what we learned in school. Each of us has a different blood type—and also a unique temperament: some are choleric, others melancholic, sanguine, or phlegmatic. We can look at blood and at humans from many different angles and write a lot of interesting things about what we know. What's important is not to forget that blood is what connects us with our soul. That's why it's essential to care for it—through proper nutrition, enough sleep, and avoiding negative thoughts.