Typography - a short story
With a gentle grip of the inside of her left wrist, she took a four second breath in through her nose. She held it for seven seconds then exhaled for eight before repeating the process twice more.
You can do this she told herself.
This was her first time donating blood, but not her first time in this waiting area. She’d been there once before with her friend Cary and wished he were there right now. His presence helped her find calm, his words comforted her. They always had.
She’d been crying in the midst of a panic attack sitting on the steps of the university library when they met. Head lowered, she was vaguely aware of somebody passing her on the way down, and it was a few moments later that she heard someone say, “Hi.”
She looked up to see a young man a few steps below her. “Hi,” she said. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears from her eyes. What would have been the point?
“You look like you’re having a hard time. Would it be alright if I sat here,” he asked gesturing to a spot a few feet to her left. “In case you need anything.”
It took her a little time to process what he said, and he waited patiently for her answer. “Sure, I guess.”
He thanked her and sat down. That’s it. He didn’t stare at her. Just sat there looking straight ahead quietly. It was at least ten minutes before either of them said anything, and to her surprise, she spoke first.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. My name’s Cary by the way.”
“Dakota.”
At the sound of her name, Dakota looked to the woman in the white lab coat standing by the front counter holding her blue registration folder before standing and following her into one of the small interview rooms.
“Good morning,” said the woman. “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m ok, just a little bit nervous.”
“That’s normal. And you’ve eaten today?”
Dakota nodded.
“I see you checked the box for getting a tattoo.”
“Yes, about a month ago” she said and uncovered her wrist to reveal the small design. “I went to a licensed parlor, though, to make sure I’d still be eligible.”
“That’s a smart idea.”
“Yeah, my friend told me there were a number of things that could prevent someone from being able to donate.”
“Yes, there are, and it looks like none of the others will be an issue for you. Is that your blood type?”
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t have any clue what type I am.”
“No problem. The next thing I’m going to do is check your iron level.”
It was understandable given the context for the technician to guess the tattoo might signify O-positive. She’d asked Cary the same thing.
He’d first used it in a note on her dorm room door about a month after they’d met. The message had said, “Knew you’d be in class until late, but had a free moment and thought I’d surprise you. 0+ Cary”
Inside her room, she’d found an origami heart on her desk. Her roommate, sitting on the top bunk, was all smiles. “You’re friend Cary dropped that by earlier,” she said. “What did the note say?”
Dakota handed her the note and pulled out her phone. She heard an “awww” from above as she sat down on her bed and dialed Cary.
“Thank you so much for the heart. It’s very sweet.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I’m a little confused, though, on the note. Is that your blood type?”
He’d chuckled. “No, I’m AB positive. It’s a little less obvious than that.”
“How so?”
“It’s a zero, and the plus represents the four cardinal directions.”
He waited before saying anything else, giving her a chance to figure it out. She thought about it for a minute, but no answer seemed clear. “Can I have a hint?”
“Sure. It’s another word for zero, like in tennis.”
“Love.”
“And not just one way, but …”
“Four ways. No, every way.”
“Close.”
“All ways. Love all ways.”
He repeated it back to her, the same, but different. Better. “Love always.”
The technician gave her a smile. “Your iron,” she said, “is right where it needs to be.”
“Good. I was a little bit concerned.”
“Not to worry. You’re safely in the donation range.”
After taking her temperature and blood pressure, the technician led her out of the small room into the donation area on the other side of the short wall from the waiting area.
“Do you have an idea which arm you’d like to use?”
“Probably my right.”
“Are you allergic to iodine?”
“Not that I know of.”
“If you want to have a seat right here. We’ll get you set up and you’ll be done before you know it.”
There was a fair amount of prep work involved in donating. While Dakota reclined in the special curved seat, the technician pulled out a bag with a bundle of tubing and proceeded to stick labels from her donor form at various places.
When that was complete, the technician placed a blood pressure cuff around her right arm and had her make a fist around a foam ball. After marking the vein, she was allowed to relax her grip while the spot was swabbed with iodine for 30 seconds.
Up through that point Dakota was relaxed enough she could watch what was going on, but when she was told to make a fist again, she had to look away, instead focusing on the tattoo. She shook her head when asked if there was any pain, then heard the instructions to give gentle squeezes every 5 to 10 seconds.
She kept her eyes on the tattoo and tried to keep her breathing as regular as possible.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said to Cary at breakfast the next morning.
“For what?”
“For how I responded yesterday on the phone. I was taken by surprise.”
“It’s ok, Dakota. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I just don’t know … What do you … What did I …” He let her stammer without interruption. “Why do you love me? What could I possibly have done?”
“What do you mean done?”
“I’ve never done anything to deserve having someone love me.”
“Deserve? I don’t believe anybody deserves love. It’s not something that you earn. Sometimes people just do.”
“But I’m nothing special.”
“You’re you. And you’re important to me.”
“I just … I don’t understand. I don’t know if I feel the same.”
“And that’s fine Dakota. My feelings toward you aren’t dependent on yours toward me. You asked me why. I don’t have an answer. But I do.”
“We haven’t known each other that long.”
“And if we had?”
His question gave her pause, because she knew what she’d said was an excuse. She just felt so unworthy. She honestly didn’t know if she was capable of reciprocating. “Then maybe,” she said, “I could say the same.”
“Maybe,” he replied with a smile, “you will some day. And if that happens, I’ll consider myself one of the luckiest people in the world.”
“You believe in luck?”
“Yes.”
“So fortune then and not karma.”
He nodded. “Bad things happen to good people, there’s no question. I don’t believe there’s a thing you could have done or do to deserve feeling the way you do. Your anxiety and depression, they exist. And if they didn’t, I might never have met you.”
“That sounds like fate.”
“Doesn’t it? I could have walked by you that day. But I saw someone having a hard time and made a choice. And I’m glad I did.”
She wasn’t sure, but thought it likely she blushed. “I’m glad you did, too.”
The technician came back over and said, “You can stop squeezing. You’re all done.”
“Already?”
She nodded. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m doing ok I think.”
“Good. We’ll just get you taken care of here so you can head over to the canteen.”
This involved holding her arm aloft for a minute while applying pressure until the technician came back to apply fresh gauze and a bandaid. She was then asked to say and spell her first and last name. Apparently satisfied with her answer, the woman gave her a slip of paper with tips and reminders.
“Make sure to leave the bandaid on for at least four hours. No heavy lifting or strenuous activity for the next 12 hours and drink plenty of fluids to rehydrate yourself. Still feeling all right?”
Dakota nodded.
“Then head on over to the canteen for at least ten minutes. There’s juice, cookies and crackers. Thank you for coming in to donate today.”
The elderly volunteer in the little dining area asked her what she would like to drink. She asked for apple juice and sat down at an empty table, picking out a small cellophaned sugar cookie and an oatmeal raisin one.
She looked at the open seat to her left, where Cary sat on her first visit there. She pictured his face as he told her about his first time donating, how he’d been a little nervous but mostly excited.
“If you ever decide to donate,” he’d said, “and want somebody to come with you, I’d be happy to.”
Unfortunately, she never took him up on his offer.
“Are you ok, miss?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“It looks like you’re about to cry.”
She reached up and wiped the welling moisture from her eyes. “Yes, I’m ok. Just thinking about a friend. He couldn’t be here today. He’s the reason I came.”
“Thank him and thank you for your donation.”
She smiled weakly and looked away. It was all she could do to not breakdown.
In her dorm room that afternoon, her roommate asked how it went, and she her told her about the experience.
“You know he’d be proud of you, right?”
She nodded.
“So, did you find out what type you are? Are you the same?”
“No, I have to call them in a few days.”
“When are you going to go visit him?”
“Once I know.”
“Would you like some company?”
“No,” she said. “I think I’ll be ok on my own, but thank you.”
“Sure thing, roomie.”
The afternoon of her visit was bright and clear.
“Hi, Cary,” she said taking a seat next to him. “I finally did it. I went in and donated blood. But then, you always knew I would. I brought the letter you gave me to read after the first time.”
“Dakota, if you’re reading this, it means you’ve now given your first pint. I don’t know if I was there with you in person, but I will certainly have been there in spirit.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you were.”
“Though you won’t have found out that day, you might have learned your type by now. My guess is we’re not the same. If anything, the opposite. I’m thinking O-negative or what they call a universal donor. Basically everyone can accept your blood.”
She looked over at him. “How could you possibly know?”
“As important, though, as that potentially makes you to everyone else in the world, they don’t know your heart. Thank you for sharing it with me. Whatever else happens, I am fortunate to have met you. I’m so proud to call you my friend. 0+”
“I love you too, Cary. Always.”
