Power in the Blood
Two weeks ago we were at the hospital getting health certificates—documents required for our residence permit. One of the requirements for the health certificate is sitting in on an HIV/AIDS counseling session and taking a “confidential” HIV/AIDS blood test. Another part of the process included getting a card indicating our blood types. So that day we dragged Silas and Luke around the hospital: to the exam room, to the counseling office, and to the lab for tests. After we finished, the doctor told me to come back the next morning to get the results—and the health certificates.
As instructed, I returned for the papers. On my way out a nurse stopped me and told me someone was looking for me. “Who?” I asked. She led me toward the radiology room and pointed me to the x-ray tech, a guy I didn’t know. He introduced himself and began by saying, “Eske ou ka ede-m?” On any given day, I find myself in at least three or four conversations beginning with these same five words (translated: Can you help me?), typically followed by a request for anywhere from $5 to $50—no joke. This happens so much, it becomes desensitizing, and it’s difficult not to tune-out and politely say, “no” and, “I’m sorry”. Since we were at the hospital, I presumed he needed help paying a hospital bill. But his request was different.
He began to tell me that his sister—resting in Salon A—was five months pregnant with complications. He had learned (in Haiti nothing is confidential and news spreads fast) that my blood type was the same as his sister’s: A+. Though I didn’t understand all the technical medical terms, I did understand that she and the baby were going to need some form of medical intervention, including a blood transfusion. But his appeal was serious; the hospital’s blood bank was empty. You see where this is going.
I checked with Dr. Jean-Jumeau Batsch to confirm the story and verify that the sister, Angelina Gaspard, was in need of a donor—or maybe several. The blood wasn’t needed immediately, so they scheduled me to return the next day to donate blood. In Haiti, there are superstitions and genuine concerns about blood, and donating it is a foreign concept to many. Few do it I was told.
Donating the blood was a no-brainer, I didn’t think twice about it. But it made a powerful statement. Many Haitians view “white” people as a different form of humanity—exempt from things like poverty and illness—with a seemingly limitless ability to help. When my grandmother died in July, I was talking with an 11 year-old friend who was confused because he didn’t think white people died. So giving blood was a strong connecting point, communicating that apart from our perceived differences, there is relationship on a very necessary level.
The more graphic, soteriological, image overcame me as I laid on the padded, ergonomically designed table with a needle in my arm, watching the pouch on the floor fill with blood. I was actively helping save the life of a woman and unborn child across the hall. This was very personal and very immediate—but it was easy. I wasn’t going to die. Twenty minutes later I would be at home eating lunch with Pam and the boys. But how amazing was it that Jesus was nailed to and hanged on a gruesome execution device, giving his blood to save our lives? The nurse left the room. I closed my eyes—fist clenched and lip trembling—I thanked God for relating to us, for being personal and immediate, sending Jesus, being with us in our helpless state and doing something about it.