I did my nine months of time. Whatever lesson was to be learned from that experience, I learned it. Under no circumstances was I going back. And then one day, plan number one on my list was set into action. I was born. I quickly crossed that one off. Let me warn you that this is a true story, so if you can't handle true stories or the color purple, you might not want to read this.
I was actually born purple, you know, like as if one of "Barney's" arms is barbarically ripped off and then two eyes poked on it and the doctor just keeps hitting the arm's buttocks over and over and harder and harder and the arm doesn't cry at all. Yeah, that was me.
Unfortunately, I was one of the one out of every 5 billion, no make that 10 gazillion people in the world who are born allergic to themselves. Yes, that actually happens, but mostly to just me. So things didn't start off too good with myself. Statistically, I had a greater chance of being born a unicorn than being born allergic to myself. In all honesty, I would have rather been a unicorn. I was purple because I couldn't breathe.
The doctors decided to give me someone else's blood in hopes that it would help save my life. A lifetime supply of blood was ordered for me and the orders were given to the courier so that I could have a complete blood transfusion.
Sometimes I secretly wish that maybe it was an Astronaut's blood that I received.
Or from an award winning scientist,
but deep down I know it was from this guy:
After the complete blood transfusion, I made an amazing turnaround.
I wasn't a bad person, though I knew that I had the full capacity for it. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't I be allergic to cats, dogs or sheriffs? Why was I allergic to me? That made no sense.
In the back of my head, being held hostage, was this thought that if I managed to get out of this alive, I would spend the rest of my life trying to make the world a better place. There were days the doctors said good things, like there was a one in a billion chance I would survive. Then, there were days that they said other things.
I was in the hospital a while. Life was getting rough. Living was less fun than previously indicated. I tried to blend in with the crowd.
A fear started to mature inside of me that I would be in the hospital forever. I became afraid. I began to develop a stinging fright inside of me that they would find other reasons to keep me there. I only had the one thing going for me, which was laying there being adorable wrapped up in wiring. What if they wanted to take that away from me? I started having fevered dreams of a madman with fears of trumped up surgeries chasing me. What if the doctors got bored and on a whim decided to give me "cuteness reduction surgery?" CUTENESS REDUCTION!! What if I obliviously woke up in the hospital one day and looked like this:
I tried not to panic. Then, one day, I had a good calm going and I started to articulate my thoughts. Things would get better for me. And then, slowly, my body started to accept my newfound blood. My fear was replaced by cautious optimism as finally the doctors released me.
I have had my blood a while now, but now that I am older, wiser and gaining a bit of weight because I have a love/hate relationship with chocolate (except for the hate part), I now know what to ask for if I ever need blood again:
Note to my beautiful readers: If you like my posts please help me out by subscribing and sharing on Facebook or Twitter and if you are a famous director, I will let you make a movie about me...probably. Thanks! Everybody have a GREAT week!