"A rainbow of colors may appear over the next 10 days."

I've got this little bruise on my arm right now. I've always liked to press on bruises..just a little you know? I like to apply light pressure to them, just to remind me that they are there. This one feels hollow to me....but it's probably just my imagination. It is from having a needle stuck in my arm after all. Giving blood is always so weird. I think it's the anticipation; you sit in that big comfy slung-back chair waiting for them to stick a needle in your arm. And any kind of anticipation feels like any other kind of anticipation to me. I feel the same way waiting for a roller-coaster to take off as I do waiting to have my blood siphoned off. This last time, I got to thinking, is this anything like waiting to be executed? You sit in the chair, a white coat wearing attendant by your side. And for a moment...or for the rest of forever I guess, they're in control of what happens next. Of whether the needle goes in easy, of whether you feel pain...
I called my dad after I gave blood yesterday. I told him that I almost passed out, as usual, and he went into one of his favorite stories. I didn't stop him. I guess I just like to hear what he as to say, even if I've already heard it before. Or maybe I just like him to feel like he can talk to me about things. Anyways, the story goes like this: he and one of his friends left school after giving blood to go to work. He went to school back when, if you had a job, you could leave at noon. So they stopped at a Krystal for lunch and he just passed out cold, right there in the Krystal. His friend got his order and went to the car to eat it until my dad came to. And then the two of them headed off to work like everything was normal, but my dad never got to eat that day. He went back to the Krystal a week later and told them he was the guy who passed out and asked if he could get his meal. This is where the story gets tricky. The first time he told it, they wouldn't give him his meal because he couldn't produce the receipt. But this time, the manager let him have it.
I wonder what that means? Did my dad lie to me this time...last time? And I'd have to say no. He didn't lie. People rewrite the ending to things all the time, and it has nothing to do with deceit. I think it has more to do with optimism. I think, this time, my dad needed to believe in a world where you could walk into a Krystal a week later and still get your meal. Or maybe he thought I needed to believe in one. Optimism, as I've learned, takes practice. You've got to really set your mind to looking on the bright side of things.
For example, I've got a bruise on my arm, but you know what? They tell me that over the next 10 days, it might present itself in a rainbow of colors! And I'm O+ which makes me a universal donor. Guess what else, one pint of blood? It can save up to three lives. And you never know who's life its going to be. It could be a gunshot victim in a gang....or a child with leukemia. It could just be someone after a routine surgery. It could be a teenage girl whose self harm habit got out of hand. It could be your momma or my momma. It could be just about anyone. I think that's pretty amazing. And Dad, for the record, I believe in world where a person can walk into a Krystal a week later and still get the meal they bought.