AB-Negative.  .07 percent of Americans have this rare blood pumping through their bodies.  Money is tight at home. 

 My husband and I are on fixed incomes.  No major economic issues, except that we do live paycheck to paycheck.  So we have decided to save.  Our only debt is our home.  No credit cards, no consumer debt, all cars bought with cash.  But the reality is; one medical crisis (we do have health insurance), one car wreck, one bad stroke of luck and we are one step away from the street.

Because of our fixed income related to my husband's  service in Vietnam and his service-connected disability, and my neurological nightmare that is stranded at the frontier of medicine, we are both fixed in place in our combined disability to work full-time.  Going from a couple who worked 60 to 70 hours  each per week, this defeat of disabilty is a hard road to travel and to internalize.

Both college educated and upper middle income before our illnesses, this is a new economic frontier for us.  We talked, and I decided to  sell my AB-negative plasma for a few hundred dollars a month to tuck something away for a rainy day.  I can't make enough to jeapordize my Social Security, but every penny does count.

As I drove downtown in my white-bred University town, I started to weep, or seep this deep dish of betrayal.  Betrayal of my body, of this economy that benefits the disabled with enough  money to buy Ramen, turn the thermostat down, shop at second-hand stores and hang on by our fingernails.

There is also a deep cultural bias towards the disabled, the slackers, the ones on the dole.  In my community, I feel as if I am walking down the street with a bottle wrapped in a paper bag and rags on my feet. "Alms for the Poor."

Walking into the door of the Plasma center I was shocked to see at least 50 people waiting to give thier life blood to pay the bills.  Every color, every age, every walk of life.  Eyes downcast, no one looking at each other, all feeling like the dregs of society.  You could cut the dispair with a butter knife.

I was turned down because it was too late in the day.  I arrived at 10:00 am and was told if I didn't arrive by 6:oo am I could forget getting on cue for the day.

"How long do I wait when I arrive at 6:oo am?"

"I don't know", the girl replied with a surl, " A long time, okay?!"

I walked out and drove across town tothe Red Cross.

They were happy to see me.  They will sell my valuable plasma for big bucks. but I know it goes to my local hospital and is used in the pediatric ward.  I won't get a penny.

I am seated in a warm chair, treated as if I am valued and happily give my plasma and suddenly feel like a member of my community again.    I was stunned by the beauty, the viscous red, purple life that spilled from my arm.  I imagined an infant as I squezzed the plastic ball to make the blood flow fast.  I closed my eyes and felt peace.

 I'll find another way to make some change. I'll cut more coupons. No vacations, no new clothing, and eating less to by the medicines that we need.

 But what about the others  who sat in that sad room looking at thier shoes, thier hands, and wondering when they could walk out of that door for the last time? 

I know recession is the politically correct theme of our new administration as well as our former, but when you are walking into a clinic packed with Americans selling plasma for a few extra bucks, it sure feels like a Depression to me.