I was sitting on my chair in front of the computer assigned for me at the Office 2 days ago, doing nothing but looking over some Pathoma lectures. Surprisingly, not many people were eager to donate blood, not that I complain or anything. And those who did come to donate were kindly rejected either for a reason that they admitted in their patient histories which contradicted the requirements for being a donor, or because they looked simply unhealthy. "It's probably about the weather changes" I said, and kept listening to my lovely Pathoma.
My initial intention was to write about my last nightshift, but since I have no material for it, I want to talk about a lesson that I learned from the former one: "Don't judge a patient by the outfit. At least try to avoid prejudice"
They were 7 new graduate police officers, probably the oldest one being in his early 20s. I was talking to my fiance who came to visit me during my nightshift, and suddenly I saw the shadows of 6 rifles held by huge male figures on the floor. I lifted my face to see who the shadows belonged to, and then I cried the F word (in Turkish). My fiance joined me swiftly.
One of them came close to me and called out a name: "F.K."
"Sorry? Who is that?" I asked with a vibrating noise.
"We want to donate blood for the guy."
A few seconds, maybe minutes passed by, and I could only then find enough courage to answer him:
"Aw, ok. Please fill in the forms first. You'll find them right behind you."
"He nodded me peacefully, and did what I said, just like the rest of them."
We started accepting them into the chairs we use during the donation process. One of them threw up even at the check up phase in which we look through their hemogram values to figure whether they're fit for being a donor or not. Another one could actually make it to the donation chair, only to pass out there while the needle was being placed on his cubital fossa.
"A 55 year old man with a huge belly lied on this chair and actually did complete the whole process..." said one of the nurses ironically.
"I guess blood donation and holding a rifle don't go hand in hand," I said without making any gestures. One of the police officers agreed with a smiling face.
After they were all done, they wished for a good nightshift for all of us, put on their uniforms back (with their hıuge guns of course) and took the exit door, again peacefully.
My fiance, who witnessed all of the scene while sitting on the chair next to my computer, stared at me, fallen into a trance, and said the real shocking sentence: "I guess I'll sign up for the army." (background information: signing up for the army for a designated time period is a national service that must be done by all the Turkish citized who happen to be males. Not so feminist, I know...)
...and he did.
Now he's trying to get as many information as possible about being in the army, the not-so-fancy food they're given, the crowded dormitories that were designed for 50 people but are being used by hundreds of many other soldiers, the disciplined exercise regime they're put into etc.; of course he's questioning what he's done with every new information.
Another lesson learned from my fiance: "Don't get carried away so quickly."