I realized something weird the other day: I really miss donating blood.

Of all of the things multiple myeloma has taken from me, I’d never really con­sid­ered this one: I can’t be a blood donor ever again.

And that kind of stinks.

I take Revlimid ^[1](lenalidomide), which means – understandably – that I’m for­bid­den from sharing my blood with others. My blood is poisonous and dangerous and nobody wants it.

If you’ve ever taken Revlimid, you’ve taken the monthly phone survey that’s required before you can get your drugs. Question Two is “Have you donated to a blood bank while taking Revlimid? Press one for ‘yes’, two for ‘no’, or three for ‘don’t know.’”

An aside: Why is there a “don’t know” option for these questions? “Hmm. The other day, I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when everything went black. When I awoke, I had a bandage on my arm and an elderly volunteer was offering me orange juice. Was I kidnapped and forced to donate blood against my will? I don’t know! I DON’T KNOW! HOW WILL I EXPLAIN THIS TO THE REVLIMID SURVEY? Oh, wait. I’ll pick option three! Thank goodness!”

The question that really makes me wonder about the “don’t know” option is, “Have you had your womb or uterus surgically removed?”

Really? I can’t believe this is something any woman would be the least bit unsure about.

I joke now, but I never joke around while taking the Revlimid survey. I know it’s important, plus the woman giving the survey sounds a little scary. She means business. “Have I shared my Revlimid with anyone? No, ma’am! Of course not ma’am! That question is not the least bit ridiculous!”

And so, because I’m scared of the Revlimid Survey Lady, and because I am an incredibly responsible human being, I do not donate blood.

And I just realized I miss it.

Before being diagnosed with myeloma, I donated blood all the time. Initially, I was scared, but I soon em­braced the good feeling that I was doing something helpful for a stranger I’d never meet.

Plus, I loved that medical professionals were telling me – no, commanding me – to eat cookies and lie around for a while. That was awesome.

I’d return home from the blood drive feeling happy about my good deed, but feeling too tired and weak to do anything productive. I’d get to spend the rest of the day on the couch, drinking root beer floats and watching Judy Garland-Mickey Rooney movies on Turner Classic.

Saving lives is hard, you know.

My daughter’s school often hosts blood drives, and any student who recruits a parent to donate gets a “non-uniform day.” She goes to a Catholic school, so this is a big deal. I’m never able to help her out, and the drives are usually on a day that my husband has to work late, so she’s usually headed back to school in her plaid skirt while everyone else is wearing jeans and hoodies. It’s sad.

Last week, however, my husband was able to make it to the blood drive. When he came home, he shuffled in the door, pale and weak, and told us a very graphic story about how the needle fell out of his arm at the end and sprayed his blood all over the place.

Oh my gosh, I was so jealous.

And so I grilled him for more information: What were the volunteers like? How many people were there? What kinds of cookies did they offer? Was there pop or orange juice? Or both?

Turns out, there was pop and orange juice. And – wait for this – smoothies.

Smoothies, people.

I will never get a blood drive smoothie, although my husband did bring me a package of blood drive Nutter Butters. He’s a good man.

But I know it’s not really about the smoothies. When you’re a blood donor, you’re a strong, healthy person who is able to help other people by contributing a strong, healthy part of your body. My blood is no longer strong and healthy and probably never will be again. And if my myeloma ever goes kablooey, I’m probably going to need some of that donated blood.

The blood-donation ban is just another reminder that I’m forever sick instead of strong and healthy, and I don’t like being reminded of that.

Pass the Nutter Butters.