Cops and Blood Donors

At the police station,
contemplating my role
as Police Liasion

I’ve somehow become the official liaison between the western missionary community (of which I’m not actually a member, by the way) and the N’Djamena police department. This comes thanks to our office neighbor, a cop who actually works for their IT department. Yes, our police force has an IT department, though, in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t think he gets to do much as he would like and he’s looking to set up a side business. If you have any website design needs in N’Djamena, he’s your guy. He studied in India, so you know he knows his stuff.

The Director's Office

Anyway, Mohamed and I went to see Mohamed at the police station after being called up by someone else, likely also named Mohamed, to identify the thieves who had attacked me in some sort of police line up. I told them that I wouldn’t be able to do this, not being someone who pays attention to details and having no memory of the face of the man that I fought with over my wallet for several minutes in close quarters. (I have other skills though—I can swallow a giant bug while running without stopping or slowing my pace and I can whistle really loudly sometimes if I need to get someone to pay attention to me.) I was asked to tell other robbery victims to come with me, but, as usual, though I passed on the information, no one was available. This is possibly because I always get called in last minute, but possibly also because none of them really care that much. I am not desperate for revenge or anything, but I like both of the Mohameds that I know at the police station. They both have gone out of their way to be helpful and try to improve the security situation here in the city. I appreciate that Mohamed the Director of Public Security has increased police presence in foreigner-frequented areas, as I requested, and that he sent 4 trucks full of cops to Naomi’s house after Claire was attacked there, and I called him about it. It’s a powerful thing to have the phone number of the cops. I mean, they didn’t get her stuff back, but they at least made an effort to act like they cared. And really, sometimes that is all that victims of crime need to feel better about what happened.

New license with correct blood type

 Fortunately, on arriving at the police station, I didn’t have to identify any criminals. I just had to drink some sugary tea and watch a hilarious Sudanese music video of a song praising the end of American sanctions against Sudan, which involved an ode to KFC (which they are hoping will be one of the many Western franchises to come to the country to replace Starbox, Subday, Pizza Hot, My Luckly, and so many other creative rip-offs) and some interesting commentary on American presidential choices. Oh, and also, because this is the world we live in, a shout out to the Kardashians. If you speak Arabic, watch it here (if this link works), and you’re welcome. If you don’t, you can still maybe get some of the humor. If you’ve been exposed in the past to the glorious musical tradition of Sudan (I lived with a Sudanese woman who watched Sudanese music festivals non-stop on TV and then hung out with a Sudanese woman who is in a band as well, so I am very familiar with said glorious tradition), you will be greatly entertained. My cop friend and I also discussed various reasons why Chad is now on the Great American Travel Ban list, which sent me on a dark, twisted multi-lingual research path to see if the theories we discussed were available on any other news media outlets (hint: they were, but not in English). All of this happened while we waited for Mohamed the Director to show up. When he did, we had a nice chat, as always, and he handed me a list of criminal incidents against foreigners and asked if I could identify any of the incidents. He said he would send over photos of the alleged thieves, but he hasn’t yet. Maybe they didn’t need the foreigners to identify them after all. It turns out, we aren’t all that indispensable to the ever-turning wheels of the Chadian Justice System.

Claire testing my blood

But I have recently been helpful to the Medical System as a blood donor. Being the charitable kind person that I am, you might assume that I’ve given blood many times, whenever I see one of those Red Cross trucks hanging around. You would be wrong. First, Americans don’t like to take my blood because of all the crazy places where I live. Second, in the crazy places where I live, I don’t really want to let people stick needles in me. But I trust Claire and her people at the Guinebor Hospital, and we recently tested my blood again to find that I am, in fact, O-, the universal donor. We did this test at Claire’s house while we were hanging out. Some girls paint each other’s nails and have pillow fights while eating cookie dough. We chose to do a home blood test kit because the blood test I had done properly at a lab in the US was not good enough for my mother, who insisted that I couldn’t possibly be O- because she and my dad are O+. I don’t know what happened there, but Claire’s test, which involved stabbing me in the finger multiple times with a safety pin, also came out O-.

O- card!

So Saturday morning, I get a call from Claire asking, in the nicest politest British way (though, according to the Buzzfeed “Are You More British or American” Quiz, Claire was horrified to find out that she is, in fact, more American than British), if I would possibly be able to trouble myself to come to the hospital and give blood to a mother who just had a baby and needs a transfusion and none of her family have the same blood type and she knows it is a huge bother but it would be a wonderful help if maybe I could somehow make it there, and so I did.

Then when I got there, she disapproved of my outfit, wrapped my head in a scarf to cover my scandalous hair and we shuffled off to the lab where they tested my blood again. I really REALLY am O-, Mom. What did you do?! (Whatever it was, it must not have been that bad because I have the Stillman nose, their obsession with frugality, and their crippling competitive spirit.)

She is a long-suffering friend.

They also tested me for any blood-transferable diseases (I’m healthy!) and then strapped up my arm and stuck a giant needle in me. I was OK until right near the end when either I announced that I wasn’t feeling good or Claire asked me if I was feeling OK. I don’t have a clear memory because everything started fuzzing out and I was nauseous and spinny-headed. Feeling nauseous is the worst for people who can’t throw up. I can remember throwing up maybe 2 times in the last 25 years. Before that, you’ll have to ask my mom, but she probably doesn’t remember either.  So no one was in danger, but maybe they didn’t know that. I heard Claire saying, “Her hands are freezing!” and I thought that was weird because I couldn’t feel anyone touching my hands. I heard the doctor yelling “Arrête, arrête!” and then someone pointed a fan on me and I realized that I was actually going to pull through. Still, when Claire asked, “Amanda, are you with us?” I said, “No.” Because everyone wants a little drama in their lives sometimes. Fortunately, I got back to normal right before they tried to stick an IV in me. They had the bags out and everything, but I was fine, though one of Claire’s Welsh friends said I was the color of the wall, which was half  blue and half white. I guess neither of those colors is ideal for one’s skin tone.

At any rate, they got 400ml out of me, which was enough for what they needed. Everyone fussed over me for the next hour or so, making me drink coke and lie on the couch and taking my pulse/blood pressure multiple times. I went to visit the blood recipient and her baby, and they were happy. The baby has six fingers on his little hands, so I’m glad I could help his mother so that he grows up with the kind, gentle influence of  mother in his life (who hopefully also knows his correct blood type) and doesn't later feel the need to murder Inigo Montoya’s father or anything like that. He’s very sweet and all the family were there loving on them and a bag of my blood was sitting on the foot of her bed, waiting for the transfusion.

Checking my blood. Guess what? It's O-.

I felt tingly and prickly the rest of the day, but my name is on the list in case of any other blood emergencies (my O- blood is so powerful!), and my new Chadian driver’s license is also ready, with my actual blood type written on it. The old one in my stolen wallet said O+. They must have asked my mom because I’d told them to write O-, but when they called her, she probably said, “Oh bless her heart, she has no idea, ya’ll just write O+” because that is how she talks now that she moved back to Tennessee. Anyway, ya’ll don’t worry about me—unless I get in a car accident chasing down criminals with the police or something because I only know of one other O- donor here and she lives close to the hospital so she gets called in a lot.  And Micaela told me under no circumstances should I give blood again in the next 3 months and also she hinted that maybe I am too delicate to give blood at all, but I think I should have had more than a cup of tea with 3 chocolate biscuits before donating my life’s blood (I got 55% British and 45% American on the quiz, so I’m just going to own it and talk about biscuits and trousers and rubbish bins like the classy person that I am now, thanks to Buzzfeed and the fact that I drink a lot of tea). Cheerio, then, darlings. I’m still alive and replenishing blood to give to others who are less picky than those mad colonists across the pond with their restrictive blood donation regulations. It’s my duty as an O-.

 Photos courtesy of my American friend, la belle Claire:

Prepped for blood-letting

Selfie with the Doc

Selfie before the needle in my arm made it impossible for me to take more selfies

Recovering after telling the Doc that I don't need the IV

Bag of my blood. (I'm "Amada," if you were wondering.)

Proof of my British-ness