Tim sat in the porch staring vacantly into the night. It was cool, and the sky above was an expanse of stars, yet he observed nothing of the beauty. He only remembered how years ago, he had met his wife, Lucy at a blood donation camp; his turn had come and he lay down on the bed. He had felt a thrill of joy when he was attended to by this pretty, young nurse with a white lab coat, latex gloves and a smile that spanned her cheeks.
“Tim O’Brien?” she had asked and when he nodded, proceeded with the task of drawing blood as part of the procedure. It filled into a soft bag beside him and looked anything but red.
“My blood is black,” he joked. “You sure its okay if I still donate?”
“Your blood is not black,” she smiled wisely. “It only looks like that.”
“Probably because I am just a common A Positive,” he grunted. “What’s your type?”
“It’s O Negative.”
“You’re kidding!” Tim gasped. “Really?”
“I’m not,” Lucy replied. “Would I lie to you?”
“That’s a rare blood type,” he remarked.
“I’m rare,” she quipped.
They were married a year later. Then came children – three boys and a girl and life had been good. It was only going to get better – or so Tim had thought.
Last week, it all fell apart when some drunk driver raced down the street, lost control of his car and rammed into her as she strolled home with their dog. But what shattered all his dreams was, even as she lay bleeding on her gurney as she was rushed into emergency, they couldn’t get enough blood or find a donor whose type matched hers.
“You’re rare,” he whispered, crying and Lucy smiled and passed away.