Last Friday, I did something I haven’t done enough of in the last, oh, nine years: I met up with Bulletin music contributor and my longtime pal, Ben Salmon, for a little bloodletting and lunch.

Don’t worry. “Bloodletting” is simply our shorthand for donating whole blood at the Red Cross Donation Center in the Old Mill District of Bend.

It’s something Ben and I used to do about every two months, as you have to wait at least 56 days between blood donations, for darn close to a decade after he joined The Bulletin staff in 2006. Many pints were given and indulgent lunches consumed, but then in 2015, Ben, one of the closest work friends I’ve ever made, left for work in financially greener pastures.

Still, as Bulletin features editor, I get to “hear” his voice in the sense of the fine prose he writes for GO! every week, and we DM frequently to sort out edits and other details of his coverage, but we see each other maybe one or two times per year.

About once every few months, one of us will message the other, “When are we giving blood?”

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Not often anymore, but a few weeks back, I called our bluff, dialed 1-800-RED-CROS, and made an appointment. I was even able to make one for Ben for 15 minutes after my appointment started, and last Friday, we were again off to the bloodletting races.

Literally, there used to be a phlebotomist we called Yacht Rock for his smooth demeanor and Michael McDonald beard. Knowing that Ben and I were friends, Yacht Rock liked to pit us against each other to see which of us could fill a bag the fastest. I don’t know if it was the amount of caffeine in my veins or my then-low blood pressure, but I think I lost the race to fill a unit of blood bag more than once.

One of the times I lost Yacht Rock’s made-up race, he called to us as we walked out the door, and I’m not making this up: “Later, Ben! Later, loser!”

I find few things more annoying than being measured by criteria I don’t give a crap about, but some other dude does. And this left an even worse taste in my mouth. Besides being way too familiar on a professional level, it debased my highly personal reason for giving blood. It’s an altruistic impulse. I’m not an altruistic guy per se, but personal experience led me here.

I started donating around 2005 because blood donors helped save my daughters’ lives: Lilly and Lucy, now 21-year-old college students, were delivered by C-section in 2002, two months prematurely. They were 3 pounds, 9 ounces and 4 pounds, 5 ounces, respectively. They were severely anemic and required two blood transfusions — that’s two each — in their first hours outside the womb.

Strangers, along with a crack medical team, had saved Lilly and Lucy. Would the two of them have survived without the kindhearted, thoughtful people who gave up maybe an hour of their time to donate?

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On. Jan. 30, the American Red Cross posted about the dire need for blood after winter storms forced the cancellation of nearly as many blood drives that month as it had to in all of 2023. The call for blood reads in part: “A sufficient blood supply is critical to being able to provide timely care for all patients in need of lifesaving blood transfusions. It’s the blood on the shelves that helps in times of emergency. Please make an appointment to donate now and help end the emergency blood shortage.”

So, Mr. Yacht Rock, I don’t care how long it takes to fill the bag. I want to do right like the people who did right by my children.

After Ben left The Bulletin, we lost touch a bit. I donated occasionally through 2019, when the Red Cross would come to the old Bulletin location on Chandler Avenue for blood drives. Then the pandemic happened, and another five years went by.

Some people are squeamish when they donate, but I don’t mind it, except maybe for the time I let a phlebotomist-in-training practice on my arm. My god, the digging around for the needle in the crook of my elbow still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it.

Speaking of tears, when I was on the phone making my appointment, whoever took the call thanked me for coming back and told me I’d previously donated a total of 6 gallons. I got so choked up I could barely speak to wrap up the call.

On Friday, there was no sign of Yacht Rock. It was all new faces, including that of the phlebotomist who drew my blood. She asked about plans for the rest of the day, and I told her how Ben and I were getting back to our old habit of bloodletting and lunch.

I finished filling my pint bag up in 4 minutes and 54 seconds. She said that was fast.

Ben and I were able to make another appointment for mid-April right there at the canteen, which is what they call, or used to call, the snack table where you recuperate for 15 minutes before heading off.

That’s the other thing about the Red Cross. They want you to leave feeling good. I always eat with impunity all the junk food I can as I sit there. In fact, I don’t think you gain any weight when you donate blood. It all goes to a good cause, restoring your blood sugar so you don’t pass out.

When Ben finished up and joined me for snacks, I asked him his finish time. He answered by asking what mine was. When I told him, he said, “Yeah, that.”

Good answer, Ben. I wonder what competitive phlebotomist Yacht Rock would’ve made of a tie?

Then, like the donor I’d just watched stuff snacks into his windbreaker pockets, Ben and I walked out with a few extra packages of Cheez-Its and cookies.

Something felt different as we walked out the door. Maybe it was knowing I was now up to 6 gallons and one pint, with my next appointment made. Maybe it was the late-winter sun shining down on me. Maybe it was quality time and laughs with an old friend. Maybe it was just the sugar coursing through my veins.

Whatever it was, I felt lighter somehow. I certainly didn’t feel like a loser, anyway.