Bambi signed my donor card

Disney’s Bambi was on this week. I lasted about four minutes.  Just long enough for Mama Doe to walk her precious fawn to the edge of the meadow and deliver “the warning” that would come back to haunt him for the 90 minutes of the flick and me for the 55 years, thereafter.

However, I am  a conscious and self-responsible adult. (Yes, that phrase is my mantra, why do you ask?!) And being able to choose what I watch, I hit the “last channel” button on the remote. Which took me to the Food Channel show “Chopped”…where the three contestants were hacking at elk for the entree. It is so rich when I know Reality is effing with me and having a good laugh in the process.


My coming to terms with being a carnivore has not been an easy path. I deeply respect my friends, like Beth and Kristy and Rolando, who go vegetarian and never look back. And to prove it, I now have kick-ass vegan recipes in my repertoire.  I also tried a veggies-only diet with Kate for several weeks when she was in high school…and felt like crap. Back to being an omnivore.

Enter the soulful compromise. I took a cue from my Native American friends and their “Great Giveaway” philosophy. I offered up a near-term and a long-term solution to the Great Creator.  I now give blood every eight weeks. Each donation has the potential of saving three lives. I’m also HLA-typed to make a marrow donation, should someone, somewhere need it. And when I am gone…or getting close…I’ve asked those closest to me to pass along any part of me that is still usable.

Is it enough? I really don’t know. But there is a piece of me that believes in balance, in natural provision, and in accepting that what we take sometimes costs others. And vice versa. Plus, I grew up on a farm where animals were raised for food and we knew it. My father didn’t hunt, but my Uncle Tom and brother did. And to be honest, there were many times when the squirrels Gary shot in the timber were our delicious dinner.

I also try to stay conscious of how what I eat came to be on the table. Which led to an unpleasant interaction with a wealthy, out-of-town cousin who elected to order veal all around for a downtown Denver dinner, at which point I declined. Whereupon he yelled, “What do you think your father was raising all those years?” And I responded, “But he wasn’t raising them in 3 x 3 foot stalls where they couldn’t move!” Let’s just say, it was not one of my more elegant moments. 😉

And so.

In Colorado, if you want to donate your organs, you sign the back of your driver’s license.  I’m really not sure what the requirements are in other states.  But if the prospect interests you, click on this:

Tell ’em Bambi sent you.


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