I still own the yellow T-shirt I received in September 1980 that asks, "Are you my type?"

I got it for donating blood my first time.

During orientation at the University of Pennsylvania, I was a typical idealistic freshman. One of the first college things I did was to give a pint of blood at Houston Hall. I saw no reason not to since I was 0+, the universal donor. Little did I know that, 28 years and many iodine-covered arms later, my intention simply to do a good deed every 55 days would potentially save my life.

Last fall, I noticed my iron level decreasing when I gave finger-prick samples before lying on a gurney to donate blood. Then, in December of last year when I went to my temple to donate in support of Rodef Shalom Congregation, the blood droplet did not sink at all in the blue solution, indicating that I might be anemic.

The Central Blood Bank staff suggested that I see my doctor to determine why my hemoglobin had dropped without apparent reason.

After undergoing a hemocult test and other blood work, I was directed to see a gastroenterologist. He performed a colonoscopy and endoscopy to detect the cause of my anemia.

I still haven't learned what caused my anemia, but a malignant tumor in my colon was detected. At least five pathologists were consulted to interpret the biopsy of the unusual polyp that had been removed. They were baffled at its unique qualities and location, but they agreed that the accidental discovery of the lymphoma, thanks to my giving blood, was fortuitously timed.

No one was more surprised by the turn of events than the cadre of physicians chosen by my father, a rheumatologist, to deal with the situation. Dad, a man whom I regarded as a medical guru, was very supportive but equally confused. The phone calls that the oncologist, the GI specialist, my father's partner and my primary-care physician reluctantly placed to me were far more foreboding than I could have anticipated.

In the stressful weeks that followed, I learned way too much about type-B giant cell aggressive lymphoma. I also became a fan again of Mario Lemieux, who beat lymphoma and returned to play, capping a Hall of Fame career with the Pittsburgh Penguins. I learned that a Boston Red Sox pitcher, Jon Lester, is a cancer survivor who recently came back as strong as ever. A classmate at the United Jewish Federation gave me three packs of LiveStrong bracelets to remind me that another famous athlete, Lance Armstrong, overcame huge odds in his struggles with cancer.

These inspirational examples from the world of sports gave me hope that I could return to my modest "weekend warrior" activities of golf, tennis, softball and basketball. I would not let any nefarious CD 20 lymphoma cells weaken my future.

After a battery of MRIs, CT-scans and an all-too-memorable bone-marrow biopsy, everyone appeared to be "happily perplexed" despite my enigmatic diagnosis.

Having undergone extensive probing of my every crack and crevice, I felt lucky to have endured only a few months of exams to identify my key health problem. It felt serendipitous to have accidentally uncovered a potentially life-threatening disease merely from routinely performing my quarterly mitzvah of donating blood.

I am now able to let people know that three months of intravenous Rituxan treatment have rewarded me with a clean bill of health. Without detracting from my appreciation for my prescient physicians and superlative nurses, I have to thank karma most of all.

But for my regular service to the community, I wonder ...

Giving blood obviously saves lives; the blood bank slogan is "Brighten Life." The back of my donor card says, "To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world."

Coincidentally, the UJF class where I met the friend who gave me the LiveStrong bracelets, taught me that, according to the Old Testament, "If you save one life, it is as though you have saved the entire world."

I have often found it stressful to get to the blood bank over the past few years due to work obligations, etc. Yet my biggest disappointment of the past six months was being told that I am no longer permitted to donate blood.

Prior to this experience, I bled voluntarily out of a sense of obligation, because it was the right thing to do. I was raised to pursue "Tikkun Olam," the Jewish principle of "repairing the world." Now, sadly, I have one less way in which I may aid in the betterment of society.

I want to turn this experience into a positive event, so ...

Please give blood; you may save the life of a loved one.

Please give blood; you may inadvertently save your own life.

Please take my place and please give blood ... because you can and I cannot.