I moved to Pittsburgh my senior year of high school in order to live with my father and sister. Previously, I had been residing in Long Beach, California, with my mother, step father, and younger brother, George. George was diagnosed with hemophilia less than 3 hours after he was born. In April of 1993, my parents were concerned. Hemophiliacs had been prime victims of the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the 80s, and well, they weren’t exactly sure the government had completely secured the blood banks. It was a family decision we all had to make, let George receive blood transfusions and factor 9 from the blood banks and test labs, or spend a grueling 3 hours every month donating the blood for him. This particular decision was a hard one, seeing as it would not only affect George and my parents, but also my sister and me as well.