The progression of my childhood was marked by events that I never really wanted to partake in. Chores. Homework. Yearly physicals punctuation with vaccinations. I took part in the shared dream, which was, of course, that when I became an adult I would be free of these burdens, a master of own destiny. So long doctors, putting on sunscreen, and mowing the lawn!
The sad reality was that when I entered the real world it was without fanfare or a certificate of freedom from enduring discomfort. Conversely, it was the same except that I had nothing but my own blossoming maturity to blame for sitting in the dentist chair or getting my yearly hernia exam, which oddly enough happened at the same time.
Topping the list of undesirables is anything with a needle. Holding root in the deepest danger-sensing structures in my brain was a irrational and powerful fear, which at first seems kind of funny.
The humor was lost on me today as I sat in the waiting room of The Puget Sound Blood Center awaiting a fate I detest above all others: giving blood. Adding to my disorientation and panic was my blindness; I’d just come from the eye doctor where I’d had my pupils dilated, so with an hour or so to kill before I could drive I stumbled into the center, wide-eyed and wearing sunglasses, probably looking like an addict. I found my way to the donation desk, filled out requisite paperwork from an arm’s length with one squinted eye, and then followed Monica into the screening room.
My hopes that she’d locate a disqualifying factor were dashed and soon she led me into the donation room where I lay down in a reclined chair and propped my arm up. I felt uneasy, but the usual panic didn’t come. Monica prepped my arm, I took a breath, and the needle was in. The race was on.
I tend to fill the bag in about 4 minutes, fully aware that the sooner the bag is filled, the sooner the needle comes out. Despite being a shaky mess, I’m a great donor with tons of iron, huge veins, and a strong flow. Being O-Pos, I’m also a fairly useful supplier to have on hand. It was about a minute in that the other nurse started talking to the first-time-donor next to me about where the blood was going.
Seattle, she mentioned, has an abnormally high percentage of cancer patients due to the excellent treatment centers that draw them in. Due to the radiation and chemo, a constant supply of blood is necessary to replenish lost blood organelles that carry oxygen (red blood cells), help with clotting (platelets), and fight infection (white blood cells). This is one of the reasons for the aggressive campaigns for blood; accident victims are much less common recipients of blood than cancer survivors.
As she’s saying this, I relive the call I’d gotten from Mom earlier in the day; after a two week wait, the results of her CAT scan revealed significant reduction in the size of the tumors in her liver. It was news I’d been hoping for, the best one can really dream of in this new arrangement of living in three month blocks between scans. And I couldn’t react; I’d sat in my office, told her how great the news was, and then went about my day numb and unable to process what wonderful news this was.
Until, of course, I was sitting with a needle in my arm, half blind, and started welling up. Appreciating that a 210lb man who is afraid of needles would only look sillier lying there crying, I calmed myself down and practiced yawning exaggeratedly to justify the wet eyes, now looking like a very tired addict.
The thing is, I know how much giving helps, and how fortunate I am to be able to–because that’s what my Mom used to do. Every two months she would take us down to the Red Cross as kids where she would donate while we sat and ate cookies. Mom, like me, has an irrational fear of needles, but she kept on going because her fear was outweighed by her desire to try to help people. I can only imagine how hard it’s been for her to be poked with needles every week for the past year, and I recall how upset she was when she first got her port put in her chest for the chemo; I remember how quietly upset I was when she would only half-hug because she was afraid of having someone push on it. She eventually got used to it, but being of the same mindset, I honestly don’t know how. But just as with donating, she’s never complained. She never bemoaned this hand she’d been dealt and never blamed anyone for the challenge she now has to overcome. So to me, fear no longer seemed and adequate excuse to not roll up my sleeve. I had been fortunate enough today to have good news, and it seemed only fitting to pay that goodness forward in some small measure.
With a swift pull and an application of an arm wrap, it was over. I was asked my name a few times and then walked over to sit at the juice table. Sitting there, I began to think what the blood would be used for. Would my red blood cells help carry oxygen for a cancer patient who had lost his or her own? Would it help strengthen him or her for the long fight ahead? How selfish of me to make excuses for so long when people who may have needed help were out there.
Somewhere around my 4th cookie I began to look around the room–people of all kinds were filtering in and out. Large older men who looked like bikers; a younger woman with a faux-hawk; a young woman about college age–all here for no other reason than a benevolence towards fellow humans. Should you worry about the divisiveness of politics, the divisions between people, or the general sense that we are becoming a callous and uncaring society, I implore you to donate blood and witness the anonymous sacrifices that complete strangers make without complaint or recognition. You may leave a pint of blood, but you will gain respect for the kindness of fellow human beings that will buoy you up for weeks afterwards.
And have a cookie for me and my Mom.
I survived!
They did not.
Like to roll up your sleeve and help? It’s wildly easy to find area blood drives or to simply walk in to a local blood center (though appointments are encouraged and are extremely efficient).
For the downtown Seattle Donation Center:
Whole Blood Donation Hours
- Monday: 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.
- Tuesday through Thursday: 12:00 Noon to 8:00 p.m.
- Friday: 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.
Call 800-398-7888 now for your donation appointment or make an appointment online.