It’s a good thing I have no desire to shoot heroin because my veins just wouldn’t be down with that little hobby. My veins are hard to find and if a phlebotomist is lucky enough to snag one, it’s guaranteed to collapse within seconds, leaving my arms bruised and mottled for days. But did that stop me from trying to donate blood? Heck no!
My veins were recently called into service to donate blood for an immediate family member who is undergoing serious medical treatment. I had already flunked to be a donor for another treatment she needed, so the least I could do was pony up some blood.
But in true CWG form, this was easier said than done.
Anyone who has ever donated blood is familiar with the bevy of questions they ask to determine your eligibility. I sailed through the questionnaire, passing even the more taxing questions like Have you ever taken money for sex? or Do you partake in sexual congress with animals?–to which I asked wild or domesticated? Ha.
I was excited to donate, having failed a previous attempt in the 90s. The women at the blood donation center of the hospital were so nice and promised me cookies and juice just for trying. Can I be bought for a packet of Lorna Doones and a cranberry juice? You betcha.
It took almost 15 minutes for the phlebotomist to find a vein that would be even half-way serviceable. It was on the top of my left arm, near my elbow. I suggested that a butterfly needle, one that is often used for infants or children, would be the best approach, and she laughed at me.
The needle necessary for donating blood is roughly the size of a garden hose; they can’t use anything smaller because it would damage the blood cells. A sinking feeling settled over me as she advanced with the sharpened hose. The elastic band was tight on my upper arm and I was frantically squeezing a stress ball with my hand to help my one, lonely vein stand out.
She told me to keep my head turned away, but I couldn’t resist sneaking a peek. Imagine my shock when she tapped the vein on the first shot! And it didn’t collapse! Bonus! She covered the needle and hose with gauze and told me to relax and watch television.
Instead, I watched my blood course through the tube and into a GIANT bag that was resting on a see-saw type of machine. It took seven minutes to pump the requisite amount of blood–a pint? a gallon? a metric ton?–and the promised cookies and juice were in sight.
As I made a move to sit up, a wave of nausea washed over me and a bell started clanging in my ears. I felt the color drain from my face and was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of nurses and vampires. And then, blackness.
artist's rendering of me fainting...lol
The next thing I remember was the strong smell of ammonia and a buzz of voices.
Yes, friends, I FAINTED AFTER GIVING BLOOD. How cliche is that?
After I came to, the nurses kept me in a recumbent position, bicycling my legs in the air, answering inane questions, and drinking juice to keep me conscious. I remained in the blood center for well beyond the hour I told my family member I’d be gone.
The kicker to the whole saga? Just as I was finally getting up to have cookies, I got a text message from my relative who was (impatiently) waiting for me to get back upstairs to her room. This is what it said:
not my actual phone, but that was the message...
I’m sticking with mac and cheese* from here on out.
