A Bloody Tale

After nine months and eight exams I was informed I needed to donate one pint of blood to the Firefighter Corps’ account before becoming a full-fledged firefighter. Great! I’ve learned not to fear fire. One must respect it. Now, needles are a different matter. I’m rather not fond of them and must be forced to respect them, especially when they are stuck in my veins. But hey it’s for a good cause and it’s always good to try something new. You get a free blood test too! My sleeves are rolled up. Pick one.

1:00 PM
I arrive to Santo Tomas Hospital right after a nice lunch. I had heard it is important to eat a good meal before one donates blood. I approach the front desk at the blood bank. They take down my information and ask me to wait. And so I wait. I take this time to look around at my surroundings. Everything looks clean and hygienic. I am the only one in line to donate. It must be a slow day at the bank. In fact, I found out later that only about 5% of eligible donors actually make a deposit. Also most people contribute at times when family members need it for surgery.

1:15 PM
A group of three people walk into the bank. To me, it seems like a daughter and her two parents. She goes to the register with her father who, I overheard, needed blood for an operation. They are told to wait. Sitting down next to me the three start conversing. The daughter says, “Most people are cowards when it comes to donating blood. The last time I donated blood there was a guy next to me shaking and turning red like a shrimp.” The father responds, “Well you know its because the needle is much larger than a regular needle.” What did I just hear? It’s a fairly large room, but it is empty and I’m not deaf. Don’t they know this is my first time? I bet they do and they just want to torment me further. I decide to take a picture while I wait.

1:25 PM
I am finally called. This is it. I'm ready. I follow the nurse and she proceeds to weigh me and check my temperature. Standard procedure I imagine. Then she grabs my finger and pricks it with a small steel blade. What the hell?! My finger is bleeding!!! Damn… Now she takes a little straw sucks up some of the blood. Then two plates of glass are pressed against my bloodied finger. A cotton swab is placed on the cut. Is this my donation? It doesn’t look like one pint, but man does my finger sting. The nurse informs me to wait outside.

1:35 PM
That was just for test purposes. Apparently you can’t just go in and donate any old blood. It has to be healthy and clean and what not. So I sit back down. I look at the clock to gauge how long I have been in the “waiting” room. 7:22. Figures. Of course they don’t want someone to know what time it really is. I look at my cell phone watch. 1:37. I wait some more. They call the other lady to get her test, but she, as I before her, thinks it’s going to be the actual donation. She returns disappointed. A new donor walks in, registers, and is asked to wait.

1:50 PM
It’s my turn again! I’m directed to an office of some sort. There are no needles in sight. I prepare myself to be disappointed again. The woman in the lab coat begins to ask me questions about my health, allergies, and any medications I’m taking. It’s an interview test. She tells me to wait outside. I sit down and look at the clock. 7:22? Not only is it the wrong time, this clock is in a perpetual universe where the time is always 7:22! I take a picture and wait some more. After some minutes the two other donors pass through their interviews.

2:10 PM
I am called again. Now, I’m sure they must need a hair sample or some sort of x-ray. But no. This is it! And not only do they call me, they call all of us! They take us to a small room with very comfy chairs, kind of like industrial lazy boys. We all sit down and they proceed to prep us, starting with me. My arm is washed in a combination of three fluids one of which I'm sure is alcohol based. I look to my right and find the plastic bag, which will be filled with my blood in the near future. Attached to it is a tube that I follow with my eyes to its end. There, I find a needle covered in a plastic cap and plastic wrap. It looks new and antiseptic.

2:12 PM
The nurse secures my upper right arm with a strap and places a red rubber ball in my right hand. Now he prepares the needle and I look straight ahead. My eyes are not prepared to witness the needle pierce my flesh down to and into my vein. What was that? I think in my head. It is a strange sensation, not painful, but uncomfortable. Like you have just been connected to some sort of machine. The nurse says to start squeezing and relaxing my hand on the red ball. This action is necessary as you are physically pumping the blood into the bag. So it begins.

2:16 PM
I have been looking at the same point for long enough. I decide to take a gander at my arm. Good lord! That’s not a needle; it’s a freakin nail! Now, my eyes can’t move away from this spectacle, when just seconds ago they would refuse to even sneak a peak. I found myself thinking too hard about the gruesome process-taking place under my skin. I knew that if my mind continued on that thought I would certainly faint. I looked at the bag. 450mL. That’s how much a pint is?! In Ireland maybe, I thought. The bag wasn’t even half full of a dark red liquid resembling a 1998 Rioja. I concentrated on squeezing the red ball.

2:22 PM
The red ball thing becomes exhausting. I look at the bag. It’s almost full! I ask the nurse if I’m done. Answer: No. I wait and squeeze. But I know I’m close. The machine under the bag makes a beep. Now I’m done. The nurse takes a pair of scissors and a clamp. Clamps the tube near my arm and cuts it on the opposite side closer to the bag. The bag is taken away. “Hey I still have a freakin needle in my arm!”, I say very loudly in my mind. The nurse returns and places the remaining blood in my part of the tube in two vials. Probably for more testing, I think. Now the needle is taken out of my arm and a cotton swab goes in its place. The nurse tells me to hold my arm up. I get a good look at the needle now that it is free from my arm. I really think they build homes or bridges with “nails” like these.

2:28 PM
I am told to place my arm down. The nurse puts one of those small round bandages on my wound. He asks, “Do you feel ok?” I say yes. I am told to fold my arm and hold it for 10 minutes. I get a hearty thanks, my deposit receipt, and get rushed out to the waiting room. I had heard that after a donation, the blood bank should offer you orange juice and a cookie to replenish your strength. No cookie. No juice. I leave Santo Tomas parting with 8 to 10% of my blood, but with an added sense of a good deed done. I enter my car with unbridled enthusiasm, which slowly fades when I realize I won’t be able to drive for another 10 minutes.

Go to www.givelife.org to find out more about donating blood.