Giving Blood

The following story is not meant to deter anyone from giving blood. Giving blood is an important service to the community and society. I've given blood on many, many occasions and the following story is an anomaly.

I've given blood "at the office" for years, since my brother's car accident (another story for another day). I mean, they come to my workplace and everything, how can you deny them? So this is the story of how I didn't give blood today - at least any blood they could use. I'll use actual names because, well, I don't know these people and I would testify in court (if I had to) that this is what really happened.

I showed up on time for my appointment and read the requisite warning message about giving blood (you can't give if you're HIV positive, for example. Duh!). Next, I made the short trek out to the "blood bus", a former school bus that the blood bank people converted into a "blood-mobile". Once inside, I met Natalya, a young (early 20s?) nurse? and endured many questions about my travels, my sex life, and several other personal choices. The questions border on the ridiculous. Consider:

-Between the years 1980 and 1996, did you collectively spend more that 3 months in any of the following countries: Britain, Germany, the Ivory Coast, Uganda, Madagascar, etc, etc, etc.
-Have you had sex with a man since 1977? (I presume they don't ask women this question.)
-Have you taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you had sex with someone who has taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex?
-Have you ever paid for sex with someone who took IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex with a doctor who prescribed IV drugs?

Okay, maybe that last one wasn't actually one of the questions, but it very well may have been. It's basically an exercise in a)Reading fast (Natalya's part); and b)Saying, "No" (my part). I'm not sure either of us was paying full attention. Anyway, once Natalya had checked my iron (43 - an acceptable score) and my blood pressure (124/88), I was ready to go.

I prefer the left arm for this procedure for no particular reason. So I settled in and let the process begin. Natalya and I continue our Question - "No" exercise. "Are you allergic to iodine or betadyne?" I'm asked. "No" So she wrapped a velcro belt around my upper arm and began the vein-finding process, which for me has always been easy. She marked spots around the vein with a Sharpie-brand permanent marker, then started swabbing the area with the io- and beta- dines.

Finally, the needle prick. I hate the thought or sight of any foreign object entering my body. I always look away for the needle part. So I ask Natalya to tell me when the needle's about to go in so I can look away, and she complies. I stare out the bus window. It's sunny. Oh look, there's so and so going off to lunch. Hey, that's a nice c.....

PRICK!

There, that's not so bad. A little pinch, then I can start...

"Oops"

I hear Natalya mutter something under her breath. It couldn't have been "Oops," could it? Naah, I'll just keep looking out the window, then she'll tell me to squeeze my hand every few seconds and I'll be out of here in 10 minutes.

"Um..." Natalya is trying to get my attention. What was that I felt? Did she accidentally pull the needle out?!?

"Can you hold this?" Natalya is pressing a bloody gauze pad on my needle site. "The needle came out," she says sheepishly.

When I muster the courage to look, I notice there is blood covering the armrest where my arm rests and is dripping on the floor. My blood. Definitely not going into that plastic bag. Nope. It's right there on the floor.

A more senior nurse looks over and gives Natalya a "your patient is dripping blood on the floor" look, which Natalya responds with a "I think I fucked up" look. "Would you like some help?" asks the senior nurse.

The two nurses hurriedly cleaned up my bloody mess, while other donors watched helplessly, gently squeezing their blood neatly into their plastic bags. They hid their fear well. On more than one occasion both Natalya and the senior nurse asked me, with actual nurse-like concern, "Are you okay?" Each time I nodded vacantly.

I wish the story ended here. In retrospect, I should have stopped it right here. Karma, the gods, whoever, would be preventing me from giving blood on this day. But I persisted. I've seen the patients who use the blood at the hospital, and they are much worse off than I, so I should quit whining and switch arms.

"So, shall we give it another shot?" I ask the senior nurse. This induces a double-take. "You really wanna do that?" she asks. Buoyed by my visits to my brother's hospital room, I bravely declare, "yeah, sure."

So I switch arms and begin the process again. I try to make small talk with Natalya, whose confidence has noticeably sagged. Since she had to throw away the first plastic blood bag, she also now has to relabel all those little vials and get a new bag. It's awkward enough, so I say something about re-sticking the barcode labels onto the vials, and she grunts an unintelligible answer.

"Are you okay with me doing this again?" Natalya asks as we get to the needle part again. This is a moral dilemma, really. What I'd really like to say - what I would have said without inhibition - was "Um...NO BLEEPIN' WAY!" However, given her sagging confidence, I thought it might be bad for future donors if I said that. Plus, what a great guy I'd be for giving Natalya the confidence she needs to finish her assignments for the rest of the day.

"Yeah, sure," I blare confidently. I give her my "Go get 'em" look. Rah Rah. Phil, you're a great guy.

PRICK!

"Ow," I say involuntarily. "It burns."

Natalya persists. I can feel her feeling around for the vein with the needle. "Is that better?"

"Yeah, a little, I guess..." But Natalya never leaves my side. Now she's watching the bag. It's still empty. I can see some blood in the tube, but it's not making it to the bag. I check the armrest. So does Natalya, which is disconcerting. So much so she asks, with serious concern, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sure," I mutter.

Natalya calls the senior nurse over again. Senior nurse proceeds to move the needle around in my arm and they watch the bag intently.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"You're not filling up the bag fast enough," senior nurse tells me. "We'll give it another minute."

Another minute goes by, with senior nurse and Natalya watching the bag. Senior nurse says to Natalya, "It's too slow, let's just stop." Then she looks to me and says, "I guess it's just not your day," and walked away.

Natalya took what seemed like forever getting the needle out of my arm. She mentioned that it was likely that this site would bruise and swell, and if it does I should ice it. Then she said, "Sorry."

So, to sum up, I got stuck with needles twice, bled quite a bit, but gave no blood today. I'll give blood the next time they visit my employer, but I can honestly tell you that I'm not brave enough to endure another blood letting at Natalya's hands.