Oh, Positive!

It took me almost 40 years to get up my nerve to give blood, apparently. I'm not sure why. Needles don't thrill me, but I'm not terrified of them, either. And people need blood. Mine isn't the magic universal donor O negative type (which I remember because of many episodes of ER: "2 units of O neg! Stat!"), but it's O positive, which is still pretty helpful. It seems like the kind of good-girl thing that would have been right up my alley all along. For whatever reason, though, last week marked my first blood donation.

And it was........no big deal.

As I was lying on the cot, squeezing the little bike-handle-thinger I was supposed to squeeze, I mused for a while about what I had been waiting for. Maybe it was just that since I'd never done it, my tendency to stay away from the unknown had kept me from making that first donation.

So here, for your benefit, gentle reader, I will detail the events of my first blood donation experience in order to remove one more obstacle from your ability to do this particular variety of civic good.

Arrival: I had made an appointment online (through the New York Blood Center, which works in NJ as well) for a blood drive on the other side of town, but I got the sense when I arrived that I could just as easily have walked right in. I'm glad I made the appointment, though, for my own sake. It got my butt off the couch and out the door. On arrival I was directed to a set of tables with cardboard privacy screens and papers to fill out. The paperwork was pretty easy, consisting mostly of questions I know the answers to, such as whether I have ever worked as a prostitute. (I have not, in case you're wondering.)

Screening: I waited, clutching my filled-out triplicate forms, until my name was called for my medical screening. I sat down behind another privacy-screened table with a woman I found absolutely fascinating. She was older, but not old, and seemed really tough. Serious and lean and sinewy, she did her job with a subdued, civil severity that made me wonder about her: what is her backstory? To whom is she precious? What brought her here? I was nervous, and when I'm nervous I babble, so I refrained from asking her any personal questions at all lest I fall immediately into invasiveness. She clarified a couple of answers on my sheet (guessing correctly that the "other people's blood" I'd come in contact with over the last year belonged to my accident-prone children), got some vital statistics, pricked my finger (which hardly hurt at all thanks to the little spring-loaded gizmo she used), took my blood pressure, and sent me back to the waiting area.

Donating: After maybe 10 minutes I was called into the back room to make my deposit. As soon as I walked in, a very pleasant nurse asked me to show her my veins, so I stretched out my arms, knowing what reaction I would get. "Oh, yeah," she said. "You sit right down." That's right, people. I have great veins. Somehow this feels like an accomplishment, and I will admit to feeling a little bit smug about it, as if I had anything at all to do with it.

The nurse seemed like she had probably done this about a billion times, which I found comforting, since before my last c-section my hand served as the guinea pig for a tentative student's very first IV insertion. That was not so fun. This professional, though, had it down cold. She gave me the squeezy thing which looked like it had been lifted from a kid's bike handlebar and warned me that I would feel a little pinch. I told her I'd be looking away, and she was not offended.

And that's what it was: a little pinch. A little bit pinchier, maybe, than when a doctor takes blood to test for whatever, but not by a lot. It made me wince a tiny bit, but then it was over, and I reasoned that the opportunity to help save someone's life was worth the pinch. The rest of the visit didn't hurt at all.

I lay on the cot for about 10 minutes, obediently squeezing the thinger every 10 seconds or so. During this interval the quiet, serious woman who had done my screening, having finished her shift at the privacy-shrouded tables, came in to switch places with someone else. As they spoke I discovered something significant about her.

She was a man.

Oops.

I quickly tried to replay our entire conversation in my head, and I don't think I said anything that would have betrayed my error. PRAISE THE LORD that I didn't give in to the temptation to ask her...sorry, him...any personal questions.

Having dodged that bullet, I soon heard a beeping noise that apparently meant I was done. My friend the nurse removed the needle without causing any pain at all. I held a cotton ball over the spot where it had been, and I assessed my own physical condition: no dizziness, no nausea, nothing. They thanked me cheerfully and walked me out to the snack table, where I was instructed to sit for 15 minutes before going home. I didn't really feel weak, but I don't often get told that I can sit quietly for 15 minutes at a table that has fruit juice, pretzels, and Lorna Doone cookies (!!), so I obliged.

And that was it. Done and done.

In closing, I have the following advice to offer you, fellow first-timer:

1. Eat before you go. They'll ask. They probably didn't need to know that I had a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a banana, but I'm thorough.
2. Don't wear a skirt. I made that mistake, and it didn't bother me in the least, but they had to take extra measures (sheet-like thing) to ensure my modesty when I was getting up and down from the cot.
3. Maybe avoid unnecessary aspirin in the days preceding the donation? The form asked whether I'd had any aspirin in the previous 72 hours. I don't know whether that would have disqualified me, but I remember thinking that would have been a good thing to know ahead of time.
   
4. Don't ask gender-specific questions of your screener. She may be a man.

Other than that, though, you should be good. Go and save a life.

One final note: I've been wanting an iPod touch, and the NY Blood Center has a rewards program where you can earn all manner of nifty stuff including an iPod touch. I've been doing the math, and I figure if I donate every time I'm eligible (every 56 days), I'll totally have an iPod touch by April of 2024. Awesome.