Blood donations
Maddie and I recently donated blood, and we recently decided to stop donating blood. Of the three times we’ve gone, it’s gone well zero times. This last was the worst among them… the straw that broke the camel’s back… the stake that knocked out the vampire’s teeth. Afterwards, Maddie had to be screened for symptoms that the supervisor described as moderate to severe. The majority of people don’t exhibit any symptoms. In fact, the majority of people don’t even donate blood. PSA, the US is experiencing a national blood shortage. Maddie and I aren’t going to continue donating; we gave it our darndest, and now we hypocritically want you to finish the job. A wise bear once said, “Only you can prevent forest fires.”
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The first time we donated, I nearly passed out. It wasn’t the needle; it’s easy to turn my head to the side. They did miss the vein twice though, which was uncomfortable. It wasn’t the awkward small talk; I empathize with the volunteer staff trying to fulfill their clinic hours on the journey to med school. No, I think it was the fact I was dehydrated and then lost 1% of my body weight in liquids.
My vision narrowed into a flickering tunnel and all the colors seemed significantly off - dull yet blindingly bright. My body, thinking only in fragments, goosebumped over as my core being froze. And my stomach sicked with the feeling one gets on the first day of freshman cross country where you have to run two miles to establish a baseline speed, but your body can only run one and you’re running with the cross country coach so quitting isn’t an option, each stride stabs into your side. I’ve passed out twice in my life. This experience was comparable.
After laying on the operating table for three times the recommended time, slowly recovering and regaining vision, a supervisor came by and asked, “Cookie or chips?” I responded, “Both,” because I really needed it.
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The second time we donated blood - back when we cared and had committed to a 2-month cycle - I came prepared. An entire gallon of water. Spread out over 12 bathroom breaks throughout the day. When they stuck the needle in, it basically spewed out water, Old Faithful style. They didn’t say it verbally, but with their eyes they essentially said, “Damn, you’re well hydrated. I’ve never seen water before until this moment.” Direct quote.
On the other side of things, the chair adjacent me, Maddie hadn’t been so fortunate. She grievously modeled her drinking strategy after the wrong national park: Death Valley. A first-hand source reports that she drank, “Maybe two glasses of water. Max.”
While I was eating my victory chips, a well deserved recovery food, Maddie was struggling not to pass out. The symptoms included tunnel vision and the inability to think critically or operate heavy machinery. After wobbling out of the clinic, I drove us home; Maddie mentally surrendered her docket evening work and mapped out the much needed Netflix antidote to recover.
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The third and final time we donated was the worst among our ventures. The morning of the meltdown prophesied bad things to come. In a conference call with a coworker, when Maddie was asked about her day, she said, “Not great, I spilled coffee all over my desk and had to change outfits.” Upon which, the coworker replied, “Oh, speaking of spilling, my daughter recently donated blood and it didn’t go well. They stuck the needle in and her blood shot out everywhere.” The eere, totally unconnected comment didn’t inspire confidence. Maddie hadn't mentioned that we were donating blood that night, so it left us spooked.
At the clinic, our measured blood pressure was abnormally high. We were nervous due to past experiences, but on the bright side, we both drank an aggressive amount of water beforehand. Yet despite the prep, I for whatever reason had a similar experience to donation #1. However, my experience compared to Maddie was great. She’s the one who exhibited the severe symptoms.
We were the last donations of the day, so we were keeping the staff on site longer then they wanted. Here’s what I saw from my vantage point. Mind you, I was feeling awful myself. Maddie leaned up and turned ghostly white. She flagged down the attention of the staff, but they backs turned, missed her cues. Then louder, she exclaimed she was feeling sick.
Just for reference, Maddie isn’t the type of person to cause a social disturbance. If she was shot at an soiree, she’d politely ask for a band-aid before an ambulance.
Anyways Maddie, with tears in her eyes, cried out for help. The staff quickly manifested a vomit bag and Maddie yacked into the bag. She flopped back down and waded through the misery.
Later, given some time to recover, during the this-didn’t-go-right interview, Maddie failed a lot of the questions. When they asked for a contact number to follow up later, Maddie gave them the wrong phone number. Even more telling, when they asked for her birthday, Maddie gave the wrong date. I’m a good boyfriend, so I knew the answer of 5/25 was one month off. It should have been 6/25.
Not about me, Maddie was having a horrible night. We drove home and definitively decided never to donate blood again. We stopped at QFC on the way home and grabbed gatorade and saltine crackers. We got home and watched an indulgent amount of tv. The next day Maddie, sleeping through both the first and second alarms, still didn’t feel well. We made an effort not to do anything and that mildly helped.
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Moral of the story, don’t donate blood. Well, actually please do. We’re in a national blood shortage and we need you to pick up the slack of people who have decided not to donate.
