A PRICKY SITUATION
The Ultimate Guide On How Not To Donate Blood
Do as I say, not as I do
It was a mundane Monday night. I was sitting in my college apartment on the living room couch. My housemates, both nursing majors, were reliving the day’s events. Apparently, it is socially acceptable to have a class where the “curriculum” entails stabbing your classmates with sterile needles — that’s why I am a business major.
Our conversation brought to mind one of my lifelong dreams — item #47 on the good old bucket list — donating blood. More importantly, I needed to find out what letter of red liquid — positive or negative — was circulating in my body. It felt like a rite of passage to know.
Curious, I did a quick Google search to realize our university just so happened to be hosting a blood drive the very next day — it felt like fate.
After securing my spot, I asked my housemates to give me the rundown. They assured me I would be perfectly fine as long as I made sure to drink lots of water. Knowing my body runs in a constant state of dehydration, I grabbed a bottle of water and started chugging it down.
Destiny was calling.
The next afternoon, ready for action, I marched into the building like a woman on a mission.
After checking me in as a voluntary lab rat for the day, they sat me down and ran some tests. As a straight-A student, I am used to passing with flying colors. Well, not this time. Apparently, I didn’t have enough “hemo-goblins” — whatever that means.
After I came all this way! I even pulled myself out of bed before 2 p.m.! I wasn’t about to give up yet. She informed me that sometimes you could test low if your hands are cold, and I was welcome to try again. Under the table I ferociously squeezed my hand in a ball, mentally summoning the power of the “hemo-goblin” gods to help me overcome this unexpected obstacle in my path. Thankfully, it worked. I felt like I just cracked the code to the safe in Mission Impossible — I was in.
I made my way over to the middle of the room and hopped up on the exam chair, excited for what was to come. Soon a 60-year-old man, a seasoned veteran I presumed, introduced himself to me.
“Hello, Christa, I am going to be your legalized vampire for the day.”
Eager to make it known, I informed him it was my first time giving blood. Slightly surprised, he told me he wanted to make sure I had a good first experience.
But first, I had to get stabbed. Mind you, my veins are the size of bendy straws. My housemates even told me they would kill to stab me —
Wait, that came out wrong.
I have big veins, okay?
You get the point.
For some reason, this operation took a significant amount of maneuvering and would leave me with a nasty bruise for the next week and a half.
After that painstaking process, my blood decided it was entering its teenage rebellion phase — it didn’t want to come out of my body. You know it is a bad sign when your medical professional has to phone a friend. He pulled over a younger-looking nurse who was not amused.
“Have you been drinking enough water?” he fired at me.
Slightly offended he would question my water-chugging efforts from the day before, I told him I did in fact drink a significant amount of water yesterday. In response, he muttered something under his breath about needing to hydrate at least a week beforehand as he grabbed the bag attached to my arm and yanked it up higher. That seemed to work. Satisfied, my legalized vampire and his partner in crime told me to holler if I needed anything, then walked off leaving me to stare at the wall.
Minutes passed, and I started to see stars. Now, I have never fainted before, but my world was going dark, and my body was getting cold. I thought to myself — man, this is just like how it happens in the movies — I knew I was about to pass out.
I yelled out across the room and suddenly every single nurse in the room was at my bedside. This was service you could only expect from a five-star Marriott hotel. In one swift movement, they kicked back my chair causing my blood to cease flowing again. One nurse was tasked with holding the bag of my blood directly above my head as I faintly heard them conversing over some numbers. Point seven? Point eight? She’s almost there. It seemed like they were more concerned about stealing my inner liquid than my personal well being.
Apparently, they finally acquired an acceptable level of B.I.D.B. — Blood In Da Bag. Now that my blood was no longer retreating from my body, I started to come back to full awareness.
As I sat up, I knew I was going to be sick. Luckily, this they had anticipated. Trash can on my lap, I relived my breakfast from that morning. The scrambled eggs and toast combo wasn’t as great the second time around.
In short, I was a terrible patient.
Afterward, for compensatory damages, they gave me snacks, a sticker, and a swanky band-aid badge of honor and sent me on my way.
Next time you get a call from the Red Cross and you think to yourself maybe today is the day to donate blood —
Don’t be me.
