A couple of weeks back I got a phone call from the Red Cross Blood Service. It had been three months since my last donation, and with Easter coming they needed blood urgently. Would I have the time to come in?
Now, I have an extremely poor record when it comes to needles. I'd do just about anything to avoid a needle; including having both my children without drugs for pain relief, partly because that's how I wanted to do it, and partly because the mere thought of an anesthetist aiming an epidural needle at my spine made my skin crawl.
I can vividly remember receiving my vaccinations at age five, before starting school, and the searing pain of the jab, followed by that cold, metallic feel of the vaccine entering my body. When I was 14, I had four teeth removed as part of my orthodontic treatment, two of which were upper teeth. And what did that require? You guessed it, several painful injections into the roof of my mouth. I'm sure part of the reason they give you so much local anesthetic for dental work is to deaden your taste buds so you can't savor the blood pouring down your throat from the dentist's handiwork. Plus I think dentists get a kick out of seeing you post-anesthetic, drooling and speaking like some sort of medieval village idiot with rabies.
When I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I opted to go under general anesthetic rather than local, because the thought of one needle that put me to sleep was easier to bear than multiple needles in my mouth, followed by much twisting and tugging to remove the offending teeth with me awake to witness the whole debacle. Even with the general they gave me an anesthetic cream for my hand before they put the drip in. Ah, the luxury of day surgery in a private clinic!
Did I mention that I have the smallest veins of any adult in the world? When I was admitted to hospital during my college years with some sort of weird kidney infection that was a result of too much alcohol and not enough sleep they had to use a drip from the children's ward to rehydrate me, because the needles in the adult drips actually enveloped my vein, rather than entering it. Sorry, maybe you didn't want to know about that. It even makes me queasy, and they're my veins.
So why would I want to give blood? Because I can. And that's no mean feat because, with the very stringent rules about who can and can't donate blood, the list of acceptable donors excludes a fair amount of the population.
If you've had a tattoo, piercing or male-to-male sex you must defer donation for 12 months from the "point of contact". Sadly, if you're a sexually active gay man, the current exclusions mean that you will never be able to donate. If you're pregnant or breastfeeding, have been sick (even just a cold), taken antibiotics or had major dental work done, you also have to defer your donation.
If you're in Australia or the USA, and you've lived in the UK for six months or more between 1980 and 1996 – you're out, permanently. Apparently the blood service isn't taking its chances with mad cow disease. You're also permanently off the donor list if you've had open heart surgery (and frankly, if that's you, you've had enough to contend with in your life without worrying about giving blood!), have used intravenous drugs or have a blood-borne disease like HIV or Hepatitis B or C.
You also have to be over 18 and weigh more than 110 pounds (50kg). Amazingly, even with all these criteria, I still managed to pass muster. Besides being one of the lucky ones allowed to, I donate because I believe in karma. OK, it sounds like baloney, but being a blood donor saved my mother's life. Long before I began donating blood, my mother was a regular donor, and would always ask if I wanted to come along when she donated, to see what it was like. I was always too afraid, and secretly thought the Red Cross people would somehow trick me into donating.
After one donation, the Red Cross called my mother, informing her that she had a significantly raised white blood cell count, and to see her doctor. After tests Mom discovered she was in the first stages of colon cancer, the disease that had taken her own mother's life. Mom had no symptoms, and if the Red Cross hadn't picked up the anomaly in her blood, the cancer would have progressed to a much more serious condition before being detected.
Even after my Mom's "good fortune", it still took me until after my daughter was born to pluck up the courage to make my first donation. (Unbeknownst to me, I was six weeks pregnant with my son when I first donated, so he probably gave a little too.) I made the decision to donate after my daughter was born, when I began to hear stories from other mothers in the hospital and mother's groups, about their babies who needed transfusions, or their needing a transfusion, and it got me thinking, "What if my baby needed a transfusion? What if I needed one?" Until then, I'd never thought about the people who give this amazing gift – I'd just taken it for granted that they did.
I give blood because it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. And that's not just the fainting feeling I get when I haven't had enough liquids before donating, and they have to slap cold packs on my forehead and tilt the chair way back so my feet are up higher than my head. Donating blood makes me feel like I'm giving something back to the community. I don't have (or make) the time to volunteer, and having two young children means that we don't have a lot of money to donate to worthy causes, but giving blood is something I can do, that makes a difference, and only costs me an hour of my time.
