One thing you never want to hear your hairstylist say is, “Oops.” Or your doctor. Or your dentist. Or the phlebotomist at the Red Cross blood drive.
When I donated blood for the first time, it was the phlebotomy intern’s first time drawing it. She was small and skinny, and her hands shook as she tied a latex tourniquet (extra tight) around my arm. Her supervisor watched from over my shoulder and made comforting comments like, “she’s practiced on tomatoes dozens of time,” and, “you have very nice veins.” I said something smart-alecky like, “I get my veins from my Dad’s side of family, along with my nose and my lactose intolerance.”
The young phlebotomist angled the needle against the inside of my elbow and asked her supervisor, “Like this?” The older woman nodded. The intern took a breath, lifted the needle several inches into the air, then stuck it in my skin like she was popping a balloon. “Oops,” she said, when I yelped.
The supervisor squinted at my arm and winced. “You missed the vein. That’s OK, try again. And not so fast. Insert the needle, don’t stab her.”
The intern wiggled the needle before she yanked it out. This time she put it in slowly, snail-turtle-line-at-the-DMV slow. “Oops. You missed again,” the supervisor diagnosed. “And not that slow. That hurts worse than doing it too fast.”
“Yes, it does,” I thought.
She found the spot on her third try, but pushed the needle in one side of the vein and out the other. They both said, “Oops.” I fought the “fight or flight” instinct and parroted through clenched teeth, “That’s OK. Try again.”
They wrapped my left arm in gauze and switched to the right. I can’t remember if they succeeded on the fourth, fifth or sixth try. I distracted myself by wondering what the Geneva Convention would have to say about this. Cruel and unusual torture, I concluded.
Finally, the donation was completed successfully. I got not one, but two of those “I Gave Blood Today” stickers (double the bragging rights/double the sympathetic looks) and an extra pack of Oreos (actually, I think I stole several). And the next time there was a blood drive, I donated again.
I donated then, and continue to donate, because a few minutes of discomfort is a small price to pay for someone’s life. A tiny “oops” that bruises my arm is better than the big “oops” that would happen if some poor kid got hurt in a car crash and there wasn’t enough blood to save their life.
Definitely worth it.
Did a bad experience stop you from donating blood? If so, what happened?
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I’m one of those “I hate the needle!” people. I’ve passed out, hyperventilated, got sick to my stomach, etc. My husband says, “Karen, it doesn’t hurt.” That’s not the point! The pain from that little prick is nothing.
It’s a mind thing. Needle + Karen’s body = hysteria! With all the surgical procedures I’ve had these last six years, it’s getting a bit easier; in fact, my last IV went very well!
But my first time to give blood … oh my! I was only doing it because corporately we were having a blood drive to support the daughter of one of our employees, a girl with cancer. And I was quite strict with myself, saying … “Karen, this is for Danielle. You can do it.”
Before it was my turn I lined up someone to hold my hand and talk to me. The nurse came up to me and the body tremors started. I turned my head as she started her thing and the tears soon filled my eyes. My friend tried to calm me. I mentally kept telling myself it was okay. But before long, the tears were streaming.
The nurse, in a polite, but very firm tone, said “If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to take the needle out.”
I’ve given blood since then … but no more tears!
excellent story – too many people give in with a little discomfort – but you hung in there with ALOT of discomfort – knowing how important it is! That’s what’s missing in so many areas of life.
Thanks to my friends/ church family members Cindy and Karen for commenting!