There will be blood, really

I've always had an aversion to needles, especially the kind that doctors jab into your arm in order to suck out a pint of blood. That's why I couldn't believe myself when I agreed to donate blood last week. A few weeks ago, my roommate was taking sign-ups for his service org, and asked if I'd do it. I laughed. "Why not?" he asked. I didn't really have a reason, which ended up being my fatal mistake. "Would you let the doctors draw blood from you if it would save your life?" he asked, innocently. Of course I would. "Then why not let them do it to save other people's lives?"

Damn.

So I signed up and forgot about it – until last night. My roommate told me to make sure to drink lots of fluids and eat a good meal in the morning. I was touched at his care and concern, until I realized why he was telling me that. Then I was panicked. I went to bed apprehensive and woke up weak-kneed and nauseous. (And that was before I ate a Sodexo breakfast.) My appointment time arrived, and I texted "I love you bye" to my mom and went to St. Rob's Auditorium, where the bloodsucking was set to happen.

I filled out forms that detailed my medical history, and was more than slightly-tempted to answer "Yes" to questions that asked me about paying for sex in an attempt to escape. I decided against it, because I realized that if I died giving blood, my parents would likely see that form and would be left wondering forever. After that, I was greeted by a very kind nurse who spoke very bad English, and she detailed conditions under which I should not donate. I prayed I heard her correctly.

She pricked my finger and took blood from there without really telling me why. "First time?" she asked. I replied yes. She just laughed, which did little to console me. When she was done, I got up as if to leave – that wasn't so bad. "Oh, no," she laughed. "We use a much larger needle to take blood from your arm after this." Of course, her English was flawless when she said stuff like that. She led to me a chair that reminded me of the chair I'd sit in if I'm ever sentenced to lethal injection, and another happy nurse came and started rubbing my arm down. She told me not to look, so of course I looked when she jabbed an enormous needle into my left arm. I felt a bit dizzy, but then regained my composure and tried to look cool as a pint of blood was taken from me.

It was over in about 10 minutes, and I was told to hang out for about 15 minutes, probably in case I started dying. I went to the cookie table and took more than I was supposed to and had a seat. It really wasn't that bad. The most painful part was when the nurse removed the tape that held the IV in place from my hairy arm. As I sat, some cheery person told me that I saved three lives with my pint of blood. "Well, not yet," I said. Nobody likes a literalist.

That aside, saving three lives is certainly worth the anxiety I experienced beforehand. I used to hate it when people pressured me to give blood, so I won't do that. Instead, I'll just encourage you, tell you the cookies are really good and ask you the same question my roommate asked me: Would you do it to save your own life?

---José Martinez

Photo courtesy of JHeuser| wikicommons