Giving Blood - a First-Time Donor's Experience

My legs are hijacked somewhere between the campus center and Canaday. My brain is, as usual, in the stratosphere, more concerned with how to beat Halo Combat Evolved and pass Italian in the same semester than with not tripping on the next step or the signing consent sheet the girl in Thomas Great Hall just handed me. Wait, consent sheet? My brain crash lands in a sea of Red Cross nurses. It's Bryn Mawr College fall semester's blood drive and I have just signed away one pint of my lifeforce.

There are two things that make this a problem. 1) I hate needles. Well, it's less the needle and more the feeling that I'm being hole punched every time I get a shot that I hate. 2) I'm a noodlepansy. I wilt at the anticipation of pain. I beg, I stall, I run screaming down the hall followed by parents, nurses, and the smell of rubbing alcohol.

A woman calls "Next!" and I shuffle my way to her makeshift cubicle. She takes my information but I don't pay much attention. I'm busy looping these sentences through my brain: I'm giving blood. They're taking blood out of my body. I'm giving blood. Up for grabs! Who wants it? Fresh, right out of the vein!

My nervous state tends to manifest in a schizophrenic stream of consciousness uncensored sputtering. By the time I find myself prostrate on the table, waiting for a woman to take my blood pressure and ask me to pick a sacrificial arm, I'm mumbling out loud. "The ceiling is odd. Like leopard print pajamas. A lot of leopard print pajamas. We're on a safari. Look down and you see the humans engaging in an education. And some are bleeding into coke cans."

A Red Cross volunteer leans over me, "Are you sure you're allowed to donate? You're not on any medication?"

No, oddly enough.

The actual deed is anticlimactic. A swift clean pinch and I'm pumping blood into a bag. It is less painful than the infamous finger "prick". Of course, having your finger blended, stapled, punched, and bitten by Spock, the raccoon that lives in Pem Arch's bushes would be less painful than the finger prick.

Thirty minutes after my self-hijacking, a pint of blood successfully evacuated, I leave Thomas Great Hall with a "Be Nice To Me, I Gave Blood Today" sticker slapped on my jacket.

A month later I received my blood donor card in the mail. B negative. The next time my mother calls and asks about school I tell her I'm doing my best and if it so happens that I get a B minus in Italian this semester, well, what can I say? It's in my blood.

Aside from listing blood type and tracking your last donation, Red Cross ID cards remind us of some basic facts.

One blood donation can save up to three lives. About three gallons of blood supports the entire nation's blood needs for one minute. Less than 38% of the US population is eligible to give blood. Most donated red blood cells must be used within 42 days of collection. One pint of blood is roughly equal to one pound.

A lesser known fact about blood donation is that certain blood types are unique to certain ethnic and racial groups. Thus, racial diversity in donors needs to match the racial diversity of blood recipients.

"There are more benefits to giving blood than the sticker (though, I must admit, it helps). My body may scream no, but the facts show why it's important that we - and our arms - keep saying yes. And that's the bloody truth!"