It might surprise some of my readers to learn that I used to be afraid of needles. Now, this was a very old fear from early childhood. I have a vague memory of being absolutely terrified before my kindergarten vaccines, and being freaked when a doctor sprung a blood draw on me at a normal visit. On an instinctive level, I don’t like being poked with pointy things. I wasn’t one of those kids who threw a fit to avoid a stick, but I was definitely scared.
With the amount of fillings I needed as a child, I would have been terrified of the dentist were it not for one thing: my dentist knew how to work with kids. He never let me see the needle, and the skin numbing made me not feel it. I could deal with that.
The defining moment that changed this fear came at the tender age of seven years old. A tumble from the monkey bars broke my left arm, and broke it good. I had to have a lot of shots of painkillers so that the doctor could set my arm (which was no small task with how close to the wrist it broke). I saw the big needles go directly into my wrist, and I felt nothing. Needles meant pain relief, and my seven-year-old brain got the message. I wasn’t afraid of needles anymore.
My courage has been put to the test over the years. Most notably, I am not a fan of blood draws. I once went through three nurses in a doctor’s office before one got a good vein to get blood. I’m not afraid of the needle itself anymore, but I am 100% USDA certified Tough Stick. What makes me crunge is the sensation of the needle digging under my skin to get into a vein and having to have the needle stuck in my arm for longer than necessary as my blood vesels run for cover. I’m not afraid, I just really don’t like it. So I've taken to drinking lots of water and looking away when I’m stuck to stay relaxed and give the phlebotomist the best chance of getting what they need.
So, despite this fear that has been replaced by a general displeasure with blood draws, I decided to donate blood. You know, there is probably a flaw in my logic. But I want to help people, and blood donation seems like such a simple, yet effective thing to do. I can do something that I know will be of use, and it’s a renewable resource! I can give over and over and still be able to spare a pint.
I’ve heard stories of people having negative experiences giving blood, and they were all at drives. Blood drives are wonderful, but may not have as many experienced staff. With my history of hiding veins, I thought it would be a safer bet to go to a brick-and mortar donation center. So, I booked my appointment and away I went.
I arrived on that Thursday after work and got checked in. All of my documentation and history showed that I was an eligible candidate to donate. The phlebotomist did the hemoglobin test (also called an iron test), and it came back very slightly too low. She ran it again and it was just barely too low to donate. Not low enough to be anemic or any cause for concern, but I could not donate that day. I had hyped myself up, drank plenty of water, and gotten there all for nothing. Dejected, I went home and scheduled another appointment for Sunday, with plans to go full Popeye on some spinach in the meantime.
On Sunday, well-hydrated and feeling like Iron Woman, I went in again for my appointment. My hemoglobin was well within the needed range (yes!) and everything else looked good, so they sat me down for the donation. I offered my right arm (I’m left-handed), and the phlebotomist started poking around for a vein. She took some time to find one, which was not exactly comforting. She found a vein, got everything in order, then it was time for the moment of truth. I looked out the window and twirled a pen in my left hand to keep myself from tensing up. I felt the familiar mosquito-bite sting as the needle went in. I tried to stay distracted from the awful sensation of the phlebotomist wiggling the needle around under my skin to find the vein. I felt another, more intense sting and tried not to think about the possibility of her having hit a nerve. I felt something warm gush down my arm and I turned to look. Blood was oozing around the needle, which was quickly withdrawn and replaced with gauze. My tiny veins had once again resisted an attempt to remove their precious fluid. The needle had gone all the way through the vein and broken the other side. I was wrapped up and sent home once again with a darkening bruise in my elbow, determined to try again, this time with the other arm.
I scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday, certain that the third time would be the charm for me. The bruise on my elbow was nasty looking, but I’d just use the other side. I knocked back an extra bottle of water and set out for the donation center once again. As I approached the door, I saw a sign that read: “Due to unforeseen circumstances, the donation center is closed today.” WHAT?!?!?! I would have liked to receive some kind of notification, but I had no way of knowing this. Maybe it has to do with the recent flooding, maybe they’re short-staffed, but no matter the cause, I went home again.
Despite my best efforts, I have yet to donate blood. I’m going to give my arm a week or two to heal and see if I can lock down another appointment and get it done for real this time. I am no longer afraid, and even with my problems during blood draws, I know that the right person could find a vein with no trouble. Unless a medical professional declares it unsafe, I will donate blood yet!
The possible fear, discomfort, and inconvenience of donating blood are not exactly fun, but neither is being so sick or injured that you need blood. If it turns out that I cannot donate, I can help in other ways. Maybe I’ll give money, or volunteer at a drive, or find another way to assist those in need. It feels small, but if giving of my excess can help satisfy a need, I’ll put up with a few needles.
Here’s to attempt number four, have a great day!
