BLOODY FEARS




For the record, I have jumped out of an airplane without an ounce of hesitation except to ask, “How high?” I used to be a camp counselor where we white water rafted and sometimes hiked alone for days. I can sit atop the highest rooftop and casually eat a sandwich. I have walked up behind a bull and slapped it on the ass. Of course, I did mistake it for our own affectionate-driven cow, Showboat. (I wondered why my mom looked like she was ready to faint). I can scoop up spiders and bugs without blinking, and cockroaches and rats only startle me. I traveled parts of Europe by myself. I have never shied away from a fight regardless of the person’s sex, position, or extra 75 pounds. There isn’t much that frightens me. With that said, these are some of the things that I am deathly afraid of: snakes, The Teacup ride at Disneyland, bureaucracy and needles. My biggest fear would be riding The Teacup ride with a python and a dozen needles pointing at me while filling out legal forms in triplicate.

I decided it was finally time to give blood.

I don’t know what exactly triggered this. I think it started a week ago when I was walking through the mall in a lingerie quest (where can you find hot pink boy-cut shorts? – long story) and saw a group of people lined up to give blood. I looked at them enviously, wishing I could be so fearless. So, on my way out (sans the pink underwear) I bravely jumped in line. During my time in the mall, I convinced myself that if the people were still there on my way out then I would donate. It would be fate. I was so nervous about the possibility of it actually coming true that I accidentally walked into the men’s bathroom while I was preparing to “pysch” myself up. Instead of recognizing the immediate error of my ways, I actually had to stop and give myself time to wonder. “Huh, what is that man and the urinal doing in here?” The embarrassing part was the long walk out of the bathroom, as there seemed to be a sudden influx of old men with pressing bladders. With this social faux paus out of the way, I bravely approached the table. “Am I too late to give blood?” I asked the woman counting a large stack of money. Instantly, a new rush of goodwill swept over me. Unfamiliar with the exact procedures of blood donating, I decided that I would decline any sort of compensation. The woman put down her pile of bills and squinted at me. “Honey, this here is for flu shots.”

Noble deed dashed.

I was positive I would never be able to sum up the courage again. Suddenly, everywhere I went there seemed to be an urgency to donate blood; a child with a disease, an officer who was shot, or a friend who was in a car accident. But it got me thinking about my recent post regarding having more fears than desires. I made up my mind that no matter what, I would give blood.

I have a somewhat tumultuous relationship with needles. If I was to guess the exact origin of this phobia, I would speculate that it all started with the wound on my foot when I was seven-years old. I forgot how the bottom heel of my right foot was cut open, but I shortly thereafter caught the chicken poxs. The virus got into the cut and infected the bottom of my foot, turning it almost black. I had to go in and have it worked on numerous times (burned, frozen, scraped). Every procedure started with a shot. It took three nurses to hold me down, and the only reason why they succeeded was that one nurse momentarily distracted me by asking me about my new Star Wars watch (bitch). To this day, I can’t have the scar on my foot touched by anyone, not even me (so, I guess that is actually five things I am afraid of).

After that, any time a shot was in my future, my family had to take special precautions. Or I guess coercion is the correct word. One time, after establishing a price of a pound of gummy bears and a banana split, I went into the doctor for my shot. The first one went okay. The second… Well, let’s just say my dad “forgot” to mention that there would be a second. He says sometimes he can still hear my screams. “WHAT???? ANOTHER SHOT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! BRING MY DAD IN HERE NOW! WHERE IS HE? WE DIDN’T DISCUSS THIS!” I came out of the doctor’s room, shaky, angry and ready for renegotiation. After that, I only accepted payments in advance.

Another time, when I was fifteen, I split my foot open with a razor. I seem to have this bad habit of stepping on sharp objects in my bare feet. “You’re going to require stitches,” the doctor told me. I told him that wasn’t a problem. Then he said I needed a shot; my mom had to physically barricade the door to prevent me from bolting.

I don’t know what it is about shots. I can handle pain fairly well. I’ve sustained various injuries and operations without so much as a whimper. But there is something about that half-second before the inevitable that sends me into a tizzy. It’s almost like static electricity or popping balloons (okay, two more things that terrify me). Anyway, my life, until now, has been a careful journey of avoiding shots at all costs.



The writer relaxing between doctors' visits.

Here’s my routine for getting a shot. 1. I can’t see the needle. Some doctors think I’m kidding and insolently stroll into the room holding the weapon in full view. If this happens, they have to leave the room and come back with the needle properly hidden. 2. They have to let me know right before they do it. 3. When I keep asking, with my head turned away and eyes tightly shut, “Are you done? Are you done? Are you done?” They have to say, “Almost” and tell me how brave I am being. 4. When I am done and the needle is completely dislodged from whatever part of my body that is has been jammed into, and taken out of my view, it’s imperative that they tell me how brave I was.

It’s a fairly simple routine, and I am always very clear and specific about the guidelines. “Do you have any questions?” I ask my doctors. “Is there anything you don’t understand?” You’d be surprised how many doctors screw it up.

I remained relatively calm when I drove out to the West Bank Blood Center. I took a lot of deep breaths. I tried to trick my mind into believing I was driving across the bridge for something else. Something pleasant. A facial. A lunch date. A colon checkup.

The Blood Center was easy to find. When I approached the door and found it locked, I gave a big sigh of relief. Even though I had called earlier that morning to confirm, I figured it was the gods’ way of telling me that they didn’t need my blood; I was off the hook. A nurse popped her head out of another door, “Down here, sweetie!” I was trapped.

After showing my driver’s license and filling out paperwork, they asked me numerous questions. Have I paid for sex? Have I swapped needles with anyone? Have I spent more than 3 months in the United Kingdom from 1984 to 1997 (just missed it). The basic stuff. I passed. Phew.

The nurse at The Blood Center then informed me that I had four options in giving blood.
1. I could get a free t-shirt.
2. I could choose to put it toward Camp Challenge. For every 200 donors that donate, a child with cancer is able to go to camp for a week.
3. I could list myself and three other people, and if we needed blood anytime in the next year (regardless if our insurance didn’t cover it) I would be guaranteed the amount I donated. Like a blood voucher.
4. I could choose four people for the blood voucher.

I chose Camp Challenge. And not to tell anyone what to do but… choose the camp! Choose the camp! Choose the camp!

Camp Challenge


Afterward, we went into another room where the nurse informed me that they would have to do a finger prick to check my iron level. I hadn’t been counting on this part of the procedure and could feel myself starting to get anxious. “You mean like a needle?” I asked.
“It’s just a little prick,” she reassured me.
“What if my iron is too low?”
“Then you can’t donate.”
“So, that means I would have gotten my finger pricked for nothing?” The nurse looked at me oddly. “Could you just take my word for it?” She couldn’t. “Is there a waiver I can sign?” There wasn’t.

Still, I was there, I was in the chair, I passed the verbal test; I was halfway home. Even though this was just a prick, I told the nurse of my routine and she understood, following my directions to a tee. Afterward, she wrapped up my left index finger and told me what a good job I did. I was soooo brave. Luckily, my iron count was 4 points above the bare minimum so I was free to give. Now I was on my way to the Big Chair.

When I sat in the chair another nurse came over to me. I quickly asked her if the other nurse had told her about my method. She nodded. “Okay, I don’t think you are aware of how terrified of needles I am,” I told her. She said she understood and I don’t know if it was my testament or the somewhat nauseated look on my face because another nurse came over so both of them could hold my hands. I took a deep breath and tried not to pass out, but once the needle was in I realized that by looking away from my arm, I was looking directly at another woman with a needle in hers. So I cried. Not big, gasping, body-wracking sobs, but “quiet, lips pierced, tears slowly streaming down my face” crying. The kind of crying I do when I am at the dentist (all right, all right, another thing I am scared of). The nurses brought me tissues and a stack of “Good Housekeeping” Magazines to distract me from the needle in my arm and to shield me from the view on my right. In between recipes for peach cobbler and tips on making my own environmentally safe laundry detergent, this is what I tried to think about.

One out of every three people will need blood before they turn 72 years old.
Blood, unlike medication, can’t be manufactured it has to be donated.
There are so many children and adults out there with illnesses whose recovery depends on donated blood.
The Blood Center took a hit from Hurricane Katrina. They need to replenish their supplies.
It’s pretty simple; it doesn’t take a lot to help save lives.

The procedure took about ten really long minutes. When it was all done, the nurses wrapped my arm, helped me up and gave me orange juice and cookies. And even though I chose Camp Challenge, they gave me a free t-shirt anyway. And a clock.

I am that pathetic.

If I chose, I can come back in eight weeks to donate again. And while it may not be eight weeks on the dot, I know I will. It’s important.

Of course, in retrospect, I won’t just eat peanuts for breakfast. I will also not make the fatal mistake of donating blood and not allowing enough time to eat before my physical therapy appointment. My therapist sent me home early because I was doing my knee exercises at a ninety-degree tilt.

I was somewhat loopy for the rest of the day.
And my arm still hurts.
And thinking about it makes me want to cry.

I came home, ate some food, and took a nap. When I awoke, I cooked myself some shrimp pasta with olive oil, pine nuts and fresh basil from my herb garden. I made it with angel hair pasta because I can’t have pasta that’s any bigger than regular spaghetti unless it is lasagna. Anything else in between, like, say, fettuccini freaks me out. And definitely not elbow macaroni.

Never elbow macaroni because that really scares the shit out of me.

Here are the local Blood Centers that are up and operating

42268 Veterans Ave
Hammond, LA 70401
(985) 542-0263

3400 16th St.
Metairie, LA 70002
(504) 887-2833

2701 Manhattan Blvd
Harvey, LA 70058
(504) 263-1190

1137 Gause Blvd. Ste 106 (Opening the first week of November)
Slidell, LA 70458
(985) 641-4400

For more information, visit

The Blood Center




So, here is my point. If I can donate blood, anyone can. Seriously.

PLEASE DONATE TODAY!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!



Writer on the left, 1981. Now, that's scary!