Donations Please

"Hello, my name is Melinda and I am a blood donor." 

"Hello, Melinda."

More specifically I am a platelet/RBC donor and I try to give regularly. I suppose you can call me a donoraholic. I am also type O, so the blood center loves me, like the vampires that I think they are. Some of my friends don't understand my need to do this. Some of them actually think I'm nuts to spill my own bodily fluids voluntarily. 

There are strict requirements that must be met in order to donate. The minimum weight for women is 110 pounds. When I got up this morning and stepped on the scale, I saw 111.5 on the digital readout. Women must also be at least 5'1". I stretch the tape measure to 5'5 1/2". I think I'm average.

All donors go through an interview process, if you will, prior to being attached to a big machine with a needle and long tubes. You are asked all sorts of incredibly personal questions and I wonder if they have the police department's phone number on speed dial in case you answer yes. If the answers you give are in the negative and the technician is satisfied you are not lying, your blood is tested to make sure you are not anemic and that your platelet count is high enough. My count was a little bit lower than eight weeks prior, but it wasn't too low for me to be rejected.

The technician leads me to the donation room and I get settled in; heating pad on the lap, blanket over my body. I get plugged in with a needle in my arm to drain and earbuds in my ears to fill. My tech, Jaquie, heads off to confer with the other techs about my readings. And they confer and confer and confer some more.

Jaquie comes back and explains to me that, with the combination of my weight and my lower platelet count, this particular draw will take longer than usual in order to reduce any side effects on my body. Hum? Longer is better? Oh, well. I tell her I certainly don't have anything better to do, so lets get this show on the road.

Jaquie programs all my numbers into the computer and pushes "Go". She turns the monitor toward me so I can see the progress. I have 103 minutes ahead of me.

I'm settled in for the long haul. I have a large and very eclectic collection of music on my iPad. Sometimes when I'm in this chair, I listen to classic rock, sometimes it's classic classical. Today, since its cold and dreary outside, I choose the latter.

Time passes; I read and I listen. I read a man's life through his words and I listen to serenity in my music. This is the best time ever, believe it or not. I am relaxed, I am at peace, I am alone and there are no interruptions from anything or anyone. I really look forward to this time.

Then it's over. I'm finished. I go into the break room to have a snack, a soft drink and wait the requisite 15 minutes before leaving. I begin texting a friend some short puns about my donation that I think, at the time, are incredibly funny. I walk out to my car when I get a reply text from him that says "What??". I go back to the previous texts and see that Mr. iPhone Spellchecker had taken over and had decided what I originally typed wasn't really what I meant, so he had taken it upon himself to change it.

I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Not a twitter, not a giggle, but a full-fledged from the bottom of my gut laugh. I don't think I'm hysterical, but I can't stop laughing. I'm sitting in my cold car, in the parking lot of the blood center and I look like a loon, a laughing loon. Another donor walks up and taps on my window. "Are you ok? Do you need some help?" he asks. I'm laughing so hard that I can barely answer. As tears of hilarity are streaming down my face, I look at him and nod. I croak out an "I'm ok, thank you." Maybe my friends who think I'm nuts for donating are right. Maybe I am nuts.

A platelet apheresis donation procedure separates the platelets and red blood cells. My blood will be used for trauma patients, perhaps a child in surgery. My platelets will be used for people undergoing cancer treatments. I had a dear friend die last month from pancreatic cancer. I often wonder if any of my past donations had been used to help him just a little. I like to think so. I wonder if my friends would understand that affinity I feel with him. If they did, I wonder if they would still think I'm nuts.