Behold, the grisly aftermath of my donating blood. Well actually, it doesn't look like much of anything except for the faint remnants of an iodine stain and markings of my vein in the right picture. That's the stuff of horror movies, right?
Today was the third time this year that I've donated blood, once every quarter. I don't ever remember donating blood before and the only other similar instance I can recall are a few, strangely clear images of being seven and getting blood drawn for some testing or other such reason. Mostly I can just picture my elbow squishing down a stress ball that looked like the earth, another one grasped in my hand, all the while sitting next to a rack filled with vials of blood. I had looked in their direction in an effort to avoid looking at the needle in my arm; my 7-year-old brain had somehow rationalized the notion that if I didn't look at my arm, it wouldn't hurt. Even then the blood and the procedure fascinated me- I should have known I'd want to become a doctor later. As if the Fisher Price toy doctor's bag I carried around with me everywhere didn't already tip me off.
Anyway, I digress. Fall quarter this year I donated blood on a whim with my suitemate Collette. We were the last of the day and the people on the bus were in a jolly mood (probably because it meant they got to go home). They were so nice to us, joking around and singing along to the music playing on the radio that I had fun and was left with such a good impression about donating blood. The other two times I've donated this year haven't been as fun, but they were not unenjoyable. I realized that I truly enjoy donating blood. I'm O-negative, so my blood is relatively precious and in low supply in the state. I don't mind giving up the half an hour or so it takes to wait, go through the screening, and then the ten minutes of actually giving blood. I'm actually upset when my plans of donating blood are thwarted. Today, my iron count was barely too low the first time they tested it so they had to prick my other finger to get a second sample, and I was truly afraid it would be too low again. I would have been upset- I would have been left with two band-aids on my poor, injured middle fingers and nothing to show for it.
I honestly enjoy giving blood. It's a pint that I'm not using, I won't die and the worst thing that has resulted is that I started bleeding a little bit once when I took the bandage off too enthusiastically. Oh no, I have to press tissue to my arm with some pressure for a minute, what a tragedy. The first time Collette and I donated we were told by someone, an uneducated blowhard, that donating blood actually kills people. Today while on the blood bus I read a chart of different injuries and how many unites of blood they require: a gunshot wound is up to 100, organ transplants up to 50, and bone marrow patients up to 2 units a day. A DAY. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure it's not receiving my blood that's killing these people.
There are always blood drives going on at UCSD, it's really not difficult to find an opportunity. I hope that I can continue this tradition next year when I'm living on campus and even afterwards when I'm not. And let's face it, the best part about donating blood is getting to pick the color of my bandage. I regress to being a little kid; ooh! so many options, just for me?
It's like getting to pick the lollipop out after a doctor's appointment. I may not be seven anymore, but I still get enthused about these things.
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