BRATTLEBORO — You could say my father talked me into it. As long as I can remember, my father has always donated blood. And now, here I am, about to donate a pint of my own. The phrase “like father, like son” comes to mind.
I enter the Elks Club at 4:30 p.m. Upon entering, I meet my father. He has been doing this since he was 17 years old, and I believe he has donated at least a gallon of his blood over the years.
We hang up our coats and sign in. Two friendly women sitting at a table record our names and give us a disclaimer to sign. This being my first time donating blood, I am given a sticker proudly proclaiming “First Time Donor” in black. After we complete the necessary information, we are each issued a number and proceed into the waiting room.
* * *
The wait is long in the hallway at the bottom of a flight of stairs. To my right, blue, and white cubicles that say “American Red Cross” fill a room where interviews are conducted prior to the blood drawing. The donation clinic is very busy at this hour, and most of the chairs are occupied. I quickly observe that I am probably the youngest donor they have had all day.
When my number is called, I am taken into the room on the right. In the back of the room, in a cozy cubicle, my blood pressure and pulse are taken, as well as a small sample of my blood to see if I have sufficient iron. The blood test hurts more than the actual blood drawing. It feels like someone hitting the tip of your finger with a hammer.
Then the questions come in quick succession. They range from the normal (“Do you have AIDS or HIV?”) to the somewhat bizarre (“Have you ever been to Africa?”) I have to ask the nurse to repeat some of the questions over the din created by Hot Country 104.5, playing unnecessarily loudly in the background. My answers are a monotone “No.”
After the questionnaire, I sign on a few dotted lines, confirming all the information I have given is true. Then I get to sit in another line of chairs.
By this time, my brother Harrison has arrived. He sits in the chair across from me and munches on Fritos and sips apple juice. Sitting in his chair, he views this spectacle as one might view a movie.
“You're gonna pass out,” he tells me with a reassuring grin.
Once in a while, if someone is too dehydrated, or the person's blood sugar is too low, he or she might faint after donating. I decide to ask a nurse about it.
“When was the last time you had anything to drink?” she asks me.
I pause, thinking about the small carton of milk at lunch.
Two bottles of water later, I'm feeling much more confident. Slowly, one by one, all the people ahead of me are summoned into the next room. I'm actually not nervous, something that surprises me. Another white-coated attendant approaches and calls “104”?
“That's me,” I say.
* * *
I stand and follow the attendant to the room where the blood is taken. The nurse, Ivy, is helping another donor and tells me to “sit tight.”
Finally, it is my turn. While my arms are again checked for signs of intravenous drug use, Ivy takes my blood pressure.
Harrison adjusts his vantage point. “Let me know when he starts to cry,” he says as he moseys off in the direction of the snack bar.
Ivy instructs me to squeeze a small foam brick. When I squeeze, the veins in my arm become visible, and she marks a spot on my arm with a pen.
“Don't move, hon,” she tells me. “When you move, your veins move, and I have to find a vein all over again.”
I lie as still as I can and focus on a spot on the ceiling.
“Give me a small squeeze…,” she says as she inserts the needle into my arm.
“...and there!”
It actually doesn't hurt that much. Only half a second of what feels like an electric shock, and then it's done. Because this is my first donation, my feet are elevated, allowing blood to flow to the top half of my body. Below me, slow drips fill a pint bag with a dark maroon liquid, my blood.
The needle is in my arm for about five minutes. Upon its removal, a square of gauze is pressed against the site where the needle was, and I am ordered to keep my arm above my head and lie still for another five minutes. Then my arm is bandaged, and I am permitted to stand.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Evan Johnson.”
“Evan, where are you?”
“Now I am in Brattleboro, Vermont.”
Following this exchange, a small, elderly lady takes me by the arm and escorts me to the snack bar. I seriously doubt her ability to catch me if I do faint. At the snack bar, I drink another bottle of water and give my name and address to a nurse. A card with my name, blood type, and last date of donation will be mailed to me in about six to eight weeks. The nurse thanks me for donating, and I head for the door. The next time I will be able to donate is in May. The body needs time to reproduce the amount of blood lost.
While I am putting on my coat, my dad tells me, “You did a good thing, today, Evan.”
And it's true. Donating blood is a simple thing that you can do to help someone in a time of need. You might never meet that person, but just a pint of your blood could be the difference between life and death for a complete stranger.
You can expect to see me in the Elks Club again, lying on that cot with my sleeve rolled up.
How about you?