Donating Blood for the First Time
An attempt to be generous while feeling a little bit inwardly toxic
I donated blood for the first time this past week. This year, one of my goals is to find more ways to quietly contribute. (I know, I know. Now I’m talking about it, so it’s not quiet anymore. I just mean that I’m trying to watch for ways that I can contribute that don’t come at a great cost to me. Oh goodness. That doesn’t sound very generous of me at all. What I really mean is that there are some ways to give that are low impact to me but could make a big difference to someone else, and so why am I not doing those things? Because they’re too easy? Too simple? That’s ridiculous. This is a whole topic of its own, I guess.) Anyways…
I donated blood for the first time this past week on a brilliantly blizzardy day when I felt down and grey, and on a day when I made the decision to not accept a generous invitation almost entirely out of fear and insecurity, even though it’s the kind of thing that I want to want to do.
(No, this is not my preferred way to operate. Thanks for asking.)
I donated blood for the first time this past week after getting to spend a couple hours in the warmth of a dear friend, walking in the sharp wind and discussing things like the latest chapter in the book we’re co-reading (unable to resist tangenting into enthusiastic discussion about other books too) and lamenting the current political climate.
I donated blood for the first time this week after accepting a supply EA shift for the first time in awhile, a low-grade anxiety searing my edges and seeping in, in, in as the shift crept closer.
These things happened the day of my blood donation appointment and I felt like a flop of a human but went to my appointment anyways.
I am a woozy kind of person but am oddly fine around needles, so I didn’t quite expect the level of anxiety that I felt inside me as soon as I stepped into the office. A kind human got me all set up and I just kept being whisked along from one kind human to the next until I found myself sitting in a chair, needle in my arm, being complimented about how easy my vein was to access and willing myself not to think about all that blood leaving my body and not to look at the other people who were donating.
I paddled my feet and clenched then unclenched my muscles and held the lovely hand warmer in a most diligent way.
And then,
Six minutes later,
I was done.
Everyone seemed surprised by how quickly it gone and I felt proud in a woozy, on the edge sort of way. They set a timer and told me to rest a few minutes before heading out. They then proceeded to periodically ask me if I’m okay.
I did not know if I was okay.
Do I not look okay? Is that why you keep asking?
The thing about my anxiety is that it makes me feel shaky, light-headed, and nauseous, which seems exactly like what someone would maybe feel after donating blood. I felt these things growing within me. I was like, 60 percent sure that it was anxiety causing the uncomfortable feelings and that leaving was the best course of action for me. And leave, I did, thanking the cheerful and sassy nurses, trying not to look pale or shaky.
On my way out, the kind human who had first welcomed me asked me how it had gone.
“It was good! I was nervous, but everyone was so kind. Yourself included,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“You didn’t seem nervous at all!” she responded. “Trust me. I’ve seen nervous.”
“I think I often present as calm,” I said. “But there’s, like, an almost constant low-grade anxiety in me.”
“I get it. I’m the same way,” she said. “Will you be back again?”
“Yeah, I’ll be back.” Do not look pale do not look pale do not look pale.
She lets me know the earliest date that I can donate next, and then says, “Oh no! I won’t be here. I’m retiring.”
“I’m happy for you. But sad for me. I was getting attached!” I am genuinely sad that I likely won’t ever interact with this human again.
We wish each other well and then I’m out into the cold, cold night, sliding into the driver’s seat and driving the short way home, still unsure if the shakiness is from the blood donation or the anxiety.
At home I munch the potato chips and sip the juice box that I swiped on my way out of the office, feeling depleted and grand. I sit on the couch, crunching away, and I can’t stop thinking about a documentary called Hack Your Health that I recently watched. One of the stories that was shared was a woman who had an extremely limited number of foods that her body was able to handle. Through a process called fecal microbiota transplant (FMT) she was able to expand her diet. The FMT process is exactly what it sounds like- introducing someone else’s feces into your own digestive system in the hopes that their healthy gut bacteria will help your body to function in better ways. This woman received a fecal transplant from her brother, who had severe acne. The transplant was effective in that it improved her digestive system, but she also began to have problems with acne. She then received a transplant from her boyfriend, who did not deal with acne, but struggled with some mental health illnesses. Again, she received the benefits of healthy gut bacteria but also noticed a dramatic plummet in her own mental health.
I find this fascinating.
What if my donated blood carries elements of me to the person who receives it?
I don’t think that blood works that same way or has that kind of specific impact on the recipient. But just in case…
To the Canadian out there who receives my blood-
If your new blood gurgles a little uncomfortably in your veins,
It might be because I’m in a strange season of unsettledness right now, with no clear pathway out and a lot of uncertainty about how to create that pathway for myself.
If you feel an extra-strong and extra-sure pump of love coursing through you,
It might be because I’m feeling the preciousness of life and my loved ones right now, and a lot of gratefulness for all the goodness around me.
If you feel a strange energy and affection for the winter season, while simultaneously feeling that late-January sluggishness,
Yeah, that might come from me. It’s a confusing feeling, I know.
I hope that my fear and insecurity and tendency towards negativity does not find its way to your body,
But if it does,
Choose to believe that learning can happen.
The path of light and hard work and satisfaction can be climbed. This path gives energy, even though it takes a lot of work.
It’s okay to go slow.
It really is.
And if you feel a strange Chicago Italian mobster-like energy in you, while also feeling the desire to make beautiful, artistic, excellent food…
It’s because I got swept up in the show The Bear.
No apologies for that one.
And that’s it.
That is the story of the day that I donated blood for the first time- an attempt at generosity while feeling slightly inwardly toxic.
One day can contain so much.
This is such a beautiful post. I should think the recipient of your donation will be blessed indeed, with your particular type of writer's blood.