Friday, March 24, 2006

At the Blood Bank

It had been many years since I’d given blood. I could dimly remember my college friends, a group of slightly nervous first-time donors, talking about the campus blood drive.  None of us seemed quite sure about walking over to the student center where they were holding the drive.  In spite of our mild case of the jitters, I did donate a pint that day, but I never went back.  I can’t think of any particular reason why – I just never got in the habit of it.

So I was a little surprised in January to find myself pulling into the parking lot of the Edison Lakes branch of the South Bend Medical Foundation.  They’re the people who run the Central Blood Bank in our area.  Inside, I signed a log sheet, and a nice receptionist entered my basic information into their computer.  In just a couple of minutes I was back in a private room going over the questions that help determine whether a person should give blood.  While we went down the checklist, a tiny desktop centrifuge worked its magic on a dot of blood that until recently had resided somewhere inside my middle finger.  The little dot of blood passed its test, and my answers to the health questions were satisfactory, so I made my way back to the donation room.

This was a long white room with a row of comfortable chairs that reclined into beds, or maybe they were beds that sat up and pretended to be chairs.  The phlebotomist, Marietta, directed me to one of these, and I settled in.  We made small talk while she took my blood pressure and then inspected my arm for a promising vein.  She found one she liked quite a bit, and pretty soon I was squeezing a tennis ball and asking Marietta how long she’d been a phlebotomist.  Over twenty years, she said.  I complemented her on her light touch with the needle.  She said, “If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” I have to admit, I admire a person who’s not embarrassed to talk about her values.

In a few minutes, the bag was full. The cookies were fresh, and the whole process took less than an hour, so I jotted down the date 56 days later when I could give another pint.  On my return visit in March, I learned a little more about blood donation.  I found out that only about 6% of Americans share my blood type, so when an accident victim in our area needs a few units of A- blood, only a small proportion of the rest of us can help out.  I noticed, too, the interesting little tool called the stripper.  The phlebotomist uses it to squeeze every last bit from the plastic line into the bag.  They don’t waste a drop over at the Blood Bank.  It’s too important.

When we were done, Marietta, the skillful, friendly phlebotomist, thanked me for returning.  There was an honest note of gratitude in her voice that reminded me that this very easy task, donating a pint every couple of months, makes a difference in people’s lives.

On my way out I took a look at the plaque celebrating the names of area residents who’ve donated 10 gallons.  Why not get in the habit of donating, I thought?  After all, if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.  I’m eligible to donate again in May, and if you visit the South Bend Medical Foundation in the next few days, then you’d be eligible for a return visit in May too.  Maybe I’ll see you there.  I’ll be the guy going back for a second oatmeal cookie.

Broadcast by Ken Smith on March 24, 2006
Community • Health • Permalink • Printer Friendly
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