Taking the Poke and Saying Thanks

1/10/17

I’ve never enjoyed being poked by a stranger in search of my blood. On the discomfort scale it’s akin to having a dental hygienist stretch my lips to floss the wisdom teeth I never lost. But there’s a notable distinction between the two.

While flossing is good for my health, having my blood drawn can save others‘ lives.

Though my late husband was a regular blood donor, I’d never bothered to register and donate. But then my daughter underwent a bone marrow transplant to rid her of a rare and deadly blood disorder known as PNH.

Alhough her brother’s bone marrow was a perfect match, it was months before her body accepted his marrow donation and produced healthy new blood cells. During that time she had no choice but to be hooked up to yet another IV to receive blood transfusions.

It’s an irony that confounds me 11 years later. She had the bone marrow transplant to obviate the need for regular blood donations. Yet, the blood of many strangers sustained her while the bone marrow matured.

Strangers to whom I can never give thanks, for they will always be anonymous.

What’s a mother to do?

Become a blood donor. And so I did. 

Once my O-negative blood type pegged me as a coveted blood donor I became quite popular with the Red Cross. I took the poke and filled the tubes. When enough time had passed and my hemoglobin hit the magic number I returned to donate again.

But after a half dozen donations something strange happened. On a July morning I couldn’t keep up with my fellow cyclists on what should have been an effortless ride. In the days that followed I became increasingly exhausted. My head hurt – a lot.

A doctor (not my regular) suspected I was depressed. He was wrong.

My symptoms worsened so, as autumn ceded to winter, I visited my regular internist. She checked my iron and ferritin and discovered they were shockingly low. I began ingesting mega doses of iron and underwent GI tests to rule out celiac disease and colon cancer. 

When those tests were negative my doc fingered the blood donations. Though I’d met established protocols, the schedule must have been too aggressive for my body. 

It’s been just over a year since this ordeal. I’ve given my body time to replenish iron and ferritin stores. I’ve summoned the courage to schedule an appointment with the blood bank – courage because the prospect of fighting colon cancer had scared the – well, scared me a lot.

Why did I return to the Red Cross site? Because there compelling reasons for its call for donors. And those reasons trump my skittishness.

I can’t forget that every two seconds a patient requires blood; patients with sickle cell disease and aplastic anemia who need regular blood transfusions, who rely upon strangers to ensure they celebrate another birthday.

I can’t forget that life is unpredictable. You never know you when you might be shot by a stranger, rear-ended by a drunk driver, or caught in a burning building and require an emergency blood transfusion.  And that demand for blood outpaces supply. 

I can’t forget what my daughter endured and how strangers helped her to kick PNH to the curb.

Though it’s easy to become consumed by my own issues, some needs are simply greater than my fears. So come Saturday I’ll take the poke. There may be a stranger awaiting my special O-negative blood. My blood donation is my way of repaying a debt and saying thank you to those who stepped forward when my daughter’s life depended on them.

What about you? Are you a blood donor? Have you been on the receiving end of a blood donor’s gift?

 

The post Taking the Poke and Saying Thanks appeared first on Caryn M Sullivan - Living a Life of Resilience.

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Published on January 10, 2017 11:14
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