The donation I couldn’t give
I had always been terrified to donate blood. I always thought back to an instance in 2011 when I was getting some bloodwork done in college. The campus nurse poked me three times and dug around in my arm so much that I got pretty close to passing out. No, thank you, I did not like that. I knew it was a good thing to do, of course; there were many blood drives in my hometown and at my college — even the famous Clemson-Carolina annual Blood Bowl competition. My mom frequently donated at blood drives for work, whenever her iron was not too low. She was brave, but I was a chicken. Too scared.
Nine years later, in 2020, my parents moved to Easley, SC. Unlike my hometown, Easley has a local blood donation center, and my mom, now retired, took a liking to it. Whenever I saw her, she would always be wearing some t-shirt they gave her or using some gift card she got from the center. I thought about trying one day. By this point, my dad had been sick with blood cancer for many years and had received his fair share of blood transfusions. I felt guilty that I had still never donated, and finally, in the spring of 2022, I decided to give it a shot. I wanted the free stuff, and I wanted to finally check it off my bucket list. Oh, how valiant of me.
I signed up for an appointment at a mobile center and I was super nervous. But it worked! And it wasn’t so bad. I was only a little bit woozy at the end. They let me know my blood type, O+, and I received an email eight weeks later that I was once more eligible. So I went back and did it again.
Over the summer, I traveled out of the country. They’re weird about that for sanitation purposes, so I waited a little, until the fall, before I tried again. I had an appointment scheduled in Easley for mid-October. I was staying with my parents after a breakup and was looking for things to distract me, and I wanted to see this donation center my mom kept talking about. I made the appointment for October 26th. Well, little did I know how significant that date would be.
October 26th was the last time my dad ever walked out of his house. The last time he ever rode in my car, or in any car for that matter (he somehow knew this and alluded to it while in the car). On October 26th, I drove him to the emergency room at Greenville Memorial Hospital, where he would stay for 23 days. On October 26th, I canceled my blood donation.
A few days later, in the hospital, after my dad had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lymphoma and a treatment plan was set in place, the doctors suggested we set up direct platelet donations with the blood bank. My dad’s platelets were extremely low, and while he was regularly receiving transfusions, they weren’t working well because they weren’t a good match. If family members donated, those would likely work much better than the platelets he was receiving at the time. Direct donors would need to be a close blood relative (ideally a parent, sibling, or child) with the same O+ blood type and located nearby. Hey, that was me! I thought to myself, “Jeez, good thing I canceled that other donation, or I wouldn’t be eligible to donate right now. And also, how cool, I can help my dad; that’s great.” I waited for their call to set up my donation. A woman called at 4:45 pm on a Monday; by 6:15, I was at The Blood Connection center in Easley.
The Blood Connection was cool. They had all these fancy chairs with TVs attached to the front of them; they gave you warm blankets and whatever you wanted to drink. During the check-in process, they took my blood pressure, temperature, and hemoglobin. Everything was perfect.
I sat next to one of the big blood machines, which, as they explained, would take my blood and sort it, removing the platelets from the red blood cells and the plasma, which would then be cycled back into my vein. That way, I wouldn’t lose too much blood and could still safely donate a good number of platelets, which, in a healthy person, quickly regenerate themselves. Neat. The plan was to donate once every seven days, indefinitely.
The staff was extremely careful with me and my donation; they put special “Direct Donor” stickers on the bags that were to collect my blood; they worked in a team of three to make sure everything went well. Direct donations were a big deal to them, putting a name and face to their hard work. One technician was particularly kind and empathetic to my situation: a plump redheaded girl, about my age, with freckles and long, fake eyelashes.
I sat in the big comfy chair, turned on a mindless Netflix movie to distract me, and was ready for them to poke me. I was feeling nervous but excited. Surely my platelets would work better than the others he had been receiving. I’m his direct offspring, and we’re the same blood type. This will be good!
It was a little difficult for the tech to find a vein. She asked if I was dehydrated. I explained that I probably was, which would make sense; I’d been sleeping at the hospital and hadn’t had much access to eat or drink like I usually would. She finally found the vein, and the blood started coming out of my left arm. That happened for a couple of minutes and was working well. I watched, grossed out but curious about the process. The tech kept standing there because some of the blood was about to be cycled back into me, and she needed to double-check that it went back in correctly. She told me to let her know if I felt stinging, which, after a few seconds, I did. After about 30 seconds, something was definitely wrong. The blood was not going back into my vein but was instead infiltrating the skin. She adjusted the needle. Ouch. Nope, still not working. She called other techs over.
“Oh no, it’s infiltrating, and I don’t think I can get it back into the veins. They’re too small…”
She tried shoving the needle in a little further. It wasn’t working.
“What do you think? Should we call it?”
Another tech answered, “Yeah, let’s call it.”
They stopped the machine and removed the needle.
I was confused. “Oh, no, what happened?”
She explained the infiltration problem and that we could try the other arm. But when she looked at my right arm, there weren’t any good veins at all.
“Sorry, sweetie, it’s not going to work. You are probably just dehydrated.”
“What? But can’t I come back and try again if I drink more fluids? Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Well, no, because we already took a lot of blood from you that we won’t be able to use, so you will probably have to wait the whole seven days.”
This last comment really upset me. Seven days?! We didn’t have this many days to spare! This was terrible news. I was the only direct blood relative close by with the O+ blood type. There was nobody else. In my mind, saving my dad hinged upon my donation and my donation alone, and I blew it. I thought to myself how it was all my fault because I had forgotten to drink enough water. Which was so unlike me because I am always drinking water. How could I be so stupid?
They told me they would call to follow up about the appointment, and that there was a chance they could get special permission, considering my good health, for me to come in just three days later, instead of seven. The next time I came in, it needed to be between 11 am and 3 pm, when the two experts were there. The best tech was Mona, and she would find a way to make it work. Until then, I needed to ice my arms to keep the swelling down. “And drink lots of water,” they said. I walked out, alone and deflated.
I cried a few tears as I texted my mom and aunts to let them know the bad news from my car. Back on the road, I immediately went to Ingles and bought 144 oz of Gatorade. Seven bottles of it in all different sizes and types: regular; sugar-free; extra electrolyte-infused; and even protein-infused Gatorade (that one is disgusting — don’t try it). I had no idea there were so many types of Gatorade out there. I also guzzled water that night and over the next few days until my next appointment. They had called with the good news that I could go back on Thursday instead of the following Monday. I didn’t think I was fully rehydrated by then, but I could not physically drink any more liquid — I was going to literally drown myself.
I went back to the center that Thursday, where most of the same sweet staff was there to greet me. I checked in, and I met the expert, Mona. I felt sure that it would work; she was the best.
They checked me in, and once again, my levels were perfect. They again commented that I was a very healthy donor.
Mona tried both arms. This time, the disappointment set in quickly.
“Nope, this isn’t going to work. I’m sorry. Some people just can’t give. I’m one of those people myself. My veins are just too small. It’s alright, it just doesn’t work for everybody.”
I was desperate. Tears were welling up, and I tried to fight them back. “Can I still donate blood? Like the regular kind?”
“No, we’ve taken too much out of you, twice now. You won’t be eligible for a while.”
The nice redheaded girl with the fake eyelashes came over and hugged me as tears began rolling down my face. At that moment, I had no more reason to stay strong. The gig was up, and this was some shitty karma, although I wasn’t quite sure what I’d done to deserve it.
The staff apologized profusely, and I walked out numb, without saying goodbye, and quickly got into my car. I sat there and cried and cried and cried. I cried for so long, actually, that the sweet redheaded girl — whose name I cannot remember for the life of me — came out to check on me. She knocked on my window and asked if I was okay. I rolled down the window and said no, and she asked if she could give me a hug. I got out of the car and cried into her arms for a good couple of minutes. She gave me some more ice packs to put on my arms, which were beginning to look like the arms of an intravenous drug addict. She let me know that plenty of O+ platelet donors at the center would be more than happy to directly donate to somebody. While I didn’t think that would work, I also wasn’t sure and wanted to hang onto the hope. I told her it was a sweet gesture and I’d let her know. I finally pulled it together, and we said goodbye. I got back in the car, wiped my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and headed back to the hospital.
This was the only time in my entire life I’ve resented my good health.
I again let my family know the bad news, and at this point, with few options left, we asked my cousins if they could donate. It wouldn’t be a super close match, but the blood bank said it was possible. My cousins all figured out their blood types; two of them were O+, and they kindly created a donor calendar, switching off between eligible donors every 3–4 days. We coordinated with the blood bank, who coordinated with the hospital. Unfortunately, the hospital coordinator on our floor was an absolute ditz, making a hard situation even more difficult. I really hated dealing with her. The blood bank, on the other hand, was amazing. Everyone who worked there was so kind and compassionate. I guess you get into that kind of work for good reason. Many of the workers I met there had lost loved ones to cancer; one technician had gone through the exact same thing I was doing with my dad, but with her son. He died. Gut-wrenching.
My dad received four bags of directly donated platelets, which he thought was pretty cool. I took out my phone to snap a photo of the platelet bags in action to send to my cousins. I snapped one, leaving my dad’s face out of it. He didn’t like being photographed and I figured it was the kind thing to do to save his dignity. He really surprised me when he said, “What about me? Get me in it so Robbie can see!” He smiled and waved. It’s the last picture anyone has of him.
In the end, our efforts were in vain. Post-transfusion, his levels didn’t budge at all. As it turned out, while some attending doctors were supportive of our direct donations, others said it never really mattered. That wasn’t what we had originally been told, but I guess the prognosis was looking bleaker every day. One doctor, without meaning to, made me feel especially stupid. One morning during rounds, I asked, after my own donation debacle, if I could directly donate blood instead of platelets. She didn’t understand what I was asking and stood there smiling down at me from where I sat. This was the same doctor that had asked me, during one of the weeks when my dad was unconscious, how old I was and if I was here all alone. She meant to be supportive, but she spoke to me like I was a child.
“Well, yes, it’s always a good thing to donate blood! Everyone should do it.”
I clarified what I meant — if I could donate red blood cells for my dad. She said no, and as she explained why, her medical team posse was all staring at me as I helplessly sat there, curled up in the recliner, hugging my knees to my chin, still in my pajamas from the night before. My cheeks turned a bright shade of red; I don’t like being the center of attention, and this was particularly bad.
Well, you know what comes next. Here is the part where my dad dies. He ended up dying from something non-platelet related, something the doctors hadn’t diagnosed until now — but was there all along— which I guess is a strange sort of consolation.
That week, The Blood Connection called me four times. They left voicemails, checking in to see how my “platelet donation went,” and asking me to donate again. This was a call center unrelated to the people I had dealt with. I knew that, but jeez, jab the knife in a little deeper, why don’t you?!
I complained about this to my friends, and one of them asked if I wanted her to call them to take me off their list. I said no, eventually I would face this because I would continue to donate blood in the future.
A few weeks later, in December, I received an email that I was eligible to donate again. I wasn’t ready, so I deleted the email. Another came, and I deleted it, too. Then a third email came, and I decided I was ready. I made an appointment at a mobile drive for later that week.
I arrived at the Bloodmobile and had a pleasant conversation with the guy standing outside at the registration table. I was in a good mood as I walked into the mobile truck, where a cute young guy was checking people in. I went into his little cubicle and sat as he got my information and checked my vitals. He asked for my blood donor card, and I held up the barcode of the one on my keychain (which, by the way, is a convenient thing to have on hand if you ever get in a car wreck and need a quick blood transfusion…). The guy tried to scan it, but it didn’t work.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “It’s wet; I spilled water on it.”
I tried to wipe it off on my jeans.
He said, “Oh no. It’s not you, it’s me.”
I smirked and looked at him playfully. “That’s what they all say.”
He was taken aback that I had flirted with him, stuttering over his words ever-so-slightly.
I watched him as he pricked my finger and worked to get a blood sample, which was necessary to check my hemoglobin. Not much blood was coming out, and he said,
“This finger just does not want to give me any blood!”
I said, “Yeah, weird, this happened to me the other day when I got a physical.”
“You must just have a very high platelet level and your blood wants to clot immediately.”
I thought to myself, “Oh, great. A very high platelet level. Just what I fu*king wanted to hear.”
Instead, I mused, “Oh, the irony of these things,” I said. “My dad just died from not having enough platelets.”
He looked at me closely and expressed his condolences. He then went on to tell me about his grandma’s passing, but he couldn’t remember whether she died from Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, and he was one of those people who called it “All timers.” At that point, I had lost interest.
We finished up in the cubicle, and I waited for a chair to be open. The nurse was a sweet, round lady with a calm but efficient presence. She put the tourniquet on my arm and started feeling around for the veins. I’m very cold-natured, and the temperatures outside had already turned cold for the season. Apparently, my veins were hiding.
She said, “Where are the little guys? I can’t find them!”
She asked to see my other arm. Not any better.
I thought to myself, “Dammit dammit dammit! Not this again, come onnnn!”
My good mood dissipated, but I stayed calm. This was different from my usual response; when I first began donating blood earlier this year — before the platelet debacle — I felt quite anxious in the chair.
And back at the donation center in Easley, while I felt anxious about the implications, it wasn’t terrible, and I didn’t feel dizzy. It did hurt though, especially when she started digging around in the second arm, looking for the vein. I had thought to myself, “Ginger ale, please; going to pass out soon!!” But I surmised that while my dad was being poked and prodded 37 times a day, I couldn’t possibly feel pain from a voluntary blood donation. So I got over that pretty quickly.
And then today, when the tech finally did get the vein, and the blood started pouring out, I didn’t feel it at all. I only felt numb, but I sense this was more of an emotional numbness. I vaguely asked her if it was working, just to make sure, and she assured me it was. I tried to relax, and about ten minutes later, it was done. I got a mini diet coke and a snack and was on my way — Goodbye, young cute guy; goodbye, nice round lady.
One donation down, twenty-five to go. That’s about how many transfusions my dad received during his three weeks in the hospital. And if I wanted to give back as much as he took during his short time there, I would need to donate every eight weeks for over four years. That’s 26 pints. That’s nearly 3 ½ gallons of blood. That’s a lot of blood. The average human body only has about 10 pints of blood to begin with. I’d need to give every single drop of my blood in my body, nearly three times over, to give the same amount that my dad needed in the month of November.
I fully intend on doing this. And each time I go, I will think of him.
This is likely the last of my dad stories for a while. I’ve told the ones closest to my heart, the ones most painful to recall. I don’t intend to stop writing, though; I have plenty more to say.
I recently began working through Rupi Kaur’s “Healing Through Words” freewriting exercise book. Tears stream down my face as I write, this time with a pen to paper instead of on a computer. A quote in this book really resonated with me. It says, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” This quote, by Flannery O’Connor, fully encompasses what writing means to me.
I’m a muller of words, an introspective soul. There are so many unknowns in my life right now; I worry, and I am in a great deal of pain. But writing helps, and I hope my readers are enjoying it. It really makes me smile when someone loves my work. Recently, I was on the other side of this when someone important in my life shared an intimate text they had written from back when their own daddy died. It was so emotive and painfully beautiful. I cried. And only then did I understand what a powerful exercise I am doing myself. I don’t cry when I write my own work; the words just come to me, and I type them out. But I think the pain comes through my keystrokes, and it helps people understand me better. And I like that.
Stay tuned for more stories soon. 2023 will be full of them.