Chicken

When I was freshman in college, Henry Hall, my dorm home for two years, hosted a blood drive for the American Red Cross. Somehow, I worked up enough courage and convinced myself that I would donate, dragging along a hall mate to hold my hand through the entire ordeal, my first. 

"This is how I'm going to begin to make a difference in the world," I declared. 

After all, you help save three lives with just one pint. 

I remember nervously awaiting my turn: filling out the necessary paperwork, getting my finger pricked to ensure I had enough iron, realizing if that little pinch hurt, I was in trouble, etc... I sat propped up on one of at least 20 full stretchers — such thoughtful students! — with my sleeve rolled up and my heart beginning to slow— despite the blood-filled bags all around me and faces turning a sickly shade of white — when one of the nurses came over to stick me. Her eyes grew wide when she looked at my arm and saw what she was going to be working with: I have very healthy, hearty veins ... no poking or prodding needed here.

In went the needle and the tighter my grip became on my friend's hand. Then my A-negative flowed — not trickled — out. 

"This isn't so bad," I thought, pinching the little red ball I was to squeeze to help along the life-saving process. 

 

I glanced over at my nurse to flash her a smile of confidence, which caused her to come over and check on me. When she did, her eyes grew wide again. 

"Don't squeeze the ball anymore, honey," she said, rushing over to another nurse.

They began to whisper and I looked down — the area where the needle was had turned black and blue. My hearty little vein was bruised. Still, I powered through and filled up my bag. 

The experience was a little frightening, but a few years later, for a blood drive held by current employer, I tried again. It was a breeze. So much so,  that I did it again the following year. But this time, after I finished and had sat down at the stopover table for a glass of juice, I felt my body going week. 

"I don't feel so good," I said to the co-worker who had coordinated the event — and still does. 

"You look a little pale, Amy. Drink some juice," she replied, a look of concern coming over her face. 

A few seconds later, things got dark and I began to pass out. A few nurses rushed over and made me put my head between my legs. Then they moved me to a room to lie down on a cot and breath into a brown paper bag. 

Since that ordeal two years ago, I have chickened out giving blood — both at the repeat drives at work and when the Red Cross itself calls to tell me about an upcoming event. 

In two days, nurses will show up again at work — and I have yet to sign up. I am "doing my part" in making food for the donors and volunteers. Still, something inside is calling me to try again. I know they need me ... but I remain a little frightened. I long to wear the little sticker that brags about my blood donation.

 

I guess tomorrow will tell.