Stick It!

My dad just loves to give me grief about my belonephobia. With good reason; in grade school I fainted while touring a blood bank with my class.

A few years ago, while I was living at home, I figured I would show Dad a thing or two and get him to stop teasing me, so I went with him to donate blood. When we got to the donation center, I filled out the questionnaire about my health and personal habits, and was doing OK. Then, the lady pricked my finger and congratulated me on having enough iron in my blood to donate. I suddenly got the horrible sensation that my visual field was narrowing and got lightheaded. The lady, who was writing something on the sheet of paper, looked up and found me lying on the ground, my feet up on the chair, looking pale and sweaty.

The nurse ran back to where the actual donors were sitting and said "We have someone down on the ground out here!" My dad, who was already back there with a needle in his arm, immediately knew what was going on and burst into laughter. Apparently the experience made an impression on the donation center, because when my sister went there years later to donate blood, they remembered me and were very amused to learn that I was in medical school. Suffice to say that my Dad mentions this experience at every opportunity.

So, yesterday I figured I would exorcise the demons of phlebotomy from my system and donate blood at a church blood drive. I came armed with a book and determined that I would not look as they stuck me with the needle. I also warned everyone that I talked to - the secretary, the clerks, the other donors - that I have a history of vasovagal responses.

It was "Soup and Homemade Bread Night" at the church where they were holding the blood drive. I came, ate some bread, and filled out the same FDA-mandated paperwork about personal habits and health. When it came time to poke my finger, the pinprick was not that bad - probably because I was reading Freakonomics the book at the time and doing my best to ignore what was going on. They pronounced me fit, and it was time to get blood taken.

I warned the phlebotomist that she and I would both be happier if she just let me lie down. She laughed and said that she couldn't get the needle in my arm while I was lying down, but that she would tip my feet up as soon as the needle was in. She called another phlebotomist over to distract me while she put the needle in, and it was not as bad as I had been anticipating because I was busy ignoring it. She covered my arm with a sheet so that I couldn't see what was going on, and left me to my book with an admonition to let her know if I got lightheaded. I got through nineteen pages and learned about cheating in Sumo wrestling matches, and before I knew it we were done. She asked me which bandage I wanted on my arm - I chose tan because it matched the rest of my ensemble - then she pulled out the needle and we were done!

I stayed in the chair for a while reading, then got up and ate a lot of good soup - there was a butternut squash soup that was really good, as well as some chili and minestrone soup. After I had stayed for the requisite 15 minutes (they want to make sure the donors don't faint), I left. My first act was to call my dad and shamelessly gloat.