Happy Monday!!
I had always been interested in donating blood. My grandpa has been donating since he served in the Air Force. He's at like over 100 gallons - no joke. He has all these awards and gifts all over his house, recognition of his selflessness.
My first donation was through a blood drive at my church in 2002. I donated whole blood sporadically for a little while, when I wanted more information about platelet donation. Knowing I could donate more often to help more people seemed kinda cool. Plus, I knew I'd get to sit in the special room and watch a movie. Haha. During my whole blood donation, they took a couple extra tiny vials of blood to test to see if I would be a candidate for platelet donation.
My blood type is A+, so I ended up being a good choice. Here in California, I donate at a place called BloodSource. I can donate every two weeks, but I usually have to wait 3 or 4 so I can keep my iron levels high enough so I don't get deferred.
It wasn't until I moved to Arizona and began donating with United Blood Services that I found out about my 'special blood'. I am CMV negative. The interviewer casually mentioned to me that my blood lacked a certain component so it goes to help babies first. I was shocked. What's so special about me? And why didn't I get this component while I was growing up? And and and? Here is a link to explain it better:
blog.inceptsaves.com/blog/2011/05/04/what-does-it-mean-to-have-cmv-negative-blood/
It shouldn't have made a difference. A life saved is a life saved, you know? I will never know these people who get my donation. But I just pictured how frazzled and upset and heartbroken some newborn's parents would feel trying to find out what is wrong with their child, hoping that a blood transfusion would be the answer, praying their baby would come home soon to lead a long and happy life. And then I think, 'Wow. I am a part of that.' And that's insane. And it gets me teary eyed as I'm typing this.
For those of you who have never donated, but want to know what is involved in this process, I want to give you a rundown of the process. This is my average experience as a platelet donor:
When you show up for your appointment, they take you to a private room. You show them your photo identification and your interview process begins. They take your blood pressure, temperature, make sure your pulse is steady. They prick your finger to get just enough blood to test your iron level. You are then either given an oral or written questionnaire to answer. Questions are asked about your current health, if you have taken certain medications within a certain time frame, your sexual history, your contact with the blood of others, your out of country travel. You sign the form. If your iron levels are high enough, they take you out to the donor area.
You hop up on the chair. They ask you to verify your name and birthdate, just so they know they have the right paperwork. They ask which arm you'd prefer to use, they check your inner arms for the best vein to use. They scrub the area clean while you're choosing your movie to watch.
When they are ready to begin the withdrawal process, they ask you to squeeze a stress ball a few times and hold the final squeeze so your vein is visible. I always look away for this part. They insert the needle into the vein. It feels like someone is pinching the area with their fingers. It literally lasts all of half a second. The needle gets taped in place while they take a couple vials for testing before your blood is distributed to a hospital. They ask if you're feeling okay, if the needle feels okay. They'll ask if you need a blanket (they keep the room cold) or if you want the heating pad on. They ask if you need Tums (sometimes your lips may tingle - mine don't, but it is a normal reaction that many donors get).
There are usually a few nurses in the room at all times and they check on you often to make sure you're okay. They're always close by in case you need something or have a reaction.
The process for a one arm donation is that during your donation (mine lasts between 90-110 minutes), 10 pints of blood are taken and 9 pints are given back to you, so you're donating 1 pint of platelets. You have 'draws' where the blood is taken, and 'returns' where everything but platelets are given back to you. It's a back and forth process. When you get your first return, you may feeling a slight coolness at the needle site. This is the anticoagulant entering your system, and it helps prevent the clotting of your blood during the process.
So you chill and watch your movie, or listen to your iPod or listen to the people around you telling their stories (for me, the crowd is generally older folks with war stories and they comment on the 'young kid' in the room, lol) You keep the stress ball the entire donation and squeeze it occasionally to keep your blood flowing.
When the donation is complete, they take your stress ball so you don't squeeze anymore. They remove the needle and you hold your arm straight up in the air, covering the needle site with gauze to stop the bleeding. It's good for stretching too, because your arm feels like a big lump of lazy at this point. After a minute, they bring your arm down, cover the area with a new piece of gauze and bandage you up.
They give you post-donation instructions like: keep the bandage on for 4-6 hours, no marathons, no saunas, eat a hearty meal soon, yada yada. If you get sick or contract West Nile, call the 800 number on your receipt. And they have you sit in the refreshment area for 15 minutes - have cookies, crackers, cheese, juice, soda, water. Whatever you want.
If you're feeling good, you're good to go.
While I was in Arizona, I donated over 2 gallons. In California, at my first donation since I moved back, they told me I hit the 15 gallon mark. FIFTEEN GALLONS!! Again, insane!! They say each donation can save 3 lives. 1 pint = 3 lives. 8 pints = 1 gallon. If you combine my states. 136 pints X 3 lives per pint = 408 possible lives saved.
So yeah, I'm not a fan of needles. I have no tattoos. But it's a no brainer, my 'sacrifice' isn't a sacrifice. It's a gift. A gift I gladly give. I'm scheduling my next appointment after I post this blog entry.
I'm not a hero. I'm not special. I'm just doing what I think is right. I'm simply helping those parents bring their precious child home.
If you're interested in blood donation and are healthy enough to do so, please get informed.
www.bloodsource.org
www.unitedbloodservices.org/
www.redcross.org/donate/give/
Be the change you want to see in this world.
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Monday, August 13, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
To Shed Some Light…
I have this posted on my personal facebook page and decided to share it with you, my audience here on BlogSpot.
There are a handful of you who know my circumstances, those of you who lived through it with me. There are many of you who know the basics, having heard a brief story from me or someone I know. But I realize most of you have no clue about the single event in my life that has created the woman I am today.
On the evening of August 24th, 1999, I returned home after hanging out with some friends. Something didn’t feel right and I asked to be brought home. Shortly after being dropped off, the phone rang. Mom answered. It was my uncle. There had been an accident. Grandma was hit by a car earlier that morning. Grandma had no identification on her person, so she was admitted as Jane Doe. When Grandma didn’t return home, Grandpa thought maybe she went to visit one of their sons. When she couldn’t be located, phone calls to police stations and hospitals ensued. Grandma was identified that evening by her keychain and wedding band.
We hit every red light on the way to Sutter Roseville, naturally. I remember not crying. I remember the Miss-Something-or-Other pageant being on the TV in the waiting room. Early the next morning, I remember someone entering the room saying that if we wanted to say our goodbyes, now would be the time. That’s when I lost it. I couldn’t see her like that. I didn’t want to remember my beautiful grandmother in this condition. I remember sitting by the window, sobbing. This couldn’t be happening to her, to me, to us. I remember being part of a prayer circle. It is August 25, 1999, I am 17 years old and my grandma is gone. I remember Dad driving me home. I remember lying on the floor – half in my room, half in the hallway – curled up with pictures, trying desperately to fall asleep. Hoping against all hope that I would wake up from this nightmare.
Here is what we know: Grandma was out for her morning walk. She had the right-of-way at a stoplighted intersection. A woman ran her red light and struck my grandmother at somewhere between 35-45mph. She claimed she was adjusting her sun visor, but our lawyers were able to disprove that claim. She also said she never drives that route, yet she chose to speed down a blind, curved hill.
Fast forward 24 hours. It’s the first day of my senior year in high school. I haven’t eaten. I’ve barely slept. I get to the classroom of one of my former teachers. I tell him what happened and that the news article was supposed to be in that day’s Roseville Press Tribune. We walk around campus trying to find a copy. I hear him telling school personnel my story and I feel empty inside.
When I saw the police report, I noticed it had the woman’s home address on it. I sat down and wrote a letter. I told her how wonderful Grandma was. I made a list of all the things Grandma would never be able to do again. I told her I was sure my grandma would forgive her but I didn’t know if I could. My best friend drove me to the post office and we dropped it in the mailbox. At that moment, I forgave her.
I didn’t care about school. I didn’t apply to colleges or for scholarships until the last minute. I wasn’t doing my homework. I didn’t care about my friends. I didn’t care about life. I wanted the pain to end. I had my wisdom teeth pulled and was prescribed Vicodin. I didn’t need the pills. Until one day at school, when I couldn’t get Grandma off my mind. I took a pill at lunch before Physics. It felt weird. My friend pointed something out in the textbook and I started bawling. What was happening to me? I stood up and left. I walked home. That was a bad experiment. Pills got tossed.
I had to tell my mom that I wrote the woman a letter, in case it came up at trial. That letter has since traveled far and wide to family across the world. It also found its way into the judge’s chambers. When the woman spoke at the criminal trial, she told of how she attempted suicide twice because of my letter. She told of how her 5 year old son asked if he could bring her to show-and-tell so his friends could meet someone who killed a person. My family wanted me to write another letter, this one to be read in court. When it came time, I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t speak. But my first letter said enough. The judge thought so, too. Because he could feel the pain in my letter, he gave the woman the maximum sentence under the law.
None of us thought it was enough. The verdict was guilty of vehicular manslaughter without gross negligence. No jail time. She got probation and a suspended license. My grandma was gone and this woman got a slap on the wrist.
The fact that a life could be taken so quickly scared the hell out of me. After this, I had no desire to get my driver’s license. I didn’t want to be responsible for ending a life. I was fine being chauffeured around. So I waited until I was 21 to get a car and get my license, when I knew I needed to become independent. After the collision, something happened. I became hyper-sensitive to pedestrians. Which is why, if I’m a passenger in your car, you may still hear me say ‘person’, ‘pedestrian’, ‘walker’, ‘hi lady’ just to make sure they’re visible to you. Or you may notice me pressing the invisible brake pedal on my side of the car. This is also why I won’t jaywalk. This is why I say “I love you Grandma” and blow a kiss when I drive through the intersection of Rocky Ridge and Strauch/Professional in Roseville, CA.
So I am still pretty messed up. I have my good days and awesome memories – honey buns, chocolate chip cookies, Christmas morning and her Norwegian accent. And I have bad moments – moments that bring me back to August, 1999. And I live it all over again. It has been over 12 years. It’s an ongoing battle. And I’m never going to ‘get over it’. My family will never ‘get over it’.
My plea to you: Be completely aware, be completely there when you drive. A split second of your inattention can shatter lives. Just pay attention. Be there. No one should have to experience this sort of loss. No one.
There are a handful of you who know my circumstances, those of you who lived through it with me. There are many of you who know the basics, having heard a brief story from me or someone I know. But I realize most of you have no clue about the single event in my life that has created the woman I am today.
On the evening of August 24th, 1999, I returned home after hanging out with some friends. Something didn’t feel right and I asked to be brought home. Shortly after being dropped off, the phone rang. Mom answered. It was my uncle. There had been an accident. Grandma was hit by a car earlier that morning. Grandma had no identification on her person, so she was admitted as Jane Doe. When Grandma didn’t return home, Grandpa thought maybe she went to visit one of their sons. When she couldn’t be located, phone calls to police stations and hospitals ensued. Grandma was identified that evening by her keychain and wedding band.
We hit every red light on the way to Sutter Roseville, naturally. I remember not crying. I remember the Miss-Something-or-Other pageant being on the TV in the waiting room. Early the next morning, I remember someone entering the room saying that if we wanted to say our goodbyes, now would be the time. That’s when I lost it. I couldn’t see her like that. I didn’t want to remember my beautiful grandmother in this condition. I remember sitting by the window, sobbing. This couldn’t be happening to her, to me, to us. I remember being part of a prayer circle. It is August 25, 1999, I am 17 years old and my grandma is gone. I remember Dad driving me home. I remember lying on the floor – half in my room, half in the hallway – curled up with pictures, trying desperately to fall asleep. Hoping against all hope that I would wake up from this nightmare.
Here is what we know: Grandma was out for her morning walk. She had the right-of-way at a stoplighted intersection. A woman ran her red light and struck my grandmother at somewhere between 35-45mph. She claimed she was adjusting her sun visor, but our lawyers were able to disprove that claim. She also said she never drives that route, yet she chose to speed down a blind, curved hill.
Fast forward 24 hours. It’s the first day of my senior year in high school. I haven’t eaten. I’ve barely slept. I get to the classroom of one of my former teachers. I tell him what happened and that the news article was supposed to be in that day’s Roseville Press Tribune. We walk around campus trying to find a copy. I hear him telling school personnel my story and I feel empty inside.
When I saw the police report, I noticed it had the woman’s home address on it. I sat down and wrote a letter. I told her how wonderful Grandma was. I made a list of all the things Grandma would never be able to do again. I told her I was sure my grandma would forgive her but I didn’t know if I could. My best friend drove me to the post office and we dropped it in the mailbox. At that moment, I forgave her.
I didn’t care about school. I didn’t apply to colleges or for scholarships until the last minute. I wasn’t doing my homework. I didn’t care about my friends. I didn’t care about life. I wanted the pain to end. I had my wisdom teeth pulled and was prescribed Vicodin. I didn’t need the pills. Until one day at school, when I couldn’t get Grandma off my mind. I took a pill at lunch before Physics. It felt weird. My friend pointed something out in the textbook and I started bawling. What was happening to me? I stood up and left. I walked home. That was a bad experiment. Pills got tossed.
I had to tell my mom that I wrote the woman a letter, in case it came up at trial. That letter has since traveled far and wide to family across the world. It also found its way into the judge’s chambers. When the woman spoke at the criminal trial, she told of how she attempted suicide twice because of my letter. She told of how her 5 year old son asked if he could bring her to show-and-tell so his friends could meet someone who killed a person. My family wanted me to write another letter, this one to be read in court. When it came time, I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t speak. But my first letter said enough. The judge thought so, too. Because he could feel the pain in my letter, he gave the woman the maximum sentence under the law.
None of us thought it was enough. The verdict was guilty of vehicular manslaughter without gross negligence. No jail time. She got probation and a suspended license. My grandma was gone and this woman got a slap on the wrist.
The fact that a life could be taken so quickly scared the hell out of me. After this, I had no desire to get my driver’s license. I didn’t want to be responsible for ending a life. I was fine being chauffeured around. So I waited until I was 21 to get a car and get my license, when I knew I needed to become independent. After the collision, something happened. I became hyper-sensitive to pedestrians. Which is why, if I’m a passenger in your car, you may still hear me say ‘person’, ‘pedestrian’, ‘walker’, ‘hi lady’ just to make sure they’re visible to you. Or you may notice me pressing the invisible brake pedal on my side of the car. This is also why I won’t jaywalk. This is why I say “I love you Grandma” and blow a kiss when I drive through the intersection of Rocky Ridge and Strauch/Professional in Roseville, CA.
So I am still pretty messed up. I have my good days and awesome memories – honey buns, chocolate chip cookies, Christmas morning and her Norwegian accent. And I have bad moments – moments that bring me back to August, 1999. And I live it all over again. It has been over 12 years. It’s an ongoing battle. And I’m never going to ‘get over it’. My family will never ‘get over it’.
My plea to you: Be completely aware, be completely there when you drive. A split second of your inattention can shatter lives. Just pay attention. Be there. No one should have to experience this sort of loss. No one.
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