Connect

There is a lot happening in the world that we cannot control. Helplessness can feel like drowning. There’s nothing to grasp to steady yourself. During times like these, helping others can bring a sense of fulfillment. It can give you a measure of control.

Donating blood is one such act.

Along with my colleague, Amy Hughes, I write and edit Connect. A few years ago, I started helping to promote blood drives at UVA Health. National donations were critically low so, in addition to writing about them, I decided to do my part. I rolled up a sleeve and opened a vein.

I used to think that when I donated blood, it went in a bag and disappeared into the ether. I never knew who I helped, how I helped, or what the outcome of my help was. While altruism should be its own reward, as a writer it drove me crazy that I’d never get to know the end of the story. Donating to off-screen players in the movie that is my life was not terribly satisfying. I donated anyway, and the writer in me learned to live with disappointment.

Since then, I’ve had a shift in philosophy. While I will never definitively know who I help, my brain has started finishing the story. In my version, I like to think I’m helping …

… my dad, if his heart needs another repair …

… a colleague, whose baby may need to have surgery …

… my daughter or her friends, who are inexperienced, young drivers (accidents happen) …

An Honest Confession
To be clear: I do not like donating blood. For me, it is wildly unpleasant. Before you judge me, it’s not what you think. I’m not afraid of the pain (it’s just a pinch) or the antiseptic smell of chlorhexidine (it’s no big deal) or the stapler-sounding crunch of the finger-stick (it’s over before you know it) or the time commitment (about an hour).

For me, it’s embarrassing.

You see, I have a nasty habit of passing out when I have blood drawn. Fainting, getting woozy, tunnel vision: When I volunteer my blood, these are on the menu. The sight of all 6’4” and 200 pounds of me slumped limp on the table because of a little blood draw, well … it’s not a good look. Knowing this will happen causes anxiety, which only ratchets up my chances of passing out.

A vicious circle.

Years ago, James Gorham, MD, PhD, Chief, Division of Laboratory Medicine; Medical Director, Blood Bank and Transfusion Medicine Service; and Professor of Pathology, tried to allay my fears of embarrassment, explaining that this happens to some people. Passing out was nothing to be ashamed of. It is merely a vasovagal reaction over which I had no control. I appreciated his efforts to calm me, but knowing the biological reasons why my body simply shut down and played possum, didn’t make me feel better. (Thanks anyway, Dr. Gorham!)

Sure, I may pass out. Yes, I will be embarrassed. But I donate anyway because, in times like these, it’s Important. (Note the capital “I.” This is serious.) To think that surgeries could be canceled, people could suffer or die … because of the pride-and-shame cocktail shaking around in my head? Now THAT’S embarrassing.

A couple weeks ago, I read a news story that said because of the coronavirus, 300 blood drives were canceled, which means an estimated 8,000 units were not collected. I’m given to understand that a single unit of blood can save three adults or eight children.

Let’s do some grade-school math: Those donations could have helped 24,000 adults or 64,000 children. Stop. Go back and read that sentence again. Look at those numbers one more time. And that was during a single week. If drives continue to be closed or have low turnouts, surgeries will have to be canceled or postponed.

If you want a sense of control, a measure of “doing something to help,” of buoyancy in the Sea of Crazy that we’re all sailing on, you should donate blood. Each one of us is walking around with an extra pint that someone else desperately needs. Right now. We should all be donating as often as possible.

“But what about the coronavirus?” you may ask. The FDA says that “there have been no reported or suspected cases of transfusion-transmitted coronavirus and the virus poses no known risk to patients receiving blood transfusions.”

Bleeding for the Cause
On March 18, I donated at the Red Cross blood drive in the Battle Building. The Quayle Conference Room provided plenty of social-distancing space and all recommended precautions were in place to keep everyone safe.

Red Cross phlebotomists Robin and Lauren took wonderful care of me. They were kind and sure-handed in their work. When I sheepishly told them that I have a history of passing out, they sprang to action, giving me cranberry juice and Nutter Butters, repositioning my legs, and placing a bag of ice behind my neck. They never left my side.

While I will never know the end of the “who-did-I-help-with-my-blood?” story — strangers or friends or family or colleagues — it does not matter to me anymore. It really doesn’t. I helped. That should be enough for anyone.

I won’t make you guess the end of my story, though. Here it is: I didn’t faint.

[Cue the victory trumpets.]

But even if I did pass out, who cares?

A little embarrassment never killed anyone.

Not having enough blood available during an emergency, however, will.

Your Help Is Needed Now
The Red Cross is reporting that shortages are severe and that donors are urgently needed. Please take time to save a life at one of our upcoming blood drives, which are all being held in the Education Resource Center. 

These drives are only open to UVA Health employees and appointments are required. Get details here.

To prepare for your donation, eat well, stay hydrated, and bring your ID.

If you cannot make any of those drives, or if family and friends want to donate, please visit the Red Cross to find a local drive. If you do this, I recommend signing up for the Red Cross’ Rapid Pass. It will save time during registration.

Hot off the Press: Thank you to all who came out on March 18. Sharon Jones (who is awesome, by the way!) tells me that our original goal that day was to collect 20 units. In true UVA fashion, you all stepped up to the plate and delivered a home run: We collected a whopping 43 donations.

Let’s do it again!

I’ll be back on the table in 56 days. I’d love for you to join me. And, if you see me faint, come over and take a selfie with me. I won’t mind.