Regular blood donors are a dedicated group. We mostly do not know each other, but invariably greet each other when one of us wears a Blood Bank insignia cap or t-shirt to a public event. Platelet donors have a special dedication to their contribution to public wellness. Not everyone can donate. The recipients of this blood component comprise some of the most ill but recoverable patients in any hospital. For decades, I had served as a donor. The donation process challenges the donor. Extraction of blood with return of the red cells takes about two hours plus another half hour to confirm screening for eligibility. For some, both arms get immobilzed, leaving the donor with little to do but watch a movie or two episodes of Queer Eye on a flat screen that the staff moves in front of the donation recliner chair. Arms and other joints can get sore at the end. In my decades as a donor, I've had a few misadventures, including infiltration of the red cell return into the soft tissue of my upper arm, which left quite a bruise.
My days as a platelet donor have come to an end, not because of safety to a recipient, but because of my own age-related inability to remain immobilized for two hours. Some other physiologic symptoms prevent this, including a periodic need to use a restroom with little advance warning. My medical care has taken me to a variety of specialists, including a hematologist. I've had iron deficiency in the past, which limited my ability to donate anything, but at least with platelets, they return the RBCs. With iron levels now corrected and stable, I thought I'd give a unit of whole blood, which takes far less time to collect.
Options for doing this far exceed platelet options, which require dedicated machinery and trained staff at a large center. For whole blood, I could visit a more convenient location. With the approval of my hematologist and very acceptable CBC and iron levels, I made a donation.
It took place just a few miles' drive. The regional medical center had taken over the large building where,, as a young homeowner I purchased my best furniture forty years ago. The furniture industry has not been kind to its merchants. This one folded. Its building was repurposed twice, now as a satellite of a comprehensive medical system. The Blood Bank, a separate entity, occupies a suite on the second floor and collects basic blood products twice weekly.
They checked me in. Decent BP and acceptable Hemoglobin on their often inaccurate desktop hemocytometer. I asked the nurse if she had a record of how many donations I had given. Some time ago, the Blood Bank sent me a card that I had reached 90. They've sent me lapel pins as a reward for 25 and 50. I aimed for 100. Her records, accessed on her computer, put my donations at 103, gallons at 19. No acknowledgement of the milestone. I don't know how they compute gallons for platelet donors, though I was a whole blood donor for many years before they notified me unexpectedly of my eligibility to give platelets, something rarer and more valuable to the blood banking system. I had a few health changes since my last donation, which should not change eligibility. I noted that on the intake form. She had to make some phone calls to confirm that my blood products would remain acceptable to a recipient.
She set me in a chair, one more like a dental chair than the massive recliners used for platelet donations. A quick puncture, one readjustment halfway through, and a pint or so filled a plastic collection bag. She bandaged the puncture site. Rules require that whole blood donors drink something in the canteen and stay for 15 minutes to be sure that dizziness does not occur. I sipped a zero-sugar Sprite, which tasted odd, while the stopwatch of my Casio 168 counted up 15 minutes. I then arose. I could tell that some volume had been removed but I felt functional. A quick restroom stop outside the collection suite, then the elevator to the first floor. With minimal lightheadedness, I sat down in a chair in the medical center's entrance lobby for a minute or two before driving home uneventfully.
Feeling OK, I did another errand. Outside my front door, in warm weather, I grow culinary herbs in pots. Rosemary has been a staple, a plant that has not survived local winters, whether planted in an outdoor bed in the backyard or in a pot that I bring inside to avoid a freeze. It has been hard to find this spring. My trusted garden center ran out, but told me of an expected shipment. I headed over, finding two trays of rosemary, robust in appearance, among their herb display. I handed the agent a $5 bill, then headed home. It will soon outgrow the small plastic sales container, so I transplanted it into the larger plastic planter where I grew last year's rosemary bush.
Then some tasks at my laptop in My Space. I could still feel a bit off, not wanting to do household chores, including making supper. With my wife's permission I orded a pizza, a large one from a local shop nearby. It did not cost that much more than Domino's or Papa John's and bakes more delicous pies. In my online order, I had them add anchovies to half. I'd not had them in a long time, like them better than my wife does, and thought the saltiness would help with my mild volume depletion symptoms. I drove to the pizzeria, prepaid online when ordering, and returned home. I ate quite a lot, five of the eight slices, three of the four with salty anchovies. I began to feel a little worse, but a recliner chair eased the symptoms. Then I lay down on the living room couch. At 9:10PM, that Casio 168 let out a faint alarm, reminding me to count Omer, this night 42, completing six of the seven weeks. I took the sheet with the daily count and blessings to a better-lit part of the living room. Now as I arose, I could sense more severe orthostatic symptoms. I did the nightly count, which only takes a minute. Feeling more lightheaded, I sat down in the nearest chair for a minute or two, them moved across to the couch where I could be more supine. That alleviated symptoms. While I have a blood pressure device in the kitchen, I did not want to get up again or bother my wife to bring it to me. Staying horizontal would suffice. It did not take long to zonk out. Two hours later, almost an hour past my usual bedtime, I awoke, feeling strong enough to go upstairs, but with a stop in the kitchen for some ice water first. I drank the contents of the insulated bottle, maybe half a cup, took another half cup of tap water after that, then refilled the bottle for the refrigerator. I headed upstairs feeling better but still depleted. At 2:30AM I awoke thirsty. Maybe from sacrificing a pint of blood, maybe from three anchovie slices. I no longer felt lightheaded. By now the water in the thermos had chilled. I drank some, then returned upstairs.
I awoke to a clock radio alarm, still not quite right but not ill. Dental hygiene, then some more cold water downstairs. A drizzle had hydrated the herb pots overnight, including the new rosemary. I had no significant symptoms while retrieving the newspaper from the end of the driveway. However, I thought it prudent to reduce the intensity and duration of my scheduled treadmill session. Unless overtly ill, it never gets skipped entirely. I performed OK, though a full intensity session would have been burdensome.
Today I must focus on recovery and extra hydration to replace volume. I met a few goals with the donation, reaching the 100 contribution milestone and visiting a place I'd not entered before. Pleasant staff. Somebody should benefit from the packed RBC and plasma that my blood should provide. However, the volume loss took its toll on me. And I'm a bit annoyed that in a world of automated systems, the Blood Bank had not notified me of my 100 donations, irrespective of whether they offer a tangible recognition as they did for 25 and 50. Probably best to let the younger donors take over.
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