Once, when I was five or six, I had to get a shot. I don't remember what for, probably measles or mumps or some other disease that would mar my idyllic childhood. Little did the doctors know that trying to stick me with that needle would be infinitely more dangerous to them than the measles would have been to me.
I thrashed when they told me to be still. I cried when the told me to whistle so it wouldn't hurt.
Even getting my vaccinations before freshman year freaked me out a bit. Not to the same degree, of course, but still.
So now, why am I donating blood? I figure it's a little ridiculous for a 19-year-old dude to have such a crippling fear of needles, and if I'm going to get over it, why not save up to three lives doing it?
It's Tuesday, April 21, and I'm freaking out a little bit. The nurse pricks my finger to test the iron in my blood. I tell her I have a thing with needles. She laughs, and wonders aloud why so many people use donating blood as a psychological treatment. Internally, I wonder if anyone's ever punched her in the face. I take the high road and I don't make fun of her for having a really lame name tag.
I'm filling out the survey asking if I have HIV or AIDS. That's not helping the mild panic attack that I feel gripping me. I'm sure I don't have it, but I don't need that seed of doubt planted in my famously overactive imagination.
The nurse leads me out to a beach chair that is incongruously placed in the lounge of my dorm where I can sit and watch The Sum of All Fears on FX while I donate. I'm in the chair; I'm ready to save my three lives. Three girls who just finished donating are making jokes about how much it hurts. The nurse paints my arm with iodine.
What's that
is that gonna numb that spot? Local anesthetic kind of thing?
No that's just iodine that you said you weren't allergic to. It basically opens everything up and then we spread it out.
Oh. Lovely.
Alright. Now don't look at the needle.
I can't help it. I look.
You looked
didn't you?
Turns out the looking at it is what makes 90 percent of the fear kick in.
I'm sitting in the chair, squeezing the stress ball and forcing my blood out, waiting for that bag to drop. I start to hyperventilate a little. But then Morgan Freeman and Ben Affleck start talking on-screen, and I make up a dialogue for them in my head. Turns out The Sum of All Fears is way better when Morgan Freeman is secretly having an affair with Ben Affleck's wife, and only the Russian president knows about it.
The six minutes are up and I stop squeezing the ball. They leave the needle in, but it's covered with a piece of gauze, so I watch the nurse take care of the blood bag. She fills several test tubes with my blood, two of which have serum in them to aid in separating out plasma. Internally, I get a little surge of pride.
That little purple bag of blood is going places.
Nick Philpott is a sophomore studying playwriting and creative writing. For more on his blood donation experience, check his blog on The Post's Web site, or ask at np714907@ohiou.edu.
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Opinion
Nick Philpott
