High fives all around!

Guess who successfully gave an entire donation of blood today?! If you said either Erica OR Bradley, you'd be right the eff on.

No pictures this time, but a quick story:

When I was in the screening booth, I mentioned that I always have trouble giving blood. The nurse looked me in the ey and said, "This time it's going to work out."

I've never met this nurse before, and she said it so certainly. She took my iron, which was higher than it's ever been before (46). My pulse was fine. My temperature-- normally low-- was fine. My blood pressure was fine. So far so good.

Then I went over to the donation station and the nurse there was busy, so Mystery Nurse came over to help me. She asked me which arm I wanted, and for once I was thinking and asked her to check before we tried and failed. She found a small vein in my left arm but found a better candidate in my right, so she set me up.

Annnnnnd, BOOM.

Needle in.

First try.

Painless.

Whaaaaaat?! Another nurse monitored me for the rest of the time and only had to adjust my arm once. I gave a full donation in record (for me) time. No bruise! Hardly a mark at all!

I practically floated out of that office.

Bradley naturally rocked his donation too. I always hope that I don't downplay his donation just because it comes easier for him. As always, I am incredibly proud of him and his philanthropy.

This was our last donation for the year. I need to go back and count up how many times we gave this year. Also, we're not stopping just because the Year of Philanthropy is coming to a close-- our next donation is in January. I'm sure at least that part of this blog will continue past the end of the year. ;)

Surprise from Hoxworth?!

I was completely befuddled when I checked my snail mail today... I had a small package from Hoxworth.

I had no idea what it could be. Bradley of course runs in and says, "Did you get your gallon pin?!"

How does he always know everything? I did not know this was a thing!

I am bouncing off the flippin' walls here. Have I really given a gallon of blood? With all the drama and tribulation?! And I now have a gorgeous little pin to show off?

This is me, trying to look like a proud American. How'm I doing?

By the way... can I just rename this thing the Blood Blog and be done with it?

Bloody Proud

This blog is difficult for me to write. (Obviously.) As I've stated before, the big problem is that I feel bad writing about all the little things I do that I mean to be philanthropic. It makes them feel cheaper... like I'm doing them to write about.

BUT.

When I give blood, all bets are off.


It feels different when I give blood, because it's so freaking DIFFICULT for me. Like, by the end of it I have really earned the right to say HEY! I did a good thing for someone and it really hurt but it was totally worth it!

Today's was almost easy for me! First off, Bradley and I were a bit behind schedule because when we were supposed to give blood, we both had colds. We can still fit one more donation in before the end of the year though.

My iron count was commendable! My blood sugar was stable! I drank so much water that... are you ready?... they found a vein the first time, like it was no problem!

And then, because it's me, it had to go wrong.

My blood doesn't flow very fast, apparently. And my vein is also picky. This is a word that the nurse used. Picky. My goddang vein is picky.

For those of you who don't give blood, the nurse typically sets it and forgets it. Needle in, doop-dee-doo, needle out. My poor nurse had to stand there, one eye on my blood bag and one eye on my arm, moving the needle around my vein. (I'm about to ralph/pass out/ralph just thinking about this.)

They brought out the scale and finally had enough blood to unhook me. I think. They weren't really clear on if they ended up getting enough blood but I am counting this as a victory.

Bradley, of course, was a complete trooper and gave a full donation with absolutely zero upset. But that does not mean that I am not completely proud and excited for him. Together we give more than I could ever give alone, and even if they can't use me at all (like other times), Bradley saves lives like a champ.

Happy 80th, Busken

Brought a dozen glazed doughnuts into the office today, just because I love my workplace and I'm not always a ray of sunshine. They were devoured within minutes.

Yes, that $10 could have been better spent, but this is the kind of philanthropy I most enjoy.

And over, and over, and over, and over, and over... and over again!

Just for fun, here's a picture of the bruise that the nurse at Hoxworth said I probably wouldn't get. Eek. That was taken a week and a half after my last botched donation.

But I'm not here to complain: in fact, I am here to exalt in some philanthropy in which I was on the receiving end. My friend Andy-- whom I met at a Weird Al concert and we have been fast friends ever since-- gave me four tickets in the sixth row for the Weird Al concert in Columbus tonight. He was unable to use the tickets for reasons that are none of my business and refused to take a dime for them. Even paid to have them overnighted.

If I blogged about every time a friend or family member did something awesome for me... well, you'd certainly hear from me more than the once a month I'm averaging now. But this was particularly touching to me and I wanted to say thank you to Andy. Bradley and I are on our way to Columbus in about ten minutes...

P.S. Name the song that this post's title comes from.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Blood Donation

Ohhhhhhhhhhmygod.

The quick version, in case that's all that you're here for: Bradley made a successful, full donation and I am proud of him. I, on the other hand, made only a partial donation, which in itself was fraught with complications. Read on if you want details! If not, stop here and maybe comment to congratulate sir Bradley.
So! The first complication, which was a minor one, was that Hoxworth Anderson was not open on this particular Saturday... which, if you've been playing along at home, is our very first day of eligibility to donate again. But I knew that Bradley was rarin' to git, so I made an appointment at Hoxworth Tri-County. It's about half an hour out of the way but worth it.

The sign-in process went flawlessly (and at this point I'm just talking about my experience, because Bradley was behind me in line). Temperature? Low, but normal for me. Blood pressure? Good. Pulse? Check. Iron? Rock steady, fools. Didn't even flinch at the little needle thing. Let's get crankin'.

Unfortunately, at this point in my tale I am paired with the worse possible nurse for me-- not a bad nurse, please don't think that I am saying she is a bad nurse, but we were a horrible match and I'll tell you why.

I decided to start with my left arm. Why? Because I still have needle marks there from last time so it had to have worked at some point, right? She sits me down and I inform her in no uncertain terms that I just don't want to look at what's going on or talk about it. Whatever you gotta do, do it, and let me know when it's over.

But that's all she can talk about. And when the needle isn't successful the first time, I get to hear all about it in insensitive detail, up to the point when she said, and I quote, "Every time I try to stab it, it wiggles around."

(Sorry, had to pause, just got squeamish again.)

At this point I ask her politely to please, please not say things like that. I am more than happy to try the other arm if she thinks it's a lost cause, but please please leave me out of hearing about my veins "wiggling."

But she thinks she can do it and she pulls another nurse over and together they collapse my vein. And it hurts, and that's fine, and they bandage it, and I'm over it, and I'm ready to move on to the other arm. They check with me a hundred times to make sure I'm okay (I tend to get pale during this process, especially when they won't stop talking about it), and I assure them that they can just do it already.

So they strap down my other arm or whatever they do (I have vague notions and I know what a tourniquet feels like), and the nurse is poking and poking with her finger, and telling me to squeeze or not squeeze or squeeze harder or just generally do the opposite of whatever I am doing, and meanwhile she keeps talking about what's happening and I am trying so hard to block her out. And she gets it! Spot on!

And then she mentions that "man, it's racing out of there." At which point I go pale again, but it's too late to stop her, and she keeps talking. Now I'd like to mention that there is nothing I can focus on at the time: there is no TV, I am facing two people in apheresis machines, to the right of me is my own pulsing arm, and to the left of me is Bradley's pulsing arm. There is nothing to distract me, no direction I can look to tune out.

Finally, probably 45ish hours later, she yells across the room that my blood is too slow and she doesn't think they're going to get a full donation and etc etc etc and how every time she tries to adjust the needle, I flinch like it hurts. (Yes, I can hear you, and yes, it hurts!) Other nurse comes over and moves the needle around (gawwwwd it hurts) and meanwhile they keep talking about it and I am slowly losing it.

And that's when I feel my face go hot, which for me usually means The End. And I say words I never ever want to say: "Please, can we just stop this? I don't feel well."

Which in nurse terms means that I am about to pass out (though I'm not), so my nurse is yelling across the room that I need cold towels and she flips some button that makes my chair fully recline and she is trying to get the needle out of my arm and it is finally Too Much For Me.

So I cry.

I cry because:
A) I want to badly to just do this right,
B) My arms-- both of them-- hurt pretty badly
C) No less than six people are watching me fail fail fail
D) I am overwhelmed by all the things I've been hearing
E) I have been trying not to cry and that makes it worse.

A nurse brings me an orange juice, which I cannot drink because both of my arms are bandaged at the joints so I can't bend them.

I finally stabilize enough to get out of my chair and I go to the little snack station where Bradley is and I cry all over again. And I swipe a donation sticker because no one gave me one. And then I try to leave and they don't want to let me because I'm crying and I leave anyway. And I get in the car and, still bawling, tell Bradley everything that happened and he sympathizes and then I'm fine again.

So that sucked.

Like I said, please don't think she was a bad nurse. She just couldn't adhere to the one rule I tried to lay out... the one thing that gets me through this (pretending that it isn't happening, haha).

And as a punishment for being weak and veinless, besides this huge crying jag, I have two incredibly sore arms and very little philanthropy to show for it. Oh, and an entire Hoxworth full of people who think I'm a mental case.

Here's to the next 8 weeks!

Attempted (read: failed) philanthropy

So, a bummer:

A week or so ago, I found out that some people in my area were getting together to put together a bake sale. The money would to toward Obama's campaign, and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to jump into YoP action! Because if you haven't picked it up by now, I love me some Barack Obama.

I got in touch with a woman who was really put together... the kind of person who leaves perfect voicemails with the phone number clearly stated at the beginning and end. Awesome. And Bradley was pumped up, and I was going to bake my special Splookies (cookies made with Splenda instead of sugar) and all would be delightful.

In one of her voicemails, the aforementioned woman mentioned that it might also help to bring something like lemonade because so many people had already signed up to bring baked goods. This ended up working perfectly for me when, on the night before the bake sale, my dad left a plastic-handled knife in the oven and I cooked it. I decided to pick up some absolutely succulent Chik-Fil-A lemonade in the morning instead of bringing cookies that tasted of plastic fumes.

Saturday, the day of the bake sale, everything went according to plan. I somehow wedged myself out of bed before the crack of noon (it's my Saturday tradition), shower up, and swing by Chick-Fil-A to get a gallon of iced tea and a gallon of lemonade. Just so you know, in case this comes up in your future... a gallon of iced tea is about $4. A gallon of lemonade is closer to $9.

So Bradley and I drive all over Beechmont looking for the bake salers, finally locating them in front of a small grocer's right off of Beechmont Avenue. Here's where things take a turn for the weird...

We approach the table carrying mounds of cups and our gallon jugs. We are all smiles as we approach the table... and no one really looks at us. Bradley and I cast each other glances and I say something inane like "We brought the lemonade!" One guy at the end of the table says unsurely that "You can probably set up here," and clears us a little space on the table. I set up the cups and notice that no one else has given me the time of day yet. Bradley doesn't even have room to stand by me and is kind of awkwardly just pacing around the side of the table.

So I try to make people talk to me. "Um. So! I don't know how much to charge for the lemonade." The woman at my side (there were probably four people there, selling) just shrugged. The guy, still the only one even trying to be helpful, says "Well I'll give you $1 for a cup right now." I thank my stars that I have something to do with my hands for a minute and I pour him a cup; he accepts it and disappears.

There are probably five more minutes of awkward standing around while I try to think of something to say or do here. I tell the woman next to me that I made a dollar; is there a communal till where I can put it?
WOMAN: What would you like?
ME: I sold some lemonade. Just not sure what to do with the money.
WOMAN: Is there something I can box up for you?
ME: ...No. I made a dollar. I sold some lemonade.
WOMAN: Oh! I thought you brought the lemonade.
ME: *stares*

At this point I am completely confused and still no one is talking to me. I am not sure how to combat this. Suddenly I hear through the grapevine that we are being asked to leave; we don't have permission to sell here, and we have to relocate. I ask where we are going, and no one responds as they all pack up their stuff. In their defense maybe no one knew where we were going, but I felt so outcast by then that I was over it. I gave Bradley a look-- he was still lingering by himself on the sidewalk-- and he gave me what I took to be nonverbal permission to bail. I gathered up the 95% full gallons and headed to my car. We drove home.

Basically, I spent $14 and made $1 for Obama's campaign. I met no new people, I had a miserable time, and I have a bad taste in my mouth. Thank gawd I didn't bake my fabulous cookies.

Since then, the organizer woman (who I believe was not at the table at the time, though I wouldn't know because no one introduced themselves even when I tried to tell them my name), called me later. She did not know that I had been there and left a very sweet message apologizing and telling me what had happened (about it being canceled because they had to leave, and she thought she had permission but not from the right person, etc). I am fairly certain that if she had been there things would have been different... someone would have at least said hello to me when I walked up carrying gallons of liquid for pete's sake.

And the saddest part is that I was rarin' to go, to get a good bit of philanthropy under my belt for a cause I truly believe in. I'm sure there will be more events like this in the near future but I know I'll hesitate next time (especially when it involves waking up on a Saturday, haha).