I got punctured to donate my platelets, and I’m deflated about it at the moment. It didn’t go quite as I had planned. I might not be a very good donor, and I feel like a failure.

I was pretty scatterbrained as I headed out the door, and barely remembered to grab a book from the shelf when I walked out the door. I didn’t even look at titles, just grabbed the biggest book on the shelf of ones I haven’t read yet.

At the blood bank, I sat down in the lobby reading the information sheet they gave me. They sure do give a lot of warnings and disclaimers. Even so, I was undeterred.

I filled out the application on the computer, giving them information that would tell them if I am a suitable donor. They have to ask questions about your sex life. Heck, if you get me going I’ll talk about my sex life, but the questions were a little invasive. I answered with no problems. I understood why they needed to know. They asked about travel to foreign countries. I’ve never had much foreign travel to talk about, unless you count going to Oklahoma. That didn’t disqualify me.

The nurse wiped my finger and then stabbed me to check my iron levels in my blood.

So far, so good. I didn’t cry or scream when she pricked my finger. I discovered that I’m not anemic, and that my blood pressure and pulse rate were normal. That’s information worth knowing.

I settled in on a recliner that looked like a comfy lounge chair, with my picture of Taten to keep me focused on why in the world I was doing this.

Over my shoulder, I could see the machine that would be separating the platelets from my blood. An apheresis machine, is what they called it. My blood would be drawn from my body, the platelets separated, and then the blood would be returned. I was told this might take as long as two hours, but I was ready for it. I had brought a big book.

The nurse plopped a red rubber ball in my left hand and explained that when blood was being drawn from my body, I was to squeeze that ball to help pump the blood. When the blood was returning, I was supposed to relax. At that point, I suggested that she might want to take the blood from my right arm. My left hand has been having an arthritis flare for months, and I can’t grip well with it. She shrugged and said, “That won’t matter.” Perhaps, she was wrong.

Inserting the needle didn’t hurt but for a second, and I settled in. Unfortunately, I saw immediately that I was not going to get to read the book I had brought. I had to watch the machine to see when it was withdrawing, and when it was returning, blood so that I could squeeze the ball at the proper time. As I expected, my hand wouldn’t cooperate very well with that endeavor.

I wasn’t enjoying looking at the “scenery.” Now I know that I have to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day, because my Irish blood is not the shade I had said it was. It’s red.

After only a few moments on the machine, the nurse announced with a smile, “According to the information on the machine, this should only take about fifty minutes for you!” Perhaps, she was wrong.

Thirty minutes into the process of my bloodletting, the machine began to beep. There was a yellow flag that appeared on the screen saying, “Pressure too low.” The nurse shrugged it off as she re-adjusted my arm. “Are you squeezing that ball?” she asked. I was, but I couldn’t squeeze it very hard. The machine continued to beep the warning, and she had to stand over me to re-start the machine each time it beeped.

The apheresis machine seemed to have settled down, and she walked away. THEN, the machine began to beep and shriek wildly. Lights were flashing on the screen. She looked down at the tubes filled with blood (coming from my arm) and said, “Oh my God!”

I didn’t take that as a good sign.

It seems that the tubes were tangled. She stooped working with them, muttering under her breath, as the machine continued to shriek. For the first time in the whole process, I got lightheaded and wanted to make her stop right there.

But, she got it all untangled, I kept doing yoga type breathing, and we started again.

The machine began to beep.

“Is your vein throbbing?” she asked. Indeed, I could feel it pulsating. “We don’t want your vein to collapse.” she said.

Duh! Well, no we don’t!

She had to stop at that point, and we had only acquired one “unit.” I think we were halfway through. I was miserable.

We talked about it, and there could have been several factors of why I wasn’t a good donor. Perhaps, though I thought I was “swimming,” I wasn’t hydrated well enough. Perhaps, my not being able to squeeze the ball had something to do with it. Perhaps, the veins are bigger on my right arm. I asked if I could try again with the other arm in two weeks. She told me I could, but she didn’t look optimistic. I think I was more trouble than I am worth.

Disappointed and deflated, I wobbled out to my car. I was determined that for the next two weeks I will drink enough water to float an ocean liner. I threw my book on the seat and almost fell down laughing. I had not even looked at the title, and I swear this was not planned!

“Vein of Gold,” indeed. Seems if they want any “treasure” from this old gal’s veins, they are going to have to dig it out!