doug nelson: DISENGAGE!

DON’T READ THIS IF YOU EITHER WANT TO THINK WELL OF ME OR HAVE ISSUES WITH NEEDLES/BLOOD.

IT IS WAY TOO LONG AND WAY TOO WHINY

REALLY, I SHOULD JUST STOP

So, I’d never donated blood before today. I showed up at 10:30, and the line was superlong….I was basically asked to reconsider by a Red Cross official, but:

1) I’d been worried about this all morning.
2) I did not want to worry about it all week.

I went home, got the Gameboy, and came back to waaaaait.

As the hours stretched out, it began to eat at me. Behind that maze of blue barriers, below those disembodied, held-up hands, there were people, people with pieces of steel being put in to their skin, their skins, their skin skin skin skin skin.
No no no don’t think!

Amazing fortune: If I had not forgotten said Gameboy the first time, I would’ve been seated next to - and donating next to - a man who seemed interested in engaging everyone nearby in conversation.

MAN: “Oh, yeah, but the words some of those songs have…I mean, kids are hearing that stuff when they’re, like twelve!”
UNINTERESTED PERSON: “Oh, I know. It starts really young.”
MAN: “Yeah, well, I’m a DJ for some small functions, school dances, you know, things like that, and this one time…”

Then the prescreening, which included my favorite part of medical visits: The part where the health care lady takes my pulse, looks confused, and then takes it again.
HER: “Do you exercise?”
ME: “I…some?”
HER: “Like..what?”
ME: “I run some. I used to run a lot. Not so much anymore.”
HER: “Are you sure?”
ME: “Am I sure what? My pulse is pretty fast, right?”
HER: “Yeah, it is.”
ME: “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”
HER: “Lately?”
ME: “Four…five years. Once recently. Yeah.”
HER: “Oh. Huh.”
ME: “Is it bad? Is it going to be a problem?”
HER: “No, um, hey! It might even help, right?”
ME: “…”

I was already descending into my little state, and the act of having my pulse taken on the wrist only worsened it. That’s my blood under there, pushing on her hand, and she’s counting it. Counting it. Unease.

HER: “How old are you? Are you over 17?”
ME: (breathing very deeply now) “Um…..24.”
HER: (looks at my ID carefully) “Wow, okay. I’m sorry, you just look….very young.”
ME: “Yes. Yes, I….that.”

The waiting once again. Chatty McCarthy had now descended on a Woodlawn senior, and was asking her about her favorite music, which he could only classify as ‘underground.’

HIM: “So, you hear that stuff at, like…certain clubs? Special clubs you go to?”
HER: “Well, you can find out about a lot on the internet.”
HIM: “Really! The internet! Okay, well, if you could see any band live, who would it be?”
HER: “I guess I’d have to go with someone you can’t see anymore. Um….The Who?”
HIM: “Wow, really! You really like The Who?”
HER: “Yeah, I do.”
HIM: “See, that’s so rare to hear, among kids these days. You always hear the cars going by, blasting their music…”

I thought about A) having a mix to distribute to future music obsessives like this one B) how I was thumping Young Jeezy all the way to the Red Cross that morning.

The Gameboy is a mysterious, magical thing. iPods, books, sketchpads, newspapers…all of these either invite attention/inquiries or simply fail to prevent them. One must be cautious to avoid holding out a ‘conversation piece’ for some bored/nervous person to see and latch onto. I read, I sketch, I do card flourishes, sure, but not in the wide-open-outside, if I can avoid it. No no: The Gameboy is the ultimate personal bubble; it is a signifier that screams “I’m immature, I’m poor, and I’m boring. Do not ask me about the news unless it is specifically news regarding 3rd-level finishing spells of the ice variety, because this boss is made of fire.” Even the shiny, expensive PSP can draw attention from parents considering giving it to a child, PLUS, it’s all web-surfy and movie-watchy, so people might falsely assume you’re not engaging in the most unattractive activity of all: rampant escapism.

The downside of the Gameboy was that it failed to draw my attention away from the matter at hand, which was, incidentally, slowly numbing my hands and pushing at my stomach by now.
Don’t think about needles, don’t think about blood, blood flowing into warm bags that get picked up and put into coolers by technicians, technicians who specialize in blood! Don’t think about skin like white latex, stretching and surrendering to that metal metal metal tube, no!

Even with adequate distractions, though, the feeling slowly builds until the pressure points ache and the room shimmers.
Go in, sit down.

Being stuck isn’t it. It’s the
I don’t know. The medicality of it. The cleanliness and the red hazardous tubs. Air gets thinner around them.

I wish I could fill out a form or wear a badge that says “No, I’m not okay, but stop asking. There is nothing you can do except finishing this as quickly as possible. Please stop asking, stop telling me it will be fine, it won’t hurt, it’s safe. I know I know I know it’s an IRRATIONAL FEAR.” It doesn’t come up often enough that I’ve had to think about this: But it’s very difficult to explain to people that you know yourself, you know your body, you know how to deal with it, and you know it doesn’t make fucking sense, so just shut up. I particularly thought of friends I have with sharp anxieties and phobias, and the questions they must have to deal with regularly. “See, it’s just dark! There’s nothing in the darkness! What are you so afraid of?” God.

Oddly (not so much, really): It felt exactly like my weird little brand of social anxiety; the one that popped up this Fall and and only went away with a little justified surgical defriending. The limp arms, the breathing, the stomach, the paranoia.

After about a billion “Are you okay? You look pale”s, the swabbing began.

ME: (quietly) “I’m so…so sorry. I just get this way. I just need to get it over with.”
HER: “Well, it’ll be reallll easy, it barely even hurts, you’ll see!”
ME: “Thanks. Thanks, just….”
HER: “It’ll just be like Poke! And you’ll be out. So, what made you want to do this?”
ME: “I…I forgot that I was like this. Really. I guess just. Curious. I never have.”
HER: “Huh.”
ME: “I don’t know. I have friends who do it all the time. And you’re right near my house, right?”
HER: “Which friends?”
ME: “What? I…friends I have. Just. Is that, is that is that?”

(NOTE: I am a fucking baby.)

HER: “No no, I’m not going to do it yet. I’ll let you know.”
ME: (mumbling, looking at ceiling, which is beginning to bulge rhythmically) “And, you know…I…might have to do it again soon, for someone, a friend, and I know I’m a useful type anyway, and it’s nice to get tested, you know, and….”
HER: “Ohhhh, so that’s the REAL reason, I bet. Get that free blood test, hmm?”
ME: “Sometimes.” (realizing I can no longer lift head)
HER: “What does ’sometimes’ mean?”
ME: “I just….I….I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

OTHER DONOR: “Wow, you look pretty bad.”
ME: “Yes. I do.”

The actual process was fine, if a bit unsettling. I flexed and got that little sharp pain each time, which feels like regular ol’ pain until you think “It’s because there’s a metal tube in me. In my most sacred spot of all: My vein.” Still, things seemed to calm.
The end was a flurry of activity, something interesting involving filling little vials, and then

“All done!”
I look at my arm and realized they’d taken the needle out without me even realizing it. I see it in her hand.

That’s it: Ears singing, ceiling twisting, hands falling back. I quickly gave up aspirations of not tipping over, not tapping out or swearing, and instead put all my energy just into not throwing up onto all this nice clean medical shit, in front of all these people watching me those eyes like I just fell down the Metro escalator. One thought I had was that I felt like throwing up simply because my shirt was too heavy, like a lead dental vest crushing me, but thankfully, my arms were too heavy to take the appropriate action.

It was way too long until I could walk, I felt awful for using up the chair for all that time, but they insisted and when I tried to get up sort of ordered me to sit back down. Apparently, my lips were blue. God.

An hour later, everything’s all fine again, and Russian Futurists rock me into the office (where, I suppose, I will have to eventually accomplish something).

Oh, the pitfalls of having a to-do list: Today’s donation and yesterdays trip to Jiffy Lube mean that “Blood” and “Oil” are crossed off, and all that remain are three gifts for three people, and callin’ the folks. Maybe I can call after dinner tonight, shop Friday morning. Oy.

IT SHOULD BE NOTED that the whole system was far less frightening, in theory, than many other routine medical processes. There was little-to-no pain, and no one around me seemed to have the slightest problem with it. Then, there were free cookies and stuff.
I am just kind of pathetic about such things.

Dear world: I would like to help you some more, but am not cut out for this specific line of activity. If there is anything I can do that involves being beaten with firepokers, dragged behind a car, harassed by snakes, fighting Nazis, opening the Lost Ark Of The Covenant….please let me know.