Caffeine is a drug — a nice drug that helps me start my day. When I don't get my caffeine, I am a slow and forgetful person.
I mention this as a warning. About halfway through my procedure, things started to get fuzzy, so forgive me.
After staying the night in the Hilton in Indianapolis, my parents and I woke up around 5:30 a.m. so we could get to the hospital by 7. After eating breakfast, without coffee or tea since I was not allowed caffeine for the 24 hours preceding the procedure, we drove the six blocks or so to the Indiana University Medical Center so I could receive my final injections of filgrastim. I would then wait for an hour so the medicine could raise my white blood cell count and then I would finally be able to make my donation to the anonymous lymphoma patient waiting on it.
I'm a strange person. I'll admit that. I have no problem with the sight of blood. However, the idea of it being drawn out of me gives me the creeps. I also have a fear of needles. All of this results in me going into panic attacks whenever I donate blood. The procedure I was going in for, donation of peripheral blood stem cells, was basically like donating blood except it lasted six hours. The blood goes out one arm, gets separated by a machine and goes back into the other.
I was slightly beyond nervous to be doing this.
I didn't know how long I would be able to handle the nervous attack that I knew would come, and I worried that my fear would get the better of me, forcing me to ask for the procedure to stop. If I did that, another human would die, so I simply concentrated on keeping calm. It helped that the doctors gave me some medicine — really good medicine — for my nerves and some pain medicine for my muscles about two hours into the procedure.
There's really so much about that day I have to leave out because of limited space, so I'll just say that for most of the time I slept. The one time I did wake up was when I had to pee.
The doctors were putting fluids back into me along with the filtered blood, so when I say I had to pee, I mean I really had to go. My girlfriend had come to sit with my parents and me for the day and her being there is what makes this moment memorable.
After telling the nurse I had to use the bathroom, she produced a plastic bottle, which was to be my toilet since I wasn't allowed to be unplugged. I told my girlfriend and parents to leave the room but not before I had to be helped out of bed in front of them because I lacked the strength to push my body up. I've never felt more weak and ashamed than at that moment. I didn't have the strength to go to the bathroom, to perform a bodily function. It was the most emasculating feeling I've ever felt.
After that, though, the day went smoothly. The procedure ended right on time and I basically slept the day away.
A lot of people have asked if I want to meet my recipient. That would only happen after a year and if both of us wanted to, so I've got time to think about it. As of right now, my answer is no. We're both anonymous. We have the option to send anonymous letters, but I haven't gotten one nor do I intend to send one.
I do get updates on him, and as far as I know, he's doing well. Granted, there's a long time in between updates, so I can't say for sure. The fact of the matter is that I wouldn't know what to say or do if I met him. I don't want thanks for what I did. It seems to me as if the awkward silence would never end.
It's a strange feeling, knowing that this person is tied to me in a way that no one else on the planet is and yet I know nothing about him. He could be a complete jerk for all I know, and, yes, I know someone will take that the wrong way. Meeting him would make me have to take credit for what happened, and I've always felt that one should never do that over an act of charity.
In the end, he's a stranger, and my mother always told me not to talk to strangers.
Even with all the trouble I went through, I would do this again.
At the risk of sounding preachy, I hope everyone would.
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