Giving Blood
by John Morton

John Morton is an author, former Olympic athlete and commentator for Vermont Public Radio. Earlier this year, he did the following, very moving commentary for VPR and has given permission to have it reprinted.

I hate needles. I always have.

It began when I was a kid, back when family doctors still made house calls, and penicillin was the miracle cure for everything. Doc Tadem was a wonderful guy and a terrific role model, frequently riding his bike or paddling his canoe to the hospital, long before physical fitness was a national craze.

But often, his late night visits to our house included that dreaded phrase, "Well, I'd better give you a little mosquito bite," as he rummaged through his black bag for the penicillin and a hypodermic needle. Those were the days when syringes were the diameter of fountain pens, and your butt hurt for a week after the shot. Then there was the polio vaccination administered by the school nurse and her storm troopers in the gym. I remember the national panic caused by the polio epidemic, and I remember what a hero Jonas Salk was for discovering a vaccine. But the day we started the shots is also seared in my memory.

Our whole school - students, teachers, everybody - assembled in the gymnasium and formed long lines at tables overflowing with syringes. Just the sight of so many needles made me feel light-headed. With hundreds of kids to innoculate, the medical staff was all business. As you approached the table, one rugged nurse locked you in a bear hug while a second nurse swabbed your shoulder, then jabbed in the needle and depressed the plunger. The fainters were simply hauled out of line by the hugging nurse. I dreaded the injection. I was terrified of passing out and humiliating myself in front of my classmates.

The Army provided a whole new level of needle phobia. At Fort Benning, Georgia, Home of the Infantry, being macho isn't just a personality trait, it's the foundation for the entire culture. During in-processing, we were lined up, shirts in one hand, medical records in the other, then marched through a gauntlet of medics armed with pneumatic guns that shot the serum into our arms. If you flinched, the pressurized medicine sliced your skin like a razor, and the blood flowed down your arm to your fingers. And in 1968 it was assumed we were all headed for the Garden Spot of Southeast Asia, so we got dozens of shots, including plague, cholera, diptheria, typhoid and hepatitis.

I know great progress has been made in recent decades with the development of smaller, sharper needles, but it's hard to overcome old fears. After her first year in college, my daughter, Julie, mentioned she had participated in several Red Cross blood drives. I admired her generosity and felt guilty I always seemed to find some excuse to avoid donating blood.

Then my wife, Mimi, was diagnosed with cancer, and I was confronted with more needles than I had ever imagined existed. She endured routine blood tests, intravenous drips and bone marrow biopsies. For more than two years, she had to give herself two injections a day. Talk about facing your fears! I would not have seen more needles working in a hosptial. But still, I avoided the blood drives, even though my wife received dozens of transfusions during the course of her treatment.

Mimi lost her struggle with cancer on January 21st. One of her best friends noticed there was a Red Cross blood drive a week later and rallied support among friends and neighbors to donate in Mimi's memory. Finally I was cornered. I couldn't allow dozens of people to donate blood in my wife's honor and not do so myself.

Arriving at the blood drive, the sight of the busy volunteers hefting dark red plastic pouches made me queasy. I squinted through the medical release forms with blurry vision. When my name was called, I staggered to the vacant position, certain my knees were about to buckle. The freindly nurse seemed oblivious to the fact I was about to pass out from fear. She chatted cheerfully as she found my vein and prepared the site. I scarcely felt the needle. She gave me a rubber ball to squeeze and turned to assist another donor. Moments later, she glanced back in surprise. "Whoa, easy on the ball. You're done!" Five minutes, seven at the most, and I had filled the plastic pouch.

It was virtually painless, and an important double victory for me. I was part of a very meaningful memorial for my wife which produced nearly 100 units of blood to help people who desperately need it. As a bonus, I overcame a fear of needles which had plagued me since childhood.

Giving blood doesn't hurt. In fact, it feels great.

This is John Morton in Thetford, Vermont.