No Good Deed

One of my favorite things about the company at which I've recently started working is how involved they are in the community. I've been trying to focus more recently on being more socially conscious, so I decided to participate in a blood drive held last week. I've never donated blood before, but I know a few people who do it regularly and for whom it is never a big deal. I don't particularly care for needles, but I figured that a small amount of discomfort on my part should absolutely be undergone to potentially save three lives.

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I check in for my appointment during my lunch hour and read through the donation guide. My anxiety is mounting, but I am trying to draw comfort from the other donors who seem to be perfectly fine, even after having a pint of blood extracted from their bodies. I knew that this state of perfect fineness was not always the case for every donor every time; the first time my brother gave blood, blood spurted from him arm and soaked his white tee shirt through. I couldn't stop telling the story to anyone who had made the mistake of making eye contact me.

I knew I might be in trouble when the woman did the pin prick to test my blood, and I screamed at an embarrassingly loud decibel level. She laughed in that creepy way that people who work with blood and needles all day do, and my anxiety mounted higher still.

Finally, I am in the chair. After much hyperventilation and the phlebotomist telling me flat-out that she thought I was too scared to donate, the needle is in my arm. Wow, that wasn't so bad. I look to my left and notice that the woman next to me had started pumping a few minutes before me. 

What happens next is beyond embarrassing, but is unfortunately true to form for someone like me. As soon as the thought enters my head, I know what I must do. I'm going to race her. I am thrilled by the idea that this phlebotomist will tell me that I have bled a pint of blood faster than anyone in the world. She doesn't know my secret, but she encourages me with a "you are such a good bleeder". I pump the foam shape in my fist that much harder. I can tell that I'm close to finished, but the other donor has beaten me. I try to make up for the loss by pumping my hand faster still, barely releasing between each squeeze. My arm feels numb and cold at the same time, but I'm almost there. I guess the machine beeped, indicating that my donation was complete, but at this point I have stopped squeezing the foam. 

The words "I think I feel a little woozy" have barely escaped my lips before the realization hits that I do, in fact, feel woozy, only it was more "lot" than "little". I suddenly have a plastic bag under my chin, two cold compresses on my head and neck, and a giant fan blowing into my face. I'm being instructed to cough and stop moving my needle-stuck arm so much, please. My need to vomit is only slightly ahead of my need to crawl into a hole, I'll need it at least 14 feet to bury all of my embarrassment. I mean, really.

I passed out from trying to "win" the {fake} Fastest Bleeder In The World prize.

Who does that?