For Wilshire Baptist Church
Wednesday I crossed another bridge toward feeling whole: I rolled up my sleeve and donated blood.
I’ve been a longtime blood donor, the majority of it through periodic blood drives hosted by Wilshire for decades. I’ve given almost nine gallons over the years, which sounds like a lot but there are many people who have given much more. The world champion, Australia’s James Harris, has given more than 1,170 units of various blood components. I’m way behind at just 70 units.
The last time I donated blood was in February 2023, a couple of months before I was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in my sinus. There were several more blood drives that year at Wilshire but I didn’t notice because I was in the thick of chemo and radiation treatments. And even if I had noticed, cancer was a definite “no” for blood donations. And then 2024 was a no-go because you can’t donate blood for at least a year after treatments end. So, I waited 17 months and finally got back to it this week.
I may have a sort of obsessive-compulsive relationship with donating blood, but I think I do it because it’s easy, doesn’t cost me anything but an hour of time at most, and there’s a definite need. On Wednesday, that last factor became very real to me for the first time in my life.
As I lay in the chair and watched the blood leaving my arm, I recalled a dismal day in July 2023 when I lay in a similar chair and watched someone else’s platelets going into my arm. I had endured 10 rounds of chemo and 21 radiation sessions with 14 more to go, and basically, I was out of gas. My blood counts were down, but especially my platelets, which control bleeding. Low platelet count can be caused by some cancers, but in my case, it was caused by the treatments that can damage bone marrow where platelets are produced. The doctor said I needed a boost, and thanks to anonymous donors, I got one.
Back before I was eligible to donate blood again, I wasn’t sure if I would. Physically, I didn’t know if my chemo-stressed veins would be up to it, and I didn’t know if my blood counts would be OK. Even before the cancer hiatus, I had been rejected a few times from donating because my hemoglobin – the protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen – was below the minimum required. On Wednesday, however, it was the highest it had been in several years, no doubt due to the iron supplement my oncologist suggested but also to the strip steak LeAnn had cooked for us the night before. Iron is essential for hemoglobin.
Spiritually, perhaps, I didn’t know if I would be willing to lay still for 30 minutes with a needle in my arm. There had been so much of that over the past months. But on Wednesday I learned I can still do it; I’m not done yet.
I know I’ll never catch up with Harrison, the champ. He started at age 18 and donated regularly for more than 60 years – including plasma every two weeks – before Australia regulations forced his retirement at age 81. There is no age restriction here in the United States as long as you’re healthy and fit, so I believe I have some more gallons to give.
In fact, I remember one of the first times I donated at Wilshire on a Sunday morning, one of the donors on a cot near me was Joe Summerfield. He had just turned 90. After donating that day, I’m pretty sure he went back to his post as a greeter at the south door near the chapel. Next time you walk through there, make sure to notice the sculpture of welcoming hands dedicated to Joe.