The Martlet

There are two things that scare me more than anything in the world: really big spiders and needles.

Every 52 days on the nose, my dad goes parading around the house asking us if we want to join him on his regular trip to what he calls the “vampire clinic.” He is, of course, referring to the blood donation clinic.

Every time he comes around, I go “No thanks, Dad, I would rather jump into a pit of venomous snakes,” or “Sorry Dad, but I can’t. My fish is on fire.”

But a few months ago, I decided to join him, thinking, how bad could it really be?

I was fine until they stuck the needle into my arm. Instantly I could feel the bile rising. My delectable Sweet Greens wrap was making its way back up my esophagus. I think the nurses could sense it too, because out of nowhere they called a “code 10,” and before you could say “chickened out” my feet were in the air and I was being force-fed juice. On my list of unpleasant experiences, that makes the top five.

The blood donation clinic may have won the battle, but I was determined to win the war. Fifty-two days passed, and during that time I was like Rocky on fight night. I came up with several little tricks to keep my mind off of the cold steel in my arm, and drank about a litre and a half of juice to keep my blood sugar up. I was pumped (and more than a little scared).

I sat down in the same chair as before and plugged in my iPod. I figured if Kanye couldn’t keep my mind off the extremely unpleasant act of having the life juice sucked out of my arm, then nothing could.

My game plan? Listen to music, do the word puzzles on the wall and just focus on something else.

The needle slid into my arm and I felt that same nausea. It was happening again, but this time I thought about school, about work, about the lives I was hopefully saving and about the wicked weekend I’d had.

The needle must have been in my arm for about 15 minutes before I saw the nurse shaking her head. “No! I’m fine! Really!” I yelled at her, “Keep it going!” I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t feel anything in my left arm.

They pulled the needle out slowly and without a panic. As it turns out, the blood wasn’t pumping fast enough for them to get a full bag. I was told that I needed to gain at least 15 more pounds before returning.

In the end, the half a pint of blood I managed to squeeze out was sent away and was hopefully enough to be used somewhere.

So I overcame my fear of needles. But I didn’t do it solely because people might need it to live, or because I felt a moral obligation. I did it because of the amazing feeling that comes from overcoming a phobia. Next on the list? Spiders.