I’m really struggling to give blood during the pandemic, because in Santa Cruz County there is a lot of trouble finding enough volunteers to support the drives. Several times I’ve been signed up for a drive that was canceled one or two days before it was scheduled.

I’ve only managed to actually donate once, but this week I had another chance and I was pretty sure it would work out. After all, things are loosening up, and folks are getting a lot more comfortable now that so many of us are vaccinated. My appointment was yesterday, and the volunteer presence was robust. Everything went well until I got onto the table.

I have strong opinions about phlebotomists. I seem to have scrawny, twisty veins, at least in my arms, and I have experienced multiple stabs, changes from arm to arm or elbow to wrist in search of a good site, and calls for supervisors. I’ve also experienced rapid, smooth, relatively painless insertions. I’ve observed both sorts of experiences with my kids, too. As a result, I’m not sure phlebotomy can be taught: I think it is a calling, or an innate ability, or even a superpower. Phlebotomists are either rock stars or wannabes.

The blog title may give you a clue as to which flavor I had yesterday. The woman who checked me in knew of my sketchy veins and tried to get one of the hot-shots for me, but both were already working on edge cases. The very polite and circumspect young women who cinched up my arm and drew an adorable little box inside my elbow to guide her needle was very good about giving me a play-by-play description.

• You’ll feel a pinch. Now another pinch. Hmmm. [Long intense silence.]
• To another worker: Can you find Stacy or Dimitri? [The hot shots.]
• Him to her: They’re busy. Can I help?
• Her reply: Make me a box. [Apparently this is a little cotton support of some sort. They discussed its characteristics, then he provided it.]
• I seem to be stuck in a valve. [Some tugging. Another worker joined us.]
• I’d like to put this pad on your clothes. [She covered my side with a sheet of absorbent material.]
• I should be able to go beyond it. [Technical discussion, more tugging, arrival of a fourth worker.]
• Maybe I can pull out. [Much advice and offering of various items.]

I am resolute about not watching this sort of thing, but when I felt something warm on my arm I turned to see a river of blood pouring out of my arm, over the armrest, and onto the fortuitously placed pad that was protecting one of my favorite sweaters. Another stream flowed over the other side of the armrest onto the collection bag and the floor. I felt no pain, just the stunning certainty that I was rapidly bleeding out.

Soon, though, the team managed to extricate me from the needle and put an enormous compress on my arm, followed by a fat bag of ice, all held on by several feet of those red stretchy cloth strips. My gal said, I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to collect your blood today because the blood touched the collection bag and once that happens you’re considered to have contributed blood so we can’t take any more.

Was that really the main reason? I replied, That’s ok. I no longer wish to donate blood today.

Later I read that veins contain a valve about every inch. I really want to get back onto the donation horse, but first I have to work to banish the image of my gnarly veins studded with little needle traps lying in wait to slurry my blood into exit chutes.

I also plan to wear something I won’t regret getting blood on.