1/11/2019 0 Comments Giving lifeI had to fight back my tears at the blood donor clinic today. I have been a regular donor for years but my donations have been a little more sporadic lately as I’ve fit them in around treatment cycles. Knowing that the need for blood is critical around the holidays, I decided that I’d take this window of opportunity while not actively doing anything fertility related to do something “normal” and hopefully help somebody else out in the process.
I’d already been triggered when I had to check the ‘No’ box next to, “Are you pregnant?” on the patient questionnaire, but managed to calm myself again before being called into the private consultation room. Of course the tech who was doing my screening needed to know why I had been under medical care in the last six months, and was fairly sensitive with her follow up questions after I told her the reason I’d been seeing a doctor was for infertility. She carefully asked me if there was any chance that I’d get pregnant in the next month because she wouldn’t want me to donate today if there would be a pregnancy in my near future. “Nope, not a chance,” I tried to respond lightheartedly. Given that my fertility treatment wasn’t listed in the donation eligibility bible, the tech apologized for having to bring in the supervising nurse. The nurse came in and asked me not once but twice if there was any chance that I was currently pregnant. I felt like I was about to break and considered whether or not I should just walk out with an, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this today.” But I managed to keep it together while the nurse instructed the tech to put a note into my chart to clarify that I am NOT PREGNANT. Seriously! I know they have to be cautious because it’s not a good idea to donate blood while pregnant but anyone who has a diagnosis of infertility and has been going through fertility treatment is going to be the first to know whether or not they’re pregnant, and probably isn’t going to be signing up to donate blood if there's a chance that they’re carrying a baby. The nurse left while the tech and I tried to ease the tension by joking about the tedious task of sticking the ID bar code stickers onto each vial and blood bag for every donation. She finished up with my screening and as she reached for the door handle, said to me gently, “Good luck if you try again.” That moment of compassion and of recognition that this was hard for me made a world of difference. I donated my blood, was served my cookies and apple juice, and left – the bandage on my arm holding an odd irony.
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