I'm Deathly Afraid of Needles. Why Did I Sign Up to Donate Bone Marrow??
A special Trial & Error guest post
“I did it for a girl.”
This is a special moment. You are about to read the first ever guest post on Trial & Error. I have had this idea in mind for a while but was waiting for the right moment to go for it. That moment came a few weeks ago when my friend, the incredibly talented writer Tyler Hicks, texted me asking for a place to write a story about his upcoming bone marrow donation. I gave him a few suggestions and then I pitched him on writing it for T&E. To me, this is the perfect T&E story. It’s something people have heard about but likely don’t know anyone who has ever done it themselves. Plus, it sounds terrifying. It’s a complete honor that Tyler would write for me, literally yesterday he had this amazing story published in the Dallas Morning News.
If you’re new here, please sign up for the newsletter below. For the most part, I write about my own experiences trying out new things, but I will be featuring other guest writers in the future as well.1
“OK, OK, just run through your list. What are your top five favorite movies of all time?”
That was my father, who, by this point, has heard this list too many times.
“Raiders of the Lost Ark2,” I cry in between full-body sobs.
“Star Wars,” I add a second later, one eye on the needle.
Ok so I wasn’t exactly watching Fellini as a 10 year old, but this was the only way my dad could get me through my annual flu shot. However, as evidenced by the did-someone-just-die level of tears, it didn’t work. Nothing would. I was (and am) deathly afraid of needles and blood. I hate them as much as Indiana Jones hates snakes.
So, naturally, roughly 15 years after that dramatic episode (and many subsequent ones), I signed up to become a bone marrow donor.
Confused? Yeah, me too.
In my defense, I was caught off guard. I had no idea just how many needles would eventually be involved. I thought it would never actually happen. I wanted to be a really good person.
Ok. You got me.
I did it for a girl.
In 2017, I was walking through the halls of the vendor booth at the SXSW music festival with my then-partner, now-wife by my side. To my right, a representative from a bone marrow donation company suddenly asked, “Want to save a life?”
First of all, how do you say “no” to that?
Second of all, how do you say “no” to that in front of a woman you love?
The natural response when someone asks if you want to save a life isn’t “will it involve needles?”
The natural response is, “Yes!” So I got some quick details about donating bone marrow, and did a quick cheek swab. Easy, quick, painless, needle-less. Plus, I was too preoccupied with the look of admiration in my future wife’s eyes to even notice the vision of long needles and blood bags dancing in my head. Plus, I told myself, “what are the chances I’m even a match?”
Welp.
In early fall of this year I got the news via email: That cotton swab I did roughly five years ago could now indeed save a life. I didn’t know the person who needed the donation, but I knew that they needed my bone marrow more than me. I just had to deal with my two biggest fears, but of course, I said “yes” once again. How could I not?
Sure, I pass out when I see needles and/or blood, and sure, I’m more or less the same Harrison Ford-loving baby I was when I was 10, but I had to do this. I had to confront these fears. Like Scott said in last month’s Trial & Error, “Try new things, especially if they scare you.”
And this one scared the shit out of me.
Shots Shots Shots Shots Shots Shots
If I’m being honest, I was also trying to prove to myself that I’m not a complete coward. In early March 2020, I was slated for a skydiving session that I would then write about. When the pandemic grounded all such absurd excursions, I got out of facing one major fear: heights. Now, I told myself, I had to face another. Skydiving was getting over a fear in pursuit of fun, this one was getting over it in pursuit of saving a life. Which is a slightly better motivator.
So I said yes, and I began the series of doctor check-ups and blood tests (I shake just writing that) that are essential before a bone marrow collection. Then something unexpected happened.
A couple weeks before my donation, I was told the patient no longer needed a bone marrow transplant. Instead, they needed white blood cells.
“Does that involve less needles?” I selfishly asked the woman who called to give me the news.
She laughed. “Kind of,” she said.
Instead, I’d need to take a ”nasty little medicine called Filgrastim” which apparently would make me feel like I “caught a flu and got hit by a truck in the same week.”
Encouraging.
Filgrastim, naturally, is administered by needle.
Originally, I was going to have to give myself these shots. The company managing my donation was all set to send me a big ‘ol box of needles and let me take care of the whole injection thing, a process that would’ve likely ended with me looking like the dude from Hellraiser.
Luckily, at the eleventh hour, they found a nursing service that agreed to travel to my home four days in a row for a daily morning dose of Filgrastim.
This medicine, designed to increase your white blood cell count, is thick. Every morning, it felt like the nurse (who, I might add, didn’t ask me to name my top five favorite flicks) was injecting my arm with some kind of radioactive sludge. That meant the stab of each needle was quickly accompanied by the unforgettable feeling of a boiling bog of thick liquid spreading beneath my skin. Hours later, that subdermal swamp would remind me it was still there by randomly heating up, jacuzzi-style, and sending what felt like tiny shards of glass shooting down my arm. Fortunately (or unfortunately, if you’re a syringe half-empty kind of guy) I was so preoccupied with the next day’s shots that I didn’t worry too much about the aches and pains consuming my body. In fact, I was so preoccupied with the next day’s shots that I didn’t even think about the donation itself.
In hindsight, that was probably for the best.
“That’s a good color!”
Have you seen those movies where the guy winces from a shot that was, in fact, just the antiseptic wipe?
Now, have you seen those movies where the guy winces from the antiseptic not because he thinks it’s the shot, but because it’s so damn cold?
That may or may not (but definitely did) happen to me.
On the last Thursday in October, I awoke at 5:30 a.m. for the drive from my Fort Worth home to the Dallas hospital where the fun would begin. The day proceeded roughly the way you’d expect:
I visibly shook when the nurse pricked my finger, and so did the nurse, and understandably so: she just saw a grown-ass man convulse from a finger prick.
Finally, it was time for the big show. The nurses stuck one needle in the crook of my left arm, and the white blood cells began to leave my body en masse. I was pretty sure one of the nurses said something about that needle being steel, but I didn’t want to faint just yet, so I didn’t ask her to repeat herself. Besides, I was too preoccupied with what was going on in my right arm.
You see, the nurses needed to put in two needles: one in my left arm to take out the blood cells; another in my right arm to return the blood.
You know the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana is dropped into the Well of Souls where he’s completely surrounded by the things he fears the most? I know exactly how he felt in that moment.
Evidently perturbed by the recent development in my other arm, the veins on the right side of my body were playing hide and seek. The nurses tried one vein, but it didn’t work. They moved on the next one, but nope, that one wasn’t playing ball, either. “Third time’s the charm” is what they usually say, but on this day, it took the nurses four tries to find the right vein. At this point, noticing the yellow pallor of my skin and the light rapidly leaving my eyes, the nurses asked me if I needed any water. I was about to say yes when I made the mistake of looking to my left.
A liquid that looked like tomato soup3 was starting to amass in the bag hooked up to my left arm, which is not the kind of sight you soon forget.
“Don’t worry; that’s a good color!” one of the nurses said a bit too enthusiastically. That’s the last thing I heard before passing out.
No Tears or Fears
All in all, it could’ve been worse.
I awoke shortly after passing out and decided to watch some of the Netflix show “Mindhunter.” After all, if anything is going to distract me from having two needles in my arms, it’s two handsome dudes interviewing serial killers.
Everyone told me the donation process could take up to eight hours, but fortunately I was only in the chair for about half that time. It turns out that all those needles full of radioactive sludge (aka Filgrastim) actually did their job, and my body was positively flush with white blood cells. I think there’s a lesson to be learned there, but I’m too afraid of needles to think about it. Maybe something about preparation. You can figure out the lesson yourself.
Yes, technically I am still living in fear of needles, blood, and any combination thereof. But it’s the good kind of fear: the kind that keeps you cautious, but not paralyzed. Looking back, I think that’s why I said “yes” to this whole process. I knew I could do it, I just had to prove to myself that I wouldn’t let fear win.
Plus I really wanted to impress a girl.
After a couple of years, I’ll be allowed to contact the patient to whom I donated all those cells. I don’t know much about them, but I know they’re going through something far, far worse than the escapades I described above. I know they’re a lot braver than me, too.
When I am finally allowed to write them, I don’t think I’ll bore them with many details about me. I might share some of my favorite movies, and I’ll certainly ask them about theirs. It’s also possible I’ll be asked to donate to the same patient again. If so, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.
One thing that’s for certain: I’m laying off tomato soup for a while.
There are several great organizations through which you can donate bone marrow or white blood cells, including DKMS and Be The Match.
Thanks again to Tyler for writing this awesome story for me and for being a good enough dude to put himself through all that for a total stranger. It’s incredibly inspiring. My favorite quote from this piece was “But it’s the good kind of fear: the kind that keeps you cautious, but not paralyzed.”
I love that idea. Facing fears doesn’t mean you’re never afraid of them again. It just means that you are stronger than those fears and they don’t control you.
And If you liked this piece, share it with friends!
Yes, guest writers are paid.
Tyler is correct, this is the greatest movie ever made
You are lucky I edited the photo to obfuscate the color of the bag. When he sent me the photo I almost threw up.