Confessions

Years ago, after giving a talk to a group of blood safety laboratory workers, I was approached by one of the women in the audience. She had lingered in the back of the room until everyone else left to return to work. “You have no idea how perfect the timing of your visit is,” she said. “I really – really – needed a reminder of how important my small role with the blood supply is.” With tears in her eyes, she told me how burned out and tired she was, to the point of questioning her career choice. “I have a confession to make,” she continued. “I was going to quit my job today.” She told me that she now realized all she truly needed was to remember why she’d chosen this line of work in the first place; that, and maybe a vacation.

I have a confession of my own to make. It involves one of the first memories I have following the birth of my daughter. It was about two weeks into my post-partum nightmare in the intensive care unit, and I awoke to a man I didn’t recognize thumping his finger on my distended belly. That man was Bob Osorio, the head of the hospital’s liver transplant program, who – despite my lack of recognition – had been managing my medical care for about 10 days at that point.

When Dr. Osorio saw that I’d opened my eyes, he asked me if I knew what had happened to me. I was embarrassed because it felt like I ought to know the answer to his question, but I didn’t so I pretended not to hear him. Interpreting my silence as a no, he told me that I’d had a baby, that there had been complications, that I was very sick, and that I’d been given—and was still receiving—a considerable amount of blood. The minute I heard the word “blood,” my first thought was, “Blood transfusions! I’ll bet I have AIDS now!”

I immediately thought of that article I had read years ago about a boy – was his name Ryan? – who had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion and was then banned from school, his family taunted by people whose fear got the best of them. I remembered another article about him years later, his face gracing the cover of People magazine. He had died. “I’m screwed,” I thought.

Mind you, this happened in the year 2000 – not the mid-80s. Yet I – a relatively smart woman and former blood donor—responded to the news of my blood transfusions not with the gratitude of having my life saved, but with the fear of dying from AIDS. In hindsight, I realize that if I’d been more knowledgeable about all the hard work being done behind the scenes to ensure the safety of the blood supply, perhaps my reaction might have been more appropriate and less driven by my ignorance and fear. Knowing what I know today, I am – understandably – embarrassed by my initial reaction to receiving blood. And knowing what I know today, I am not only grateful for, but in awe of, the advancements in transfusion medicine that are continually being made.

To me, what happens between the time blood leaves a donor and is transfused in a patient is nothing short of a miracle – a technological and scientific miracle. We in the blood banking community are fond of saying “blood donors save lives.” But that’s just half of the story. The fact is, everyone who has a hand in getting that blood – in its safest form – to someone in need saves lives.

A message to that woman who almost left her position in the lab all those years ago: thank you for choosing to stay. Thank you for continuing to not only save lives, but to forever change them. Your work is important. You do make a difference.

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Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, free.  Click here and go to the link below the "Buy the Book" button.  Zuzu's Petals is also available on Kindle and Nook.  Hardcover signed and inscribed copies are available at  www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy reading!

One Smart Nurse

I was told there were flowers—lots and lots of flowers.  And the occasional balloon bouquet.  I was told they arrived almost daily and, one by one, they were sent down to the children’s area of the hospital.  My ICU room was small and every bit of space was needed for machines and IV poles and the lone reclining chair in which one family member or close friend would spend the night.  Besides, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call “responsive” during those weeks. It wasn’t like I could actually appreciate the flowers and balloons.

And then, I was told, the flowers stopped arriving.  And in their place came notes—notes that said things like “I gave blood in honor of Lauren today” and “We set up a blood drive to help Lauren.”

Why the change?

A nurse. One very smart ICU nurse who knew that I was draining the local blood supply with my nonstop internal hemorrhaging.  She saw the needs of the various people involved: my family’s need to “do” something; neighbors’, friends’ and work colleagues’ need to show they cared; the local blood center’s need to replenish the red blood cells, platelets, and plasma that I was using at a disproportionate rate; and, of course, my need for more blood. And then that one smart nurse offered my family a suggestion that would meet all of our needs.

“You might want to ask Lauren’s friends who are sending flowers to give blood instead,” she said.  My family responded with enthusiasm.  The only bit of information they wanted in order to get started was how our friends could direct the blood they donated to me.

“Well, that’s just it,” the nurse said. “They can’t. These donations would be in honor of Lauren, but not necessarily for Lauren. But that doesn’t mean it’s not helping.  It’s replacing the blood that she’s been using.  And some of it might make its way to her, but there are no guarantees.” 

Life in the ICU

That was good enough for my family. They began putting the word out in full force, not just locally but to friends and extended family members across the U.S.  My mom manned our home phone and asked everyone who called to give an hour of their time and a pint of their blood. My siblings sent mass e-mails, which were then forwarded on from there. One neighbor organized a blood drive at her school while another organized a neighborhood drive. One of my brother’s clients hosted a drive and had everyone who donated sign a get-well poster for me. My former employer launched their inaugural blood drive, which has become an annual event still in place today.

By giving the loved ones of an ICU patient a focus—something proactive they could do when there was little else to do but wait—one nurse set in motion a ripple effect that would save countless lives with the blood that was donated as a result. Imagine the impact if we could mobilize nurses worldwide to offer this one simple suggestion to their patients’ families.

I wish I knew which of my dozens of nurses it was who made that one simple suggestion during my illness twelve years ago.  I would thank her for knowing how important it was to replenish the blood supply, as well as for understanding how badly my family needed her directive for their own survival of the ICU.

Whoever you are: damn you’re good!  And, oh yeah, thank you.

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Lauren's book, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances (In The Telling Press, 2011), is the #1 Top Rated memoir on Kindle. Hardcover copies are available at www.amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy Reading!

Give Blood. Or I'll Just Take It.

Every year, starting in early September, I hear the same question over and over and over again: “Mom, what are you going to be for Halloween this year?” This question is usually followed by the admonition, “PLEASE don’t wait until the last minute and throw on that stupid witch costume again.”

Halloween is my daughter’s favorite “holiday,” and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not really a holiday.  Every year since Clare was 4 years old, we’ve hosted a wild Halloween dance party (as wild as 60 kids and their parents can get), at which costumes are mandatory regardless of age. Parents like to gripe about this facet of our shindig, yet once ensconced in their alter egos, most of the adult attendees have a rip-roarin’ good time unleashing their inner children – and those who don’t aren’t invited back.

Once again, this year I found myself too busy to think about my costume and no clever ideas were popping into my head. Two days before the party, I was still leaning toward blowing the cobwebs off “that stupid witch costume” when Clare asked if we could go to the giant Halloween store.  

Opening in a different retail space each year for one month only, this year’s location happened to be right next to the local Bonfils Blood Center. We had just had our first snow of the season and some of the Bonfils blood collection staff had built a little snowman – complete with a Bonfils hat – right by the entrance to the Halloween store.

And just like that I knew what I was going to be for Halloween: a Blood Donation Advocate.  

Not the kind of blood donation advocate I've spent the last decade being.  Not the kind that flies around giving talks, emceeing events, and participating in media interviews.  No, this blood donation advocate would take an entirely different approach to ensuring that people "gave blood."

Two days later I donned my costume, splashing fake blood all over myself, a pair of hospital scrubs, and one of the myriad “Give Blood” t-shirts I’d acquired over the years. After topping off my outfit with a few fake bloody knives, I laughed myself silly at the absurdity of how I looked. 

And then I thought about the number of times I had counseled other newer blood donation advocates, their auras just oozing with the desire to help. I remembered when Marianne, a heart transplant patient turned blood and organ donation advocate, called me almost in tears over the apparent indifference she was encountering as she set out to convince others to care about the cause. 

“What is wrong with these people?” she lamented to me. “Don’t they get it? I want to slap some of them – or just tie them down and take the blood from them!” I remembered how I’d told her to let it go, that we could only lead a horse to water, but we couldn’t make him, well, give blood. 

“Listen,” I’d said to Marianne, “We can’t force people to care.  Some will and some won’t. We can only share our stories, straight from the heart, and hope they resonate with enough people that the blood centers get the donors they need coming through their doors.”

And yet for one night, I got to play with the idea of being a different sort of blood donation advocate – the kind that just goes out there and takes what’s needed. Fun – not to mention tasteless – as it was, when my midnight shower washed off the last of the fake blood, I was back to a more subtle form of advocacy: Sharing stories of despair and hope. Touching hearts to inspire action.

Give blood. 

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Lauren's book, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances (In The Telling Press, 2011), is the #1 Top Rated memoir on Kindle. Hardcover copies are available at www.amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy Reading!

Unbelievable

“He was the size of a Coke can.”

It’s been years since interviewing Jocelyn for a video Jeff and I were producing, but that description of her severely premature baby still sticks in my memory.  The size of a Coke can. Unbelievable.

Jocelyn had developed preeclampsia during her first pregnancy and, in order to save her life, her baby boy was delivered via cesarean at 26 weeks (37-42 weeks is considered full-term).  He weighed just 1 pound, 6 ounces.

Connor was unable to breathe on his own, so he was immediately intubated and whisked off to the neonatal intensive care unit.  When Jocelyn was recovered enough to see him, a nurse took her in a wheelchair to visit her newborn in the NICU.

“His skin was translucent,” she told me. “You could pretty much see through him.”

Connor was so vulnerable the doctors had covered his tiny body in bubble wrap even though he was in a heated incubator.  Unable to hold him, Jocelyn was only permitted to slide her finger into the incubator and stroke her baby’s foot, which was smaller than her thumbnail.

Over the coming days, the reality of her baby’s situation sunk in. Jocelyn and her partner were warned that Connor likely wouldn’t survive.  Or if he did, he’d probably deal with lifelong medical challenges.

Preeclampsia is an insidious disease.  The warning signs can be subtle if not completely nonexistent.  The symptoms are not exclusive to preeclampsia, making diagnosis more difficult.  And, to date, no definitive diagnostic tool or cure is available in the U.S.

In the years since my own bout with severe preeclampsia, I’ve met countless individuals whose lives will never be the same as a result of this pregnancy-related disorder.  I met a 30-something man who explained that he and his wife shared a love of cross-country skiing.  Then he told me how he’d spread her ashes through their favorite snow-covered wooded area while on skis after preeclampsia claimed her life. He is raising their daughter as a single dad.

A woman I now consider a friend opted for adoption after the disease claimed her baby’s life, and nearly hers as well.  Years later when she inadvertently got pregnant, she terminated the pregnancy for fear preeclampsia would strike again.  To this day, she suffers great emotional angst over her choice.

And many of my “preeclampsia sisters”—as we jokingly refer to ourselves—deal with ongoing health issues, which are not well-understood by our primary healthcare providers, as the research on the lifelong impact of this disease is lacking.

For Jocelyn, preeclampsia meant simply going to the NICU to sit with her baby day after day, week after week, and then—month after month. She spent 10 hours each day at his side, intermittently crying.  At night, she slept while her partner sat with the baby.  She approved procedures, signed medical forms, and yes, witnessed first-hand what a neonatal transfusion can do for a tiny little boy who came into the world far too soon.

Last night I went on Jocelyn’s Facebook page just to admire the photos of a handsome little eight-year-old boy named Connor. He’s got a great smile, one that suggests a life of joy and silliness and love. From the “size of a Coke can” to a walking miracle. 

Unbelievable.

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Friends:  I'm co-chairing a dinner gala to benefit the Preeclampsia Foundation and the Foundation for America's Blood Centers.  I'd love to have you join us to help these two great causes.  You can even heckle me during my speech if that'll get you there. And if you can't attend, you can still support our effort by making a donation at: www.SavingGrace.preeclampsia.org. Thanks!

Can You Imagine?

A question for all you parents out there: Do you remember when you first held your baby? Do you remember the overwhelming sense of love you felt for that tiny soul who’d just come into your life? Now can you even imagine resenting that baby?  Can you imagine wishing that you’d terminated the pregnancy months before when you had the chance?

It shames me to say that I know that feeling, the one about resentment.  I know what it feels like to be in such indescribable physical pain as a result of being pregnant that you wish you could go back in time and do the unthinkable. 

Today, most people who learn of my experience nearly dying in childbirth immediately want to reach for the Hallmark version of the story: how I must’ve missed my baby so much when she was sent to live with my brother’s family 400 miles away while I struggled to stay alive in the ICU. But that’s just not true.

My experience with childbirth – my first and last – was skewed by the onset of a very common pregnancy-related disorder called preeclampsia, which claims the lives of 76,000 moms and half a million babies every year.  Every year. 

For me, preeclampsia meant multiple organ failure, massive blood transfusions, and pain. Lots and lots of pain. It taught me that it’s possible to suffer so intensely that no amount of morphine can quell it, and no amount of maternal love can overcome it. By the time I was released from the hospital and my baby came home to live with my husband, Jeff, and me when she was two months old, my resentment had shifted to a different emotion – failure. I felt I had failed as a mother before I even began mothering.

Not everyone who deals with preeclampsia goes through the same emotions that I did. I’ll bet my friend Leticia never resented her baby.  How could she? Four days after he was born prematurely due to preeclampsia, he died. And what emotions must my friends John and Brenda have felt as they held their first grandchild shortly after preeclampsia took their daughter’s life? How does my friend Chris feel every time she takes one of her triplets to yet another doctor appointment to address the ongoing health issues tied to their preeclampsia-induced prematurity?

Preeclampsia is capable of causing such utter despair.  And the antidote to despair is hope.  For millions of new moms and babies, that hope comes in the form of blood. That’s precisely why the Preeclampsia Foundation and the Foundation for America’s Blood Centers are collaborating on a gala benefit in NYC this November 12^th – to create hope for every person who has ever felt the despair brought on by preeclampsia, to create hope for the millions of new moms and babies who will rely on lifesaving blood transfusions in the future. 

I am chairing this event and could sure use your help: auction items, sponsors, ticket sales, and attendance (email me! laurenwardlarsen@earthlink.net). Even if you can’t attend, you can show your support with an online donation: savinggrace.preeclampsia.org. Every bit adds up to more hope.

Can you imagine a world in which every new parent gets to hold their beloved baby and be swept away by an indescribable love? Not despair, just love. 

I can. 

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Lauren's book, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances (In The Telling Press, 2011), is the #1 Top Rated memoir on Kindle. Hardcover copies are available at www.amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy Reading!

Speaking of Death

Years ago during a particularly hectic speaking schedule, a woman followed me out of the conference hall where I’d just given a keynote address at a regional Red Cross meeting.  I was rushing off to catch my next flight, but she seemed determined to have a word with me. She looked as if she’d been crying, even a bit angry, and I wondered if I’d somehow offended her with some of my, shall we say, offbeat humor.

“That story,” she said, gripping my arm. “The one about Jenny Eller…”

Jenny’s story was – and still is – one I tell often, not because it’s got such a happy ending, but precisely because it doesn’t. 

Jenny was seventeen when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Decisions regarding college scholarships – Princeton or Berkeley? – were superseded by chemo, blood transfusions, and appointments with the oncologist. As Jenny’s need for blood grew, so too did her desire to give back. She volunteered with her local blood center, helping them recruit more donors, speaking at community events, and making thank-you calls to those who’d given an hour of their time to donate blood.

Years after her diagnosis, in a hospital room filled with friends and family, Jenny lost her battle with leukemia. She never did get that college degree, but she did get four more years that she wouldn’t have otherwise gotten had it not been for all those blood components - red blood cells, platelets, and plasma - that supported her body throughout the cancer treatments.

On the night she died, Jenny’s father, Dean, promised to carry on her work with the blood center. Within days of burying his daughter, he spoke in her place at a luncheon to recruit blood donors. Four years and many blood center talks later, Dean left his career as a mortgage banker and took over as CEO of the blood center. And two years ago, the new Jenny Eller Donation Center opened its doors to the public. More than fifteen years after her passing, Jenny continues to have an impact on others, not the least of which, me.

While some wonderful, in fact inspiring, things have come about as a result of Jenny’s death, I’ll bet her parents would trade them all for more time with her here on earth. But death is a part of the “business” I'm in.  Not everyone gets the second chance that I – and many others – did.  Not everyone gets to shrug off their need for blood transfusions as "that time I was sick.” Not everyone gets a happily-ever-after.

I wondered if the woman who’d followed me into the hallway and was still gripping my arm was going to scold me for highlighting this harsh reality in what was billed as a “motivational” talk. I braced myself for whatever she had to say. 

“I was sitting in there listening to your story and the other stories you were sharing, and I found myself getting upset – even angry – at the unfairness of it all.”  Then she started crying. “I lost my daughter to leukemia a few months ago,” she continued.  “They tried everything, including regular transfusions, but in the end she still died.  I guess hearing all those blood recipient stories with happy endings really started to make me feel like I’d been ripped off. But then you shared Jenny’s story and I realized I’m not alone. So thank you for doing that.  I really needed to hear her story – and how her parents responded to that loss.”

Death is the one experience in life that we all have in common.  Ultimately, there’s no escaping it.  In my line of work (heading up the Foundation for America's Blood Centers), we certainly hope to help patients defer death – to give families more time together to build more memories and share more joy. So I'll continue to fight the good fight, but I'll never shy away from sharing the heartbreaks that are inevitable.  I owe it to all those who’ve lost a “Jenny.”

Jennifer Eller
1974 - 1995

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Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, free.  Click here and go to the link below the "Buy the Book" button.  Zuzu's Petals is also available on Kindle and Nook.  Hardcover copies are available at amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy reading!