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!

Remarkable

I’m not in the habit of phoning men I don’t know and inviting them out for drinks, but after reading about Dave Claflin in the local paper years ago, I did just that. “You don’t know me,” I said to Dave, “but we need to have a margarita, dude.”

We met at a Mexican restaurant here in Boulder, where we swapped details about our respective needs for massive blood transfusions.  I’d heard quite a few blood recipient stories at that point in my advocacy work, but Dave’s story blew my mind. 

Just as he was about to walk his five-year-old triplet daughters to kindergarten one morning, Dave felt a sudden wave of nausea, which he assumed was food poisoning.  When the feeling didn’t pass after a few days, he assumed it was the flu.  New to Boulder, Dave hadn’t yet secured a family doctor, so when his symptoms persisted for six days straight he went to the hospital’s emergency room hoping to get some medication to treat his “flu.”

Following protocol, the ER professionals made Dave don one of those rather homely hospital gowns and ran him through a number of tests. While waiting for each of the test results, Dave began to feel more and more anxious about pulling precious resources away from people who were “really sick.” The ER was busy that day and Dave decided to leave so that others could get the care they needed. He began to dress himself, but—fortunately—someone had inadvertently taken his pants from the room. And so, he stayed. 

                                                                                                                                               

The next time a doctor entered his room, it was with a greater sense of urgency and concern.  What Dave thought to be the flu was actually his aorta—yeah, that fairly important main artery of the body—in the process of tearing! Suddenly, things kicked into high gear as Dave was wheeled into a 16-hour emergency open-heart surgery—the first of four that Dave would undergo during the next three days. The aortic tear was so large, Dave’s blood vessels leaked fluid into his chest cavity, causing his heart to stop numerous times. Needless to say, massive amounts of blood were transfused throughout—125 pints to be exact.

If you met Dave today, you’d look at this athletic 40-something guy, who still cycles and rock climbs, and you’d say one word: remarkable.  It’s remarkable that this man is still alive, and yes—like many of us “second chancers”—out there spreading the word about blood donation. It’s remarkable that Dave got to the hospital in time. It’s remarkable that his pants mysteriously disappeared, preventing him from walking to his likely death in the hospital parking lot or on his drive back home. It’s remarkable that medical advancements are such that an aortic aneurysm wasn’t a death sentence. It’s remarkable that there are people who care enough about others that they’ll take the time (and the needle) to—literally—give a bit of themselves away.

But as someone whose father bled to death when she was in kindergarten, the most remarkable thing to me about Dave’s story is this: because of the collective efforts of every person involved in the blood donation and transfusion process, there are three little girls—now feisty teenagers—who know what it’s like to grow up with their dad. Soccer games, back-to-school nights, first dates.

Remarkable.

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Lauren's book, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances (In The Telling Press, 2011), was the #1 Top Rated memoir on Kindle for 7 straight months. Hardcover copies are available at www.amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy Reading!

Lighten Up!

Years ago, I spent an evening with a grown man dressed in spandex tights, dark glasses, and a big bulbous red outfit that was allegedly a blood drop. Thankfully, it was not a date.

His name was Elmer, and he was pushing 90 at the time. His jokes were bad and his singing worse. He was part of the “entertainment” at a blood center event in Michigan at which I was giving the keynote address. I like to think of myself as an engaging speaker but, truly, it was Elmer who stole the show that night.

For decades, Elmer had been the perfect example of a “loyal” blood donor. Every eight weeks he was at the blood center rolling up his sleeve. When he turned 87, he began taking medication that permanently deferred him from donating. And that’s when Elmer morphed into his new role as the joke-telling, hand-holding, off-key-singing blood drop that showed up at blood drives to help ease the tension for first-time donors by sharing a laugh with them. Can you imagine any first-time donor being nervous once they laid eyes on him? At times, the joke was on Elmer: More often than not, people mistook him for a polyp!

In my work with blood centers over the years, I’ve seen some fairly bizarre stuff – and by bizarre, I mean fun! I’ve seen grown adults shouting out their financial pledges just to see a colleague get shaved. I watched a blood center CEO take a pie in the face for the sake of employee morale (my own hand might’ve been on the pie tin at the time). I’ve seen a blood drive recruiter wear more red at one time than should be legal (you know who you are, Dan). I’ve witnessed collections staff forming instantaneous human pyramids and blood recipients dressing as bloodhounds and howling their way around town on scavenger hunts. And two weeks ago at the Association of Donor Recruitment Professionals’ meeting, I saw Wayne’s World mullets and teased-out Cyndi Lauper hair, parachute pants, and off-the-shoulder new wave tunics being sported by a group of crazed blood banking professionals on a jam-packed dance floor. All this “bizarre-ity” adds up to a heck of a lot of fun.

Let’s face it: Working to save lives through blood transfusion is serious business. Those who work in blood banking have all met the patient with a remarkable medical story involving massive amounts of blood. Or the doctor working in a rural community who ran short on O-neg. Or the parent who lost a child after years of cancer treatments involving regular transfusions. Many have experienced the scare of a severe blood shortage, or the challenge of managing donor turnout after a horrific event like the Virginia Tech shootings, 9/11, or Hurricane Katrina.

All too often, those of us who work in "life or death" situations--whether it's blood banking or critical care in the hospital or disaster relief--feel the weight of our responsibility on a regular basis, and we lose touch with the lighter side of our personalities. After all, patients are depending on us, so we must take our work seriously.

But that doesn’t mean we must always take ourselves seriously. So I say: Lighten up! That, and impose an age limit on wearing spandex.




Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

Side By Side

Eleven years ago today, my husband had a breakdown. Not a few tears. Not an emotional outburst. I’m talking a full-on, never-seen-before, never-seen-since, heartbreakingly messy breakdown.

The day before, I had been discharged from a six-week hospital stay, five weeks of which had been spent in the intensive care unit. Jeff was with me nearly 24/7 during that time, taking fitful naps in the chair in my room or on the couch in the ICU family room. Hour after hour, day after day, my husband listened to good news followed by bad, discussed liver transplant options with a team of surgeons, conferred with the kidney specialist every time my numbers indicated the need for more dialysis, watched bag after bag after bag of red blood cells, platelets, and plasma being hung from my IV pole.

Week 3 in the ICU

For 43 days, my husband made decisions regarding my care, spoke for me when I was comatose, held me when I screamed in pain, calmed me when I hallucinated, and simply took it when I lashed out in anger and frustration. Remarkably, for 43 days he held it together. But on the 44th day – the day after I came home – he fell apart.

I was alone in the bathroom at the time, where Jeff had left me to brush my teeth. Though I could still barely stand, I craved independence and wanted to prove that I could handle this simple task. Leaning on my walker, I began brushing my teeth, but soon I was distracted by a wet sensation on my right foot. Looking down, I noticed a slow, steady stream of water leaking from under the vanity. I called to Jeff, who opened the door so quickly that it was obvious he’d been standing just outside, still unable to grasp that we were no longer in crisis mode.

Seeing the leak, Jeff breathed a sigh of relief and went to retrieve the small toolbox from under our kitchen sink. Returning, he got on hands and knees, and his upper body disappeared into the open vanity. Within thirty seconds, the swearing began. He’d broken the rusty old wing nut that needed tightening. The leak was still slow and steady, nothing our landlord wouldn’t fix immediately with one phone call. No big deal. And certainly nothing compared to what we’d both endured with my sudden catastrophic illness.

But at that moment, as I stood helplessly gripping my walker, I watched my husband lean back, wrap his arms around his shins, and drop his head to his knees. He said nothing, but his shoulders began to pump up and down, and he began to make loud, gut-wrenching sobs the likes of which I’d never heard come from him, from anyone. His wailing continued – five minutes, then 10, then 15 – a torrent of pent-up fear and angst and doubt and sorrow. I watched my husband surrender to the psychic burden he’d carried for more than six weeks, the final dismantling of the stoic armor that had helped him survive the near-loss of his mate.

13th Wedding Anniversary

The experience of a major illness is never the patient’s alone. It also belongs to the family, friends, even the hospital staff who come to care for patients emotionally as much as physically. But often it is shared most intimately with that person who vowed to stay through sickness and health, till death do us part. 

The inscription on my wedding band reads “Side By Side,” and it now holds greater meaning for me than I ever imagined in my younger, more naïve days. So this one’s for Jeff – and for anyone else who’s ever stood side by side with someone they love throughout a critical illness.










Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.