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. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

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!

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.