Bloody Hell... Literally

Part 1 of the Colonoscopy Chronicles

“In the past three months, have you had sexual contact with more than one partner?"

I hovered the tip of my transparent BIC pen over the box labeled "yes" and elbowed my friend Matt in the seat next to me to show him how hilarious I was being. He snorted out the validating laugh I was looking for and dared me to do it. We giggled at the proposition and returned to filling out our forms in silence. Like any immature 17 year-old boy, just reading the word "sex" had stirred the hormonal beast within. The joke allowed me to make light of my lingering pubescent awkwardness and quell the beast quickly, lest it awaken and wreak havoc on my ability to focus for the remainder of the school day.

It was still early in the morning, and alongside 10 or so fellow classmates, I stood with my back against the brown-orange brick of our high school gymnasium, preparing to donate blood to the Red Cross. I finished the questionnaire and handed it to the nurse who had been waiting for me at a small folding table. Based on her disapproving expression, I assumed she was less than amused by our juvenile antics with the sex questions on the forms. She examined my answers closely and, noting that I had truthfully confirmed the non-existence of my sex life, she proceeded to prick my finger and spin my blood in order to deem me an eligible donor.

As the machine whirred to life, I wondered if the jogging I had done in P.E. a half hour prior would somehow affect my results. We had just run four laps around the track as part of a one-mile challenge. The challenge required participants to set a baseline mile time at the beginning of the semester. At the end of the semester, the aim was to beat your previous time to receive a passing grade. The trick was to feign just enough effort during the baseline run to avoid the appearance of sandbagging while simultaneously leaving plenty of cushion to ensure an easy victory come test time. That morning, I had run the mile in just over nine and a half minutes, which put me well within the safety zone for this flawless strategy.

The blood machine stopped spinning and spat out a receipt-sized piece of paper containing my results. Having clearly done this procedure many hundreds of times, the nurse took a quick glance at the paper and motioned for me to sit in a bigger chair where my blood would be drawn for the donation. As she glanced down at my results, I watched her listless expression transform from monotonous boredom to serious confusion and concern. She told me to stay seated and sprinted away from me to the other side of the gym. I watched as she conferred with a gaggle of other nurses in the corner but could not make out anything they were saying. While I couldn't hear their words, their body language and continuous gesturing in my direction clearly indicated that something was not right, aka wrong.

After sitting there for five minutes or so, wondering what could possibly be going on, I stood up from my chair and made my way over to the nurse huddle that had formed around my test results. As I got closer, I could hear their whispers more clearly. I heard someone murmur emphatically, "This can't be right; he wouldn't even be able to stand up!" When nobody noticed me lurking behind them, I cleared my throat loudly to make my presence known. Slightly startled, the group dispersed quickly and reassembled behind a burly woman with a neck tattoo and a hat that was too small for her enormous head. She might as well have been wearing a name tag that said "BIG BOSS NURSE" because everything from her imposing size to her abrasive demeanor exuded dominance.

Looking more like a white postage stamp in her giant catcher's mitts, she held out the paper, referencing my results. "There's something concerning here," she said in a thunderous voice that went along great with her overall Trunchbull-esque appearance. "It looks like your hematocrit levels are extremely low." Fearing I might be thrown in the chokey or forced to eat cake for never having heard the word "hematocrit," I nodded with an affirming "ahh, ok" as if everything was cool. Doing my best to keep my lack of blood-related terminology a secret, I quickly followed up with, "Remind me what that means again?" "Hematocrit iz the amount of red blood cells in your blood," she said. At this point, I swear I began hearing her speak with a slight German accent that I had not detected before. "Your results tell us zat your red blood cell count is only 18%!". "What is it supposed to be?" I asked. She thought for a quick second and replied, "for un 17 year old male, it should be clozer to 40 or 45%". "I see, so does this mean I can't donate blood today?" I asked innocently, still confused by what was going on. Her expression intensified. Shifting from rigid sternness to something in between fury and bewilderment, she huffed, "Apvzolutely not! Veu don't haf any plood to gif! Veu need to get yourzelf to ein emergenzy room unverzüglich!". An emergency room immediately? I thought/translated to myself, feeling a bit more worried now. Did she really just say I should go to an emergency room? She continued, her German accent fading, "We honestly don't understand how you are even standing upright. This could be indicative of a serious underlying health issue, and you need to have it checked out right now".

I stepped into the hall and sat on the floor. My back now against the cold metal lockers that lined the freshman girls hallway. Of all the thoughts racing through my mind at the time, for some reason, I vividly recall thinking, “if I am dying, maybe I can get out of going on a mission.”

Part 2 next week.