I met Gabrielle today.

It first required for me to get strapped into a chair that looked like an electric chair. The plan was for me to undergo the initial screenings tonight, just to see if I actually qualified. The problem, however, was that I had a fear of needles. And blood. Strapped in and trying hard not to look, the nurse expertly extracted a syringe of my type-O positive from my left arm with me hardly even noticing. So far so good.

Before the screening, I answered a standard form that asked, among other things, whether I had heart conditions (no), a history of hepatitis (no), dealings with controlled substances (not really), current medications (does ginseng count? no), current infections (not that I know of), etc. It also asked whether I was 'aware of the risks that might cause HIV.' Being a yes-or-no questionnaire, I had to reread the question several times to make sure that I wasn't answering 'yes' to a question that asked whether I had HIV. So yes, I was aware, thank you.

If the test found that my blood did meet the requirements, I would come back the day after and the nurses would extract a pint or so of my blood. That was the plan. However, as things would have it, I learned not thirty minutes later that I did meet the criteria, except that they would be getting my blood NOW. I wondered how I even got here when all I wanted for tonight was to visit the gym for a long due post-holiday workout. I also wondered if things would have been different had I answered the questionnaire falsely and confessed to mainlining Rugby.

The one good thing about qualifying was that it meant I was healthy... that was about it as far as good things were concerned. I was practically hyperventilating with anticipation at the thought of having my virgin vessels penetrated by an electronic vampire.

I was led to a room with chairs/beds that were like permanently propped La-Z-Boys with stiff armrests. I asked my cousin to keep talking to distract me from the fact that I was about to lose a pint of blood. A pint! My right arm was already tightly tied up with a rubber strap and my hand was made to clutch a stress ball (appropriately enough, I was undergoing a lot of stress). I felt the needle go in, and though it was a bit anti-climactic at the time, I was still uneasy at the thought that I had a hole on my right elbow that was being violated by a metal prick. I hardly moved for the next five minutes, attempting to be as motionless as possible despite suggestions from the nurse that I should keep squeezing the stress ball. In front of me were a couple of platelet donors. The machines that they were plugged into did not extract their blood wholesale but re-introduced their processed blood back into their bloodstream after isolating the platelets via several centrifuges. The platelet packets contained clear liquid and took more than twice the time of a regular blood donation to fill up. I thought that I should stop being squeamish because the platelet donors were arguably undergoing a harder ordeal (then again, one of them was a med student, so he didn't really count).

Avoiding a squeamish fit was harder than I thought, and all I could do to not look like a complete idiot was to keep laughing at the situation as if I was on a nitrous oxide high (and looking only like a semi-complete idiot). I kept bringing up different points of conversation with my cousin, asking her at one point to show me the contents of her cellphone but dreading after that she would have the latest cellphone scandal, which could have probably given me faster blood loss. I squeezed the stress ball and felt the unwelcome presence of the embedded needle more. They should have first put me to sleep or something. I then remembered the last time that I underwent a medical procedure that also involved a significant loss of blood except that it was more than fifteen years ago. I also remembered that I was fully conscious that time while I was being whittled into manhood so there was no point being squeamish now, I thought. I'm a manly man, and I could weather five minutes of blood loss and lightheadedness, no problem. As my cousin kept reminding me, it was a good deed after all. Luckily, it was a good deed that I wouldn't be medically permitted to go through again in the next three months.

My blood resembled a packet of cranberry Zesto, and funnily enough, I was handed a Zesto for my efforts and to replenish the fluids that I lost. With bandages on both arms serving as souvenirs, I left the blood bank. I felt tired and slightly cold at this point, but my cousin assured me that it was not due to the blood loss because she would have felt the same way had she gone through the same amount of (needless) tension that I did. Simply put: it was normal even though I wasn't.

I met Gabrielle a few minutes later. We didn't get to talk because of two things: firstly, she's only three and a half months old; and secondly, she's confined to the pediatric ICU unit where her attachments made it seem as if she was in a B-grade science fiction movie. She looked like a fragile little package and the sight of her did not really help me with my situation. It was heartbreaking. Her attending doctors were all specialists and all of them were baffled at her condition. She had been confined for a month and all they could say was that she had a metabolic disorder of some sort. She had been undergoing seizures regularly, and just today, she vomited a considerable amount of blood and needed fresh blood for replacement - the very reason for my impromptu donation. I left the intensive care ward after a few more minutes, barely glancing at Gabrielle as I did. She was quite still save for the occasional inaudible cough that could only be observed from her minute throbbings.

Leaving the hospital, her grandmother thanked me profusely, likewise her mother. I could only reassure them that it wasn't a big deal at all (despite my uneasy state). Frankly, I did it for the experience and not because of some noble intention (maybe I just wanted manly bragging rights). I didn't think of it as performing a good deed, even though I think it did qualify as such. Luckily, it was a good deed that I wouldn't be medically permitted to go through again in the next three months, by which time Gabrielle would already be half a year old. I'm hoping that she gets to see that time and that she gets to have a long and healthy life. There are a lot of painful possibilities to be considered though, but I for one, have only the best wishes for her. Funny. I don't actually know Gabrielle or her family that well, but that hardly even matters now when, all things considered, she is now of my own blood.

I met Gabrielle today and she was adorable.

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