I donated blood yesterday. I know, that makes me a hero, but this blog entry isn't about me. It's about the ladies at the donation station. Here in Spokane, an organization called Vitalant takes all the blood donations. I went there early in the morning. and found myself the only customer.
Scary odds - one innocent vein and three eager phlebotomists with sharp needles. I needn't have worried. They were gracious as could be. What made them stand out as examples of love was their attitudes.
First, they were not only friendly, but welcoming, which is appreciated (though slightly suspicious) in a place dedicated to blood-letting. Second, they were efficient, which was also appreciated. Third, while one lady attended to me, the other two studied an online continuing education course. A good sign. It was the fourth point, however, that put them in my blog.
At some point in the extraction process, two of the three ladies decided to go to lunch. At that point, my body decided, of its own accord and completely without my consent, to engage in a little vasovagal syncope. I started passing out. It's nothing new. My body hates having sharp pieces of metal jabbed into it and frequently responds that way. I don't mind because I get the best sleep and have the best dreams when I keel over.
The blood-letters, however, don't like it at all. The two heading to lunch cancelled their plans and the three ladies surrounded me, plying me with juice, salty chips, and ice bags until I felt back to rights. Their attentiveness and concern for my well-being impressed me. They went beyond normal service, setting a standard for me to follow as I care for my patients.
I've worked with several truly great caregivers in my day, both nurses and aids, and those three ladies bow to none of them in their quality of care, compassion, and love.