Why I’m glad I signed up to be a stem cell and bone marrow donor

What possesses one human to help another? What possesses one to save another’s life? We’ve all heard stories of random acts of extreme kindness and selflessness in the news: Man Risks Life to Pull Stranger From Incoming 6 Train. Good Samaritan Takes Bullet for Neighbor. But what if this deed was a bit more calculated, taking months of poking, prodding, preparation, and appointments? Would you willingly help someone you’d never met before at the expense of your own time, comfort and sanity?

I was speaking with my mother on the phone one day in early September of last year when I got an email from the Be theMatch bone marrow and stem cell registry. I’d gotten my cheek swabbed by a representative in the lower floor of Weinstein about two years prior. The email was standard propaganda, a photoof a little girl who had been diagnosed with Leukemia and eventually was in full remission due to a marrow transplant she’d received through the organization. “Mom,” I asked, “What happens if they call me and tell me I’m a match?”

“Then you’ll do it,” she replied.

Fast forward to last November. I am in bed doing my homework when I get a call from a strange number. Though I tend not to pick up phone calls from people I know and love– much less calls from numbers not in my address book– for some reason, I decide to answer.

“Grace?” the voice on the other line asks. “I’m John* from Be the Match. You’ve been identified as a possible match for a patient. Congratulations!”

At that moment, I remember time stopping. Everything around me seemed to freeze. What would this mean? Visions of giant needles, bed rest and anesthesia danced in my head. As my new pal spoke about percentages and procedures, I zoned out. “Will you be able to answer a few questions?” He asked. “It should only take about an hour and a half.”

Thus began my months-long prep for the donation day. I was asked questions about my health history, including whether or not I had a number of rare diseases and if I had traveled to north Africa sometime within the 1980s (I was born in 1994). It seemed every other day I was getting a call from some representative of something who wanted to talk to me for a good 45 minutes before I went to class or work. During one of my first appointments, I had at least seven vials of blood drawn and almost had a panic attack. No one likes needles, and I always had an extreme phobia of fainting. I was fed up. Why voluntarily spend so much time in hospitals and waiting rooms– two of my least favorite places–  for a perfect stranger? I had a full class schedule and was working 35 hours a week. Why inconvenience myself for someone I’d never met and might never meet?

One day when I was feeling pretty overwhelmed, my representative, Jackie*, called me. “I wanted to tell you a little about the person you’ll be donating to,” she said. “He’s a 53 year old man with non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

At that moment, everything I’d been through so far seemed to be worth it. This man, my father’s age, likely wasn’t doing so well. According to the Mayo Clinic, “[non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma] occurs when the body produces too many abnormal lymphocytes, a type of white blood cell.

Symptoms include swollen lymph nodes, fever, belly pain, or chest pain.” In a few words, Jackie* pretty much let me know that a stem cell transplant was likely one of the last treatments he was seeking. That meant that it was very likely that the cancer was in a more advanced stage. By going through with this process, it was a possibility that I’d actually be saving someone’s life.

It was at this point that I realized that this process was not about me. It wasn’t about my aversion to getting blood drawn, it wasn’t about my irritation with the numerous doctors’ appointments, questionnaires and phone calls I had to participate in. It was about doing something good for someone else because I had the capacity to do it. It was about bringing some sort of positive energy into a world that often seems cruel.

Often, someone will sign up to be a donor through Be the Match, and will never get called. Others have been called, evaluated, and deemed unable to donate. Still others will be called and get halfway through the process, only to be told that the patient is either seeking other treatment or has found a better match.

So this Monday, as a match, a large needle went into my left arm, connected to a tube that drew blood out of me. That tube was hooked up to a centrifuge that separated my stem cells from my blood. A second, smaller needle in my right arm pumped the filtered blood back into me. I sat, immobile, in the New York Blood Center for six hours as an incredible nurse injected saline and calcium into me as I sweat and shook. The week before, I’d had five days of two filgrastim injections each. These injections boosted my stem cell count so that my body was working on overdrive. I was sore and tired during this time, but kept in mind that the man I was donating to must feel one thousand times worse. How fortunate I was to have made that choice to be able to donate, how fortunate I am to be young, healthy and blessed.

I am still exhausted from the procedure. I am still weak. But overwhelmingly, I’m so, so lucky. Out of hundreds of thousands of people, my cells were chosen. I was chosen. I may have given someone more time with her father or husband or son this week. I put some positive energy into the world this week. I faced my fears and anxieties this week. I made a difference this week.

To learn more about donating bone marrow or stem cells, go to www.bethematch.org.