“Worse things can happen.”
From 2016–2017, I was living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I was 19, and the youngest lead phlebotomist at a local blood center. Out of high school, I’d already worked as a graphic designer for an agency and an ER phlebotomist — an array of work experiences that left me brimming with confidence. After all, there was no reason I shouldn’t be confident. My patients always had loved me, I was organized, a great leader, and — I thought — a great communicator.
Turns out, working at a blood center and working at a hospital are two different animals. Hospital phlebotomists possess a kind of finesse required when working with sick and often terrified patients and while many of the blood center phlebotomists were equally skilled — maybe even more so — some lacked the hyper-specific safety-focused mindset one develops when working in a hospital environment.
One phlebotomist in particular came in oblivious, from a very small town called Dorr. I respected her enthusiasm, but most of our other leads liked to pass her onto me because they lacked the patience required to train her. She was stubborn, but so am I, and she liked me enough to listen when it mattered.
On one drive, things didn’t go so smoothly — and it wasn’t just her fault. The site was called Job Corp — a group “home” a step below a prison located south of downtown. We were shoved in an auditorium with nearly no power outlets, no wireless for our registration tablets to run, and hardly any heat in the middle of winter. At the beginning of the drive, we had our “huddle” where I got everyone on the same page about our goals for the drive, methods, breaks, etc. We had a few visiting phlebotomists from one of our other locations that I really respected, and I tasked them with running the “draw” section (where the blood was actually drawn). My “favorite” small-town phlebotomist was put in the pre-screening area, where vital signs and other qualifying tests were performed. Everything ran smoothly for about an hour, until one of our young donors in draw began to turn white. Fast forward about three minutes, and I’m nursing her through one of the most severe donation reactions I have ever dealt with outside of the hospital. After getting her donor form, there it was. Her weight: 112. Question: Have you eaten in the last four hours?: Blank.
During the huddle, I thought that I was clear that we were on “high school rules” — no weight under 120 lbs, no borderline hematocrit, and no donors that didn’t specify everything they ate for breakfast. These were the rules we followed with 16 year old donors, and although the Job Corp kids were quite a bit older, many came from tough backgrounds and were malnourished or faced other health problems. It was critical to screen out these individuals.
My miscommunication had been a misdirection. In my arrogance and distractedness in catching up with the visiting phlebotomists, I addressed them with the rules, assuming the rest of the team was listening. While the phlebotomist who drew the donor should have checked the form as well, it was my fault we let her slip through in the first place.
The donor was okay after some minor care, and nothing like this every happened again on one of my drives. A hard lesson learned, but one I needed. My mentor at the time always told me “worse things have happened,” and as he came from paramedic work and I came from the ER — we can attest to that. However, someone getting ill or passing out is a high cost for a miscommunication, and I learned a lot about humbling myself, tuning in, and slowing down.
