The first time I donated blood, I almost passed out. But I still find myself considering the idea of making another appointment.
The experience, almost ineffable, changed how I think about morality and ego. I lay down on the blue vinyl examination table with my left arm propped up on the chair’s armrest, and the male nurse inserted the thick needle into my median cubital vein. As the phlebotomy bag beside me filled up with my rich crimson blood, I, too, was filled with the creeping feeling that I was in mortal danger—that I was dying. The light of God appeared in the three-by-nine sunbursts of the school gym fluorescents that seemed to swell and pulse to my deoxygenated brain. It was then that I realized how fragile my existence was: my body bruised with a touch, bled with a poke. The essence of my soul was only one swift cut away from spilling out of the Eden of my body into the Hell of our world. That hungry needle could have eaten me whole if it chose. And yet, here I sit on the vinyl table once more—ears ringing, heart pounding, and a sour nausea brewing in my throat.
This account is not meant to encourage, nor discourage, others from giving blood, although I admit the process was taxing and left me in a feeble state for weeks after. Instead, I want to examine another feeling that arose during the ordeal: guilt. The unequivocally altruistic endeavor of giving blood bringing about such feelings as guilt might seem like a contradiction, but I believe it sheds light onto the nature of selfishness.
Why do we do good things? When I first heard about Chamblee High School’s blood drive, I figured I would donate because it was the right thing to do. Because it helps other people. Donating obviously harmed me physically, so why else would I do it, if not to help others?
Behind the facade of self-sacrifice, I realized that my motivations were truly self-serving: donating entailed compensation of $20 and five volunteer hours put toward a service club that I was a member of. Not to mention the addicting reward of feeling that I had “done good.” From this realization, my guilt emerged.
The reason anyone strives to be a person of morals, to lead a life worthy of praise, is simply that “doing good” feels good. Some “do good” because they feel indebted to others, because they believe in good karma or a heaven for righteous people, because they desire positive reputation or trust, because it of their human proclivity toward compassion and empathy. Regardless of how unselfish the reason might sound, it still winds up satisfying some desire within the Good Samaritan.
Selfishness is inherent to selflessness—they are two sides of the same coin. But selfishness is not necessarily a vice which must be done away with entirely, and it does not preclude selflessness from being an admirable quality. Both traits are essential to survival; one must be concerned with the wellbeing of others as well as himself. And oftentimes, that feeling of accomplishment, fulfillment, or gratification from “doing good” is what drives one to commit himself to a life of service toward others.
So as I consider giving blood once more, I accept my selfishly-selfless motives. My donation will likely be sent to someone who needs it, and my heart will be full with the knowledge that I have done something good. It’s a win-win.
