Tuesday, August 19, 2025
I honestly thought I’d be packing my bags and finally going home from the hospital today. I could already imagine stepping back into my own bed, the good smell of tuberose, and maybe even sneaking in a celebratory bowl of bakso. But nope, the universe had other plans.
The morning blood test results showed my hemoglobin had dipped to 8.7 while my leukocytes had shot up to 13.86. No wonder I’d been wobbling around like a dizzy penguin. I wasn’t just tired, I was in the “moderate-to-severe anemia” category. My doctor looked at me with that calm, professional face and said, “We’re going to need to transfuse you with blood.”
It felt surreal. Blood transfusion? Me? That always sounded like something that happened to other people in dramatic hospital TV shows. But that day, it was my turn. After the insurance people gave their magical stamp of approval, I was set up with not one, but two bags of donor blood. 500cc in total.
Here’s what nobody tells you: it doesn’t feel good. Even after all the screening and allergy testing, my body still reacted. I ran a slight fever of 37.6°C, my hand ached where the IV sat, and the whole process felt intrusive, as if my body knew these cells were visitors, not natives.
Thankfully, the nurses swooped in with painkillers that doubled as sleep potions. I spent most of the day dozing off, blissfully unconscious of needles, monitors, and beeping machines. My secret weapon? My trusty noise-cancelling earphones. Honestly, they deserve a medal. They drowned out every sound (from hallway chatter to medical clatter) and gave me the illusion that I was resting in some peaceful mountain retreat instead of a fluorescent-lit hospital ward. I slept so soundly that I didn’t even notice the nurses and doctors coming in to check on me multiple times.
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| Candid by hubby while I was in sleeping beauty mode. |
By afternoon, my parents-in-law arrived with my mom too. They didn’t say much, and I was too weak to really chat. But their quiet presence was enough. Sometimes love isn’t in the words spoken or the things done. It’s in the way someone simply shows up and sits beside you. No performance, no fixing, just being there. That’s a kind of medicine too.
As I lay there drifting between sleep and wakefulness, another thought came to me: whose blood is this? Who gave these cells that are now mingling with mine, pulsing through my body and giving me the strength I lacked this morning? Somewhere out there is a stranger who will never know me, never hear my thanks, and yet they’ve become part of me in the most literal way.
It’s humbling, if you think about it. I’m alive and typing this today because a stranger somewhere decided to donate blood. Someone who will never know me, never hear my gratitude, and never realize how their small act of kindness turned into my big chance at healing.
I once read in The Book of Joy by the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu: “Our greatest joy comes when we give to others. It is the way to be really happy.” The person who donated this blood probably didn’t feel like a hero. Maybe they just grabbed a snack afterwards and went back to work. But to me, they’re a quiet hero, one who lent me their strength when mine ran out.
And that’s the strange gift of weakness: it allows someone else’s kindness to shine. For INFJs like me, that’s a hard pill to swallow. We prefer to be the encouragers, the behind-the-scenes givers, the ones holding space for others. But lying in that hospital bed, half-drugged and tethered to an IV pole, I had no choice but to receive. And I realized: receiving isn’t weakness. It’s allowing the cycle of love to keep moving.
I joked to myself that this donor and I are now blood siblings, literally. Somewhere out there, someone is probably happily eating martabak or scrolling TikTok, completely unaware that their red blood cells are currently having a housewarming party inside me. Maybe their cells are better at multitasking than mine. Hopefully, they’re good at writing too, because I could use that.
But seriously, the whole thing made me reflect: how much of life is really “ours”? Our strength, our energy, even our health... they’re all gifts we borrow, sometimes from others, sometimes from the universe itself.
I want to remember this the next time someone offers me help. To not brush it off with, “I’m fine, don’t worry,” when clearly I’m not fine. To allow people the joy of giving. Because maybe by receiving gracefully, I’m letting love do its quiet work, the way my parents-in-law did just by sitting in my hospital room.
So if you’re reading this, maybe you’re in one of two places:
You’re the one who feels drained, weak, and in need of a transfusion; whether of blood, hope, or encouragement.
Or you’re the one who has extra strength to give, even if it feels small to you.
Either way, you matter. Your role matters.
If you’re weak today, please allow others to step in. Accept help without shame. You’re not a burden. You’re giving someone else the gift of giving.
If you’re strong today, look around. Maybe someone close to you is running on empty. Offer them your “blood”: your time, your smile, your listening ear, your small but significant act of kindness. You’ll never know how deeply it might carry them.
Tonight, as I rest with new blood coursing through me, I keep thinking about connection. How strength is borrowed, but kindness multiplies. How life isn’t about proving we can do it all alone, but about leaning into the beautiful, messy truth that we need each other.
Don’t wait for a crisis to show up for someone. And don’t be too proud to accept kindness when it finds you. We may borrow strength for a time, but love... that’s the one thing that’s never borrowed. It grows the more we share it.
Love,
Nuniek Tirta
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