Taking a Stab : This blood donor laughed at danger but trembled at the sight of a needle. It turns out that the fear was all in her head and the life-saving gift much more concrete.

My name is Rebecca, and I am a wimp--a needle-fearing, nurse-fleeing wimp.

I felt the need to purge myself of this secret as I stood in front of a smiling, white-haired woman at the American Red Cross Center in Van Nuys, waiting to be accepted or, I hoped, rejected as a blood donor.

The woman looked at my ashen face and clenched fists and asked, “Is this your first time?”

I smiled weakly and uttered the mother of all understatements: “Yes, and I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ll be just fine,” she assured me, finding my name on the list of donors for the day.

Oh, why had I given my real name?

What if I whimpered? What if I screamed? The possibilities were endless--and all bad. I’d thought about them, categorized them, indexed them on the drive to the donation center.

I could faint. I could wet myself. I could faint and wet myself. I could wet myself and the nurse could faint.

I don’t have a long list of phobias. I’m not afraid of the bogyman. I don’t think that Freddie Kruger lurks under my bed (although I do occasionally check). I’m not bothered by snakes, spiders or street food in Third World countries.

But press a needle into my flesh and all bets are off.

Since my early trips to the pediatrician, my mantra has been: “No shot! No-shot-no-shot-no-shot-no-shot-no-shot!”

In a muggy cholera ward--I did not, by the way, have cholera--in Antigua, Guatemala, I even managed a Spanish version: “No inyeccion! No inyeccion!”

I don’t mind so much the giving of blood; it is how they take it that gives me the willies.

When I was about 5 years old and in the hospital for a series of blood tests, a nurse who looked like Babe Ruth in stockings would peer into my room and say, in a Southern lilt, “It’s time to take a little blo-oood.”

“OKaaay-aaay,” I would think as she led me to the lab. “But I’m going to pass ouuuuu-ouuuuut.”

Soon, the Babe would be carrying my limp body back through the halls, shrugging at everyone she passed.

I could be in big trouble. None of the nurses at the Van Nuys center looked like they could hoist my body.

“Please read these forms and fill this out,” the white-haired woman said, handing me a clipboard and a red pin that read “This is my first time.”

I scanned the questionnaire.

Do you weigh at least 110 pounds? They expect Thumbelina to sneak in and try to give blood?

Have you had any tattoos? None to speak of.

Have you ever had malaria? Shoot. I never had.

Have you ever taken an anti-malarial drug? Aha! Maybe, just maybe. There was that series of butt-burning inoculations before I went to Central America two years ago. I circled this in heavy ink, handed back the form and slumped in an armchair to wait.

A nurse who didn’t even slightly resemble Babe Ruth peeked around the corner and spoke into the air, “Number 19?”

That was me. Drat.

In a small interview cubicle, the nurse again established that I had no recent tattoos, “hadn’t been given or taken money for sex” (does a wedding ring count, I implored?), and other facts revealing that unless I did some fast living, my biography would never be delivered in a plain brown wrapper.

I blurted out, “I may have taken anti-malarial drugs!” I told her of the round of shots. She flipped through a couple of books and decided we could continue.

I thought, perhaps, if I ran for the door. . . .

As she checked my blood pressure, I asked this registered nurse if she gave blood.

“Oh, no. I’m too chicken,” she said. “But I enjoy talking to the donors. Donors are a special breed.”

She led me to the donating area, a handful of tables arranged in a U so that the nurses could maneuver in the middle, checking the little plastic bags of liver-colored blood.

My torso and limbs felt numb, cold. My head felt like a balloon filled with hot water.

I lay down and stared up at a travel poster of the Curacao waterfront. I realized that the wrong arm was facing the nurse. Why it struck me any arm would be more right than another, I don’t know.

So I changed positions on the table. Curacao was now upside down. I tried to focus on Lake Havasu a few ceiling tiles over.

Soon, the registered nurse came by, the major nurse, the needle-wielding nurse.

What she said was starting to sound familiar: “Hi, is this your first time?”

Yes, that’s me. I’m the nervous virgin. Be gentle.

Nurse Susan had a tip: First-timers tend to try to calm themselves with long gulps of air, which calms them, then makes them crumple to the floor, hyperventilated. So breathe, but don’t pretend that you’re in Lamaze class.

My mantra became: “Don’t-faint-don’t-faint-don’t-faint.”

The nurse swabbed a yellowish-brown anticoagulant on my right arm and praised the size of my veins.

“This will be no problem,” she said.

“Don’t-faint-don’t-faint-don’t-faint.”

She pulled out the needle.

“Don’t-faint-don’t-faint-don’t-faint.”

I felt a prick and a slight burning from the anticoagulant.

“That’s it,” she said, handing me a near-empty roll of toilet paper that I was instructed to squeeze every few seconds.

“That’s IT?!”

What a jerk I am, I thought. That didn’t hurt. And the bag filling up with my blood was actually kind of soothing. I leaned over for a better view. (Like I said, the giving part doesn’t bother me.)

Donating usually takes between four and 14 minutes. (Only lumberjacks give a pint in four minutes.) I performed your average 11-minute pint.

Another nurse retrieved the needle, wrapped my arm to heal and ushered me to a nearby table, where a young volunteer offered juice, coffee, cookies and crackers.

I tried to jot some notes and realized that I should not have had the blood drawn from my right arm. Every time I tried to write, I felt something pinch--probably my hair under the bandage tape.

The volunteer stared me down.

“Are you feeling OK?” she asked.

“Fine,” I responded and shoved another cracker in my mouth.

“Don’t-faint-don’t-faint-don’t-faint.”

A few minutes later, Nurse Susan eyed me from across the room and ordered me to lie down on a small cot beside the table.

I felt like a child banished to the card table during Thanksgiving dinner.

A few minutes with a cold compress on my forehead and neck--I felt like a true Southerner, having the vapors--and I was back to stuffing my face with cookies and crackers.

My neighbor at the snack table said he’d been donating blood since his college days in the 1950s.

I felt a certain kinship with him, and with everyone in the room, because I’d told nearly everyone that I was terrified.

I had become the poster child of reluctant donors.

But as my arm stopped hurting and my belly filled with crackers and juice, I felt a little silly, and a little proud. In a process that took a little more than an hour--about a third of that to regain strength--I had given a pint of blood that might just help save someone.

My fear of needles was a thing of the past. I’m not going to sign up for acupuncture any time soon, but I’ll be back to donate blood.

Now if I can just work on my fear of Babe Ruth.