My platelet donation had a history.

I donated platelets for the first time yesterday—it’s like giving blood, but slower, longer, and for me, it was even more meaningful.

I have been donating whole blood since I was in college. I have bared my arm at blood drives in hospitals, synagogues, fire stations, and even the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. I lay on a recliner, let the tech stick a needle in my left arm, and in 20 minutes, the whole thing is over. Filling out the paperwork takes longer than the donation.

But platelet extraction is different. In a non-stop sequence, blood is removed, platelets are isolated, and the other blood components, the red blood cells, the white blood cells, and plasma are returned to the body through the same needle. This is repeated multiple times until the necessary volume of platelets is obtained. The procedure requires two hours or more.

Why did I decide to shift my donation pattern from whole blood to platelets? Vitalant, the regional blood collection agency, has been pursuing me relentlessly with weekly phone calls and daily e-mails. These inform me of the urgent need for platelets, particularly among patients undergoing chemotherapy. They tell me that my blood type makes me an ideal candidate for a platelet donor. And just like TV promoters around the world, they promise me special promotional t-shirts and gift certificates if I act quickly.

But what truly pushed me to switch from whole blood donation to the longer, more demanding platelet procedure was something else. It was memories of my father-in-law, Barb’s father, Lee.

Lee was a friendly, upbeat guy, as at home selling Fruit Of The Loom and BVD underwear as he was on the front nine with his best buddy Oscar. I’m sure he would have gotten me out on the golf course, too, but we never got the chance.

Shortly before our 1978 wedding, I learned that two years earlier, Lee had been diagnosed with Leukemic Reticuloendotheliosis, a rare malignant blood disorder now known as Hairy Cell Leukemia. As is typical in its early phase, Lee’s disease had been indolent, not impairing his activities or his outlook.

In the spring of 1979, we passed from the calm into the storm. Lee fell and broke his arm, unleashing the full fury of his disease. He was hospitalized as his blood counts plummeted. Spiky malignant cells replaced his normal white blood cells. A fungal invasion ravaged his body and brain, and his internist told us of his need for white cell transfusions to try to fight the infection.

I was young, in good shape, and the right blood type to donate. On three occasions that April, I underwent leukophoresis, a procedure very similar to platelet donation, except that both my arms were involved, blood leaving my body on the left, and returning, stripped of white blood cells, on the right. Each two-hour session gave me hope that I was accomplishing something for Lee.

Lee did not survive.

Forty-six years passed between losing Lee and my decision to donate platelets. So it wasn’t the promise of a t-shirt; it was the memory of doing what I did for Lee that helped me do something similar for someone else—someone whose family loves and needs them.

All my platelets will help a living person fighting cancer, but I am dedicating yesterday’s donation to you, Lee, and to all those rounds of golf we never got to play.