Fair warning: If you get squeamish at the sight or thought of blood, you may want to skip this post. On the other hand, if you have vampire tendencies, this should be a treat.

They say a pint of blood could mean the difference between life and death and since I figured I had a pint to spare, it seemed like an easy contribution to make to the greater good. Plus, my church was holding a blood drive. At church. On Sunday. It really couldn’t have been easier to get on board with such a worthy cause.

After filling out a bunch of paperwork and certifying that I hadn’t had a corneal implant in the past 12 months, ever had Hepatitis or exchanged sex for money or drugs in the past 30 years, I was ready to give.

I had some reservations about having a needle poked in my veins since I am a notoriously “difficult draw.” When I go in for my annual physical, I always request the most experienced phlebotomist (fancy title for a blood sucker in a lab coat) because apparently it’s difficult for most of them to find a good vein on me.

Today was no exception.

After examining both of my arms and giving a big sigh, this lovely young vampire named Mia choose my left arm and with some intrepidation inserted the needle. Ouch! No success, but instead of starting over she began to dig. There had to be a vein in there somewhere and so she kept probing with the needle looking for pay dirt.

“Does this hurt?,” she asked sweetly.

“No, my legs always kick straight out like this when someone puts a needle in my arm and uses it as an excavation tool.”

Finally, right at the moment I thought I was going to pass out, she announced, “Yeah, we have blood.” And we both breathed a sigh of relief.

The blood flowed nicely and the bag began to fill. I was giving up a pint of life saving matter and I felt good inside. She announced when I was half way there and then again when I was 75% of the way toward the necessary pint. We were almost there, but she was concerned that the blood had slowed down so she asked me keep squeezing more intensely on the stress ball she had placed in my left hand. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

And then it stopped. She told me we were 90 mg short of a pint with a look of despair on her face. As it turns out, blood is measured and delivered only in units of one full pint. Less than a pint might as well be nothing at all. Less than a full pint meant they would have to throw out the blood I had already given.

“Try again!”, I demanded. “We’re too close to give up.”

She informed me the only option was to, once again, dig deeper with the needle and she warned me, “It’s going to hurt.”

I didn’t care. The idea of coming this close for nothing was worse than the pain of the needle.

She called a more seasoned colleague over to probe for a better source and after moments that left me feeling light-headed, he pronounced that it was a lost cause. My blood had done what healthy blood does in this situation, it had begun to clot and there would be no more blood coming.

Failure.

If I had been able to produce 90 mg more (that’s less than 2 oz of the 16 oz needed for a full pint), this blood could have been used to save someone’s life. Now, at a scant pint, it was biowaste–trash.

I lamely joked and asked if I could have it back since they weren’t going to be able to use it, but the joke was just to mask the disappointment of trying and coming up short.

For the record, I hate coming up short. My three least favorite words in the English language are: almost, try, and maybe. All three represent a lack of closure.

How you finish is as important as how you start. In fact, I’d argue that it’s more important. Finishing well is the difference between time invested and time wasted.

Sourcing a talented candidate means nothing if you can’t land them.

Uncovering a hot new opportunity is not nearly as impressive as closing the deal.

Winning a new client is meaningless if you don’t deliver on your promises.

“Almost” doesn’t count for much. Finishing strong is all that matters.