She opens her arms to a stranger - Eight years after she signs up as a marrow donor, a woman gets her chance to help

The blood that pumps out of Lanise Dee's arm is gold -- not in color but in meaning.

As she sits connected by both arms to a machine that separates blood-forming cells from the rest, Dee is at ease knowing that a 60-year-old woman dying of leukemia might live because of this act.

Actually, Dee is unabashedly sure her gift of "gold" will save this stranger.

"I told [the blood bank], 'My blood is gold.' I'm very cocky about my blood," says Dee of Winter Springs.

When this regular blood donor signed her name to the National Marrow Donor Program Registry and promised to help if the call came, she didn't realize she would wait eight years for the phone to ring.

But when it did, in July, excitement filled her.

"I can be at the blood bank in 10 minutes," she told the person on the other end of the line.

"Give us an hour," the caller responded.

That call was indicative of Dee's commitment to just about anything -- even cutting her vacation short -- during the next four months to save a woman she only knew by age and disease.

"I assumed someone was ill, and I didn't want to delay," says Dee, a mother of three and grandmother of two. "A delay could mean death.

"God forbid I ever need it, [but] I certainly hope someone out there would do it for me."

Need is great

Bone-marrow and cell transplants can save those diagnosed with blood diseases such as Hodgkin's, leukemia and lymphoma. The transplant replaces unhealthy blood cells with a donor's healthy blood-forming cells -- either from the marrow, the bloodstream or the umbilical cord, according to the National Marrow Donor Program.

In the past, blood-forming cells were always taken from bone marrow -- as indicated by the national group's name -- in a somewhat painful surgical procedure, typically from the pelvic bone. But more and more, doctors are able to bypass surgery and collect those cells from the bloodstream with the help of a drug called filgrastim, which increases the number of blood-forming cells in the bloodstream.

Finding a match can be difficult, though.

About 70 percent of patients who contact the National Marrow Donor Program need a transplant from someone unrelated to them, the organization says.

Though Dee is one of more than 6 million potential donors on the registry, the group estimates it coordinates transplants for only about 220 patients each month. Dee, 46, was only the Florida Blood Center's 10th eligible donor through blood this year, says Sandy Cabrero, the center's coordinator for the National Marrow Donor Program.

There also is a great need for ethnic minorities to become donors because tissue type is inherited, just like hair and eye color, meaning someone of the same race and ethnicity will likely be the person's best hope for a match, the national organization says.

Dee, a tell-it-like-it-is kind of lady, has vowed to add 100 people to the national bone-marrow registry in the coming year. She will take her campaign to citizen groups, churches and anyone who will listen. Ideally, she'll bring along someone from the blood bank who can swab cells from cheeks of those who listen and agree to her pitch. She calls them "swab parties."

"It's a donation where you know where 100 percent of the donation is going," Dee says. "And, you're saving a life. What better can you do in this world?"

The wait is over

An hour after Dee took that first call, nine vials of blood -- two teaspoons apiece -- were pulled from her veins.

Then she waited. For months.

"I thought no answer meant no match," she says. "I thought, 'How rude, they didn't even call to tell me.' "

But when she landed at an airport in Dallas in October, the registry finally called back.

"Had I known, I would have canceled my vacation," she remembers thinking to herself. "I panicked. Do I have to fly home? They told me to relax."

When she returned, 20 vials of blood were drawn in two sittings, and Dee was asked to undergo psychological testing to gauge how she would feel if the recipient died

Days later she was cleared, declared "healthy as a horse." For five consecutive days, she would receive injections to increase the number of stem cells in the bloodstream. She was told to expect flulike symptoms, but all she suffered from was a slight headache. Dee did experience a strange sensation that she said was like feeling her connective tissue as she moved.

Finally, on the fifth day, in late October, it was time for the donation. Dee sat back as blood from an arm was channeled through a machine and then returned to her body. The process, minus the injections, is the same as donating platelets. It was done during two sessions of several hours over two days.

Dee, a Realtor, will receive quarterly updates on her recipient for the first year.

Then they will be able to learn each other's identity if both agree. Dee has signed a release, but she says she'll understand if the other woman chooses privacy.

"It would just be wonderful to know she is happy and healthy," Dee says. "I don't expect a thank-you. I just wish the best for her."

At home, she slowly watches the growth of a potted plant, one given to her by the blood bank as a thank you.

"I feel like if I take good care of it and it survives, then she's doing OK," Dee says.