Donating blood is one of those “I must get around to it” things that has been on my to-do list for a while. My son required transfusions when he was a baby so I’m very aware of the importance of having the red stuff in supply and besides, if the big guy upstairs actually exists and is taking notes, donating blood might make a nice counter balance to some of the other, er, not-so-charitable things I tend to enjoy.
The last couple of times I was aware there was a blood drive happening I’d had recent tattoos so couldn’t donate. And strangely, this time around I had been planning to call my favourite needle expert for a wee pre-Christmas buzz when I spotted the poster on our notice board at work.
I turned up with all the required bits at the venue yesterday afternoon: photo ID, arms, the odd vein. You know, all the usual stuff. My haemoglobin levels were good and I met all the necessary requirements so I rolled up my sleeve and awaited the event.
Well, nearly all the requirements. Remember those veins I took with me? They weren’t being very sociable. After much checking, rechecking, coaxing and tapping, the nice blood-sucker lady found one that looked a likely candidate. She carefully inserted the needle thingamajig but within seconds it shut down. There was little more than a squidge of blood.
Ah well, I’ve booked in to go again in January when they are back on the blood drive trail. Wish me luck.