Blood on the Bank Floor

Cadiz mentioned on her journal that she donated blood recently.

It’s definitely a good thing to do, and it does provide you with an immense feeling of accomplishment and self-righteousness.

This might be linked to the light-headedness afforded by draining a few litres of blood from your system, and then downing a local beer (because it’s there), but who could say for sure?

I try to donate as regularly as possible, due to my blood type being the most common, O positive. Chances are that in the event of a major travesty, my blood will be the one they most want lying around.

Yes, I do enjoy giving blood, however after remembering the past few times and the events that occurred during said blood giving, I wonder why the hell I do.

I reckon the free beer afterwards probably helps.

The first time I donated, I copped the short, terse nurse who obviously had endured one of the longest days in history, the most thankless customers and a headache so bad it impaired her vision. As a result, she failed to notice the little sign on my person that indicated “this is my first time - be gentle, love”.

I sit down on that chair that raises and reclines automatically, and the nurse bluntly shoves the chisel that doubles as a “needle” into my arm and begins syphoning my ruby red.

Due to this rough n’ tumble behaviour, I feel some discomfort emanating from my arm. Discounting it to being normal, I truck on through the ordeal with no complaint.

But, for the next two weeks, I sport a bruise that begins at my elbow, and carries all the way down to my wrist. It’s not a good look for short sleeve shirts, let me tell you.

For those who don't know, I hate needles. Whenever they stick one into me for whatever reason, I always turn my eyes away. It makes me ill.

I indicated this to the nurse on this other occasion I donated. She was understanding, and was extremely gentle. She instructs me to look away whilst she plugs me. As I turn away as per her instructions, my eyes fall on the guy next to me who is having his needle inserted at that precise point in time. Naturally, I bristle and clamp my eyes shut, repulsed.

I hate those automatic raising and reclining chairs. Well, now I do. Before I was relatively indifferent towards their light buzzing and resemblance to a dentist’s device.

Again, I got a nice, gentle nurse who makes entertaining idle chit-chat. She indicates that it’s her first day with the donation mob, which naturally sends a couple warning sirens off in my head.

But it all goes smoothly. The needle goes in, the blood comes out, no discomfort and no viewing of someone being pin-cushioned. She takes a bit too much attention to maintaining my leisure, queries my level of comfort and asks whether I would like the seat adjusted. Before I assure her that it’s okay, she presses a button.

The wrong button.

The chair begins to straighten up from it’s reclining position, ensuring that I sit bolt upright. It then begins to lower down. The process cannot be stopped or reversed until it is completely done with its cycle.

Sure, that sounds normal, but bear in mind that the needle was still attached to my arm, and I was still bleeding into their satchell. Normally, when you’re reclined in that chair properly, you’re in a good position for the needle and tube, but when you start to sit upright, the optimum seating position is compromised.

So there I was, being slowly erected, my arm gradually being pulled behind me due to it still being drilled for blood. The nurse apologised at length, and I would have tried reassuring her that it was okay, if not for the fact that I was fervently concentrating on slowly contorting my body around so that the needle didn’t get eased out by my snail’s-pace posture change, therefore resulting in me bleeding on their pristine floors.

These torture chambers they call “blood banks” seem to be onto a good thing. Where else could you torture people and have them walk out feeling good about themselves?

I love donating blood. But don’t ask me why… again, I put it down to the dementia caused by lack of blood, and that they give me a free beer afterwards.

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Update: In a bizarre zen-like moment, not five minutes after I posted this piece, I received an email from the Department Circulation mob who indicate that there is a national shortage of type O positive blood, and that everyone is encouraged to donate, stat! I think my blog is being monitored by the Government...