How (not) to donate blood

I don’t particularly like needles. Why? Because I don’t particularly like pain. It may be a minuscule, temporary and overall insignificant amount of pain but given a choice of having it or not having it I’ll go with not. I am however logical enough to know that skipping the dentist because I don’t like the pre-filling gum injection leads to toothache. Therefore, if it’s the lesser of two painful options I’m reluctantly for it. However voluntarily having a needle inserted into my flesh without any personal gain has never been an ambition of mine.

Donating blood is something I have long been in awe of. The first time it was presented to me as something which ordinary people did (rather than mysterious heroic entities) was in the middle of a conversation with a pair of friends. Looking at the time they said they had to get to their donation appointment. This amazed me, and even more so when they said they were regular donors. But as impressive as I thought it was I didn’t believe such a service could be rendered by me.

Years later I was working for a small conservation organisation, the building for which sat opposite a fire station. One day I noticed an unusual number of people heading in and out of the station. ‘There’s a blood drive,’ explained my colleague. ‘I’m going later if you want to come.’ Naturally my answer was no.

And so it went on for many years. Donating almost never came up in conversation, though I saw plenty of leaflets and fliers. Giving blood saves lives, they said, and yet somehow it didn’t apply to me. Because I was scared. There were other things I could do, other ways I could help. There was no need for me to think about it.

Then Brexit happened. It’s strange how things affect one another. After the result was announced I went into mourning. It was an odd sensation, I’ve never been so mentally devastated by a political announcement. For days I felt a deep sadness which I couldn’t shake. I lost my faith in both the people trying to win votes and the people giving them. I felt angry, wanting to blame and insult everyone involved. And then finally I made a decision. That I would try hard to be better. It was all good and well complaining about what others had or hadn’t done but perhaps it was time to look at myself. Was I really doing the best I could to create the type of world I wanted to live in. The answer was no. So I started to look for things I could do, ways I could help. Of the many new initiatives I decided on giving blood was one of the easiest to enact.

I didn’t really know how to sign up, so I asked my computer. Once I’d located the website (easily done by typing ‘donate blood’ into google) I was surprised to see how simple the process was. Typing in my postcode the website gave me a choice of local centers and times. I chose an evening session in a community center near me, so I could fit in with work. I was booked. Unfortunately the date was some way into the future but as it approached several helpful emails and texts reminded me of the commitment I’d made.

And then the day was here. I walked up to the community center feeling understandably nervous. In the entrance a handful of other people were already stood, waiting outside the closed-door to the community hall. All of us held in our hands our health questionnaires which had arrived in the post a few days before. I’d been a bit over-enthusiastic on filling out mine and ticked several questions which only applied to men. I was hoping I wouldn’t get marked down for it.

On the dot the doors opened and a friendly nurse ushered us in one at a time. As a first timer I was given a rather large pamphlet about donation to read and asked to take a glass of squash to drink a little at a time. As I took my seat others grabbed their drinks and filled out the rows of chairs around me. I was pleased to see it was busy, with most people not needing to read the large beginners pamphlet but getting a smaller ‘refresher’ version instead.

As I sat sipping my drink and reading about plasma I could feel the nerves rising. In the book there was a section which highlighted that I could leave at any point. I seriously considered it. Finally my name was called, but I hadn’t finished reading. A reprieve was granted. A second time I was called. Still not done, I was allowed to stay seated. I was beginning to suspect the people around me thought my reading age was 10. The room was set out with lines of chairs set out facing away from the doors. Big and grey they looked somewhat like cheap and cheerful dentist’s chairs. I guessed these were for the donors. At the side of the hall blue plastic partitions had been formed into makeshift offices. The chairs faced an empty stage on which sat a CD player, popular tunes blasting out from it.

I was in the middle of observing all this when I heard a clatter and a thud. Someone had fainted. Later I was told this was the first incident of its kind here in six years. Bad luck for me it had happened everytime I’d been so far. It didn’t calm my nerves anymore when the man was roused from his faint only to start being violently sick. All this went on behind screens, but halls are wonderful echo chambers.

Finally I was called, my nerves now wound tight. The nurse apologised for the scene and explained it wasn’t common place. Then I was taken into a blue cubicle of my own where a new face greeted me. Welcoming me the man at the desk asked to see my questionnaire and then confirmed a few of the questions. Happy with the results he asked me to hold out my finger.

I had read that a sample would be taken from my finger to assess my iron levels. This I’d been looking forward to even less than the donation. Who in their right mind wants a pin stuck in their finger. I tensed. The little plastic device which the man held to my digit gave a little sting and a drop of blood welled up on my fingertip. I relaxed. So far so good. A little of my blood was sucked up with a pipet and released into a test tube full of green liquid. I watched it sink through the liquid in attractive little plumes. The man helpfully explained that, had my blood been low in iron, the blood would have spread across the top of the liquid, rather than sinking.

So I was good to go. Again I was sent to a different waiting area. The next call up would be the real thing. Nervously I asked the woman across from me if she’d been before. She kindly told me the finger prick was worse than the actual donation. I was called up.

The nurse took me to my own special chair. Wrapping a blood pressure cuff around the top of my right arm she asked me to pump my hand and felt for my veins. I could feel myself shaking slightly in nervous anticipation, but I tried to seem calm and collected. The nurse frowned. My veins were borderline she said, which meant little to me. She removed the cuff and tried the other arm instead. No those were smaller, she went back to the first arm. She puffed up the cuff, I pumped my hand, and she began to feel for veins again. No, they were too small. Big enough to take a sample but not big enough for a donation. ‘This is as far as you go today,’ she said. Naively I asked if I should come back another day. No, my veins weren’t going to get any bigger. Logical really. I was surprised not to feel relieved. In fact I was disappointed. I’d come this far, I’d had to go through all the negatives, with no big thumbs up at the end. I stood up and left. Who knew your veins could be too small to give blood? Well I did now.

I had no intention of writing this blog after leaving that night. It was my boyfriend Chris and my friend Emily who talked me into it. Chris thought it might encourage others scared of the process to give it a go. Emily, who herself has now overcome her intense fear and donated twice, thought I could encourage others to donate in my place. For myself, having been uninspired to donate for so many years, I’m not sure my blog will be enough to change anyone’s minds. But perhaps it will. Giving blood does save lives. I wish I’d been able to. If you’re interested then get online and book your appointment. It’s quick, simple and you can give it a go anytime.

This was where the blog post originally ended. However, asking Emily to read through the draft she suggested to me I added a little something on. Having donated her blood Emily received a text. This text told her her blood had been used, as well as which hospital it had been used at. Emily’s blood may well have saved somebody’s life that day. What a truly wonderful thing. https://www.blood.co.uk/