A pint? That's very nearly an arm full.
Entry posted by GhostOfClayton
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Hello all, and welcome to the GhostOfClayton twice-fortnightly blog. Little warning: some of it may contain �adult themes�, but all in a proper, medical context.
A letter arrived on the doormat here at OfClayton Towers last week, and I recognised it straight away. It had a cute little anthropomorphised blood drop (who I understand to be called Billy) on the back, and I have had one of these every three months for about the last five or six years. It was the notification that the time had arrived for me to do my bit for society, roll up my sleeves, and give blood.
This all started due to the tragic death of a colleague. Not a close colleague � I didn't know him. I can't even remember his name, if I'm honest. However, I do remember he was quite young, and that he died as a result of injuries sustained in an accident. A huge quantity of blood was used by the medical team in an attempt to save his life, but sadly they were unsuccessful.
Following his funeral, those colleagues that did know him better than myself decided it would be a fitting tribute to recruit as many new blood donors as possible. This sounded fitting to me as well, and so I put my name forward. Have you ever given blood? If not, here's how you go about it:
The first step is to answer the many questions on the form, which includes such gems as "Have you had oral or anal sex with a man?" (only men need answer this one) or "Have you had sex with a man that has had anal or oral sex with another man" (no-one is exempt from answering this one!) They also ask about your movements abroad, and get quite specific about the countries/dates.
Anyway, assuming you haven�t had anal/oral sex with a man, or shared a needle with same in a drug den, then you can proceed to the next stage. You hand the form to the nurse, who confirms your name/address/date of birth, pricks your finger, and squeezes a drop of your blood into a test tube of liquid. Like a medieval test for witchcraft, if it sinks, you�re OK, otherwise you�re out on your ear.
Next step, lay on your back to have your blood pressure taken (after confirming your name/address/date of birth once again!) If that's OK, they . . . I don�t know what to call it . . Hoover your arm with a wet plastic Hoover, before inserting a needle with the bore of a Volvo exhaust into your vein. Then you wait while your life force drains into a plastic bag, imagining what would happen if no-one took it out, and it just kept on draining and draining, slowly but surely emptying your body until you lost the fight with consciousness, knowing you'd never wake up again . . . . that's the kind of thing I think about, anyway.
So far, it's been fine. A nurse has always been around to remove the drainpipe from my arm, and use industrial adhesive to stick some kind of dressing over the wound. There then follows a very carefully timed lie down, sit up, swing your legs over, and back to the waiting area for orange squash and a biscuit . . . and a little sticker to say what a brave boy I�ve been.
So why do I do it. What makes the experience make me feel so good? Is it because I'm doing my 'bit' for society? Is it because the nurses there invariably have . . . well, let's just say they make the rockin' world go round, if you follow my meaning? No, none of that. It's just so I can feel smug and superior for the rest of the day. A lovely, lovely feeling.
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