I gave blood for the first time last Friday. Always meant to do it, and here was a ridiculously convenient opportunity. So I went.
I was never sqeamish as a child. I remember being freaked out my a wax stature of a man raising the severed head of another man at some history museum in Dover, but I was equally fascinated by it.
Anyway, I was disturbed to notice that I was growing squeamish in my old age, especially concerning damage to blood vessels. And, I suddenly realised, connecting my bloodstream to a bag of anticoagulents.
I decided to put a stop to that nonsense then and there. Once I was cleared for donation, I promised myself that I would watch every moment of vein peircing and blood draining. Which I technically failed to do, because it was
boring. Not even a single bubble or clot passed through that tube to liven things up.
It was weird though. I'd be lying if I said that putting the needle in was pleasant. It's a thick needle. But blink and you'll miss it. The nurse wasted no time in plunging the point deep into the vein on the inside of my elbow once it had puffed out enough, having been blocked by an inflatable armband. Not to worry, the peculiar ache of having a tube of metal resting inside your vein is a constant reminder of your situation. Which is just as well, or I might have idiotically flexed my elbow and lacerated the vein from the inside.
The clamp came off and the tube turn dark and red. I watched it, realising I was giving these people a part of me, my living tissue. I would regenerate, sure, but it is still surprisingly intimate. For all I know it's coursing through someone else right now, keep them alive and healthy.
This is what blood looks like. In a bag. Like Simon's freakish milk.
The first few moments of the process were very strange. I have no idea if these symptoms were psychosomatic or what, but the moment the blood began to flow from me the site of the needle burned hot, while my entire arm felt cold. My whole body felt like it was deflating, which I know it couldn't be. A blood pressure change, perhaps? After a while I got used to the situation and these feelings passed. I wished I had worn a jumper. I wished I'd peed before getting tubed up, and was fighting the urge to fidget. Also I had to waggle my fingers to keep the blood flowing. That was almost one effort too many.
Having drunk Coke all day I thought my blood would be too thick and dehydrated to flow well, but mine was a perfect session. My mother, who had gone, didn't seem to have enough blood in her arm, and so failed. Her fiancé was rejected immediately because, get this, his doctor was already testing his blood.
Eventually I had bled enough for their liking, the needle came out as quicly as it had gone in and I was left holding the "wound" so that it wouldn't bleed, and could patch itself up. A few minuntes and a bandage later, and I was cradling my aching, strangely delicate arm (psychosomatic?) as I strode over to the refreshments table to wait for my family to return in shame. In which I made a net profit of biomass in the form of squash, crisps and biscuits. I may have single-handedly ruined the NHS.
After signing a petition against privatising the blood service, I left. And now I wait for news of my blood type, what exotic infections forced them to reject my offerings, and just how radioactive it really is.
