They were running late tonight, which is really a good thing, given its implication that the NHS must be swimming in spare blood now, increasing their ability to save the lives of people in need of some extra blood. I'm sure they're not literally swimming in it; they tend to have quite high standards in hygiene. The downside of blood donation's popularity this evening was that they seemed to be in a bit of a rush. I waited for 40 minutes (which was fine, because - unlike my wife, who had donated earlier in the evening - I took a book. Always take a book) before they began to process me.
For those who have not had the pleasure (and you really should try it, because of all the life-saving potential and that), the process is something like this:
- Fill in a form, which asks you slightly personal questions about your health and sex life, in an attempt to establish that your blood won't be doing anybody more harm than good. This may seem intrusive but, if you think about it, is quite reasonable really.
- Talk to a nurse behind a curtain (for some reason) about the fact that you don't currently have any germs. If you do have germs, you'll be out the door faster than you can sneeze. The same nurse will use a special contraption to prick your finger and extract a drop of blood. This doesn't hurt, and it's quite enjoyable to watch when they drop your drop of blood into a test tube of coloured liquid, to see if it floats. I have no real understanding of what the liquid is or what the implications of your blood's success or failure in floating are, but no other aspect of my life makes me feel a part of Science to this extent. All of my drops of blood at time of writing have passed this test, qualifying me consistently for the next stage.
- Drink a pint of water. This request is made of you in a tone which you might expect from, say, a bungee jumping instructor, or perhaps a doctor asking you to pull down your pants as he dons his rubber gloves. They think it's a big ask, in short. But I drink pints of water often. I'm a thirsty guy. This is easy.
- Sit in a really comfortable chair. You may infer from the extreme comfort on offer to you that you're approaching the business end of proceedings; pain will soon be forthcoming. Your inference would be correct. A further nurse, harnessing all of his or her best bedside manner skills, will take your blood pressure and then rub some liquid of mysterious purpose over your arm, before putting what is, frankly, a big needle into your vein. In fact - and I am being honest - this rarely actually hurts much, despite appearances. It certainly looks like it should hurt. But I think they must make nurses practise doing this kind of thing, because they are invariably very good at it, by which I mean that they do it in an inexplicably pain-free manner.
- You are now required to sit in your extremely comfortable chair (which they will have lowered - think business class aeroplane seats which turn into beds, only with much more space around them), for a few minutes, or as long as it takes for your vein to relinquish a pint. These very comfortable reclining chairs are lined up in rows, each one occupied by a similarly altruistic donor with a needle in their arm. It's basically a very mild version of the Matrix. You'll notice that your fellow donors are performing curious exercises with their hands; clenching and unclenching, They may be doing the same with their buttocks. Apparently this helps to maintain your blood pressure and I always give it a go, but it makes me feel ridiculous. I'd rather faint.
- Once your pint has been extracted, something nearby will start beeping. Your work here is done. A nurse will attend and extract the big needle with the same brutal subtlety he or she used to insert it. Then comes the pay-off.
- You're ushered to a seat around a table LADEN WITH FREE FOOD. If you time it right and make your appointment for just before lunchtime, then there really is such a thing as a free lunch. I'll level with you: there's no lobster or caviar, but the prawn cocktail crisps are genuinely delicious. Other flavours are available, as are biscuits and a choice of tea, coffee or good old squash. And, just to reiterate: it's all free. You don't get free food when you donate clothes, toys, or even money. I've never donated an organ, but I bet those who do still need some cash for the hospital cafe.
The issue this evening was that - possibly but by no means definitely because they were pushed for time - the nurse neglected to use her pain-free skills when she put the needle in me. This time it did hurt. It still does. It feels like a healthcare professional rewarded my generosity by just stabbing me in the arm. I must stress that this is the only occasion upon which I have met this unfortunate fate. And I'm sure it'll be fine soon.
If this assurance, and the promise of gratis prawn cocktail, aren't sufficient to persuade you to take the plunge, then - while I'm doing bullet points - consider the following proper facts:
- Over 25% of people require donated blood at least once in their lifetime.
- Each single donation can help three people.
- Only 4% of adults currently donate blood.
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