Monday, 2nd February 2015

When I was young, I kind of enjoyed hurting myself. Not on purpose. But I appreciated the accidents I had. I didn't like the actual pain but, within reason, I considered it a worthwhile price to pay for the prestige it could bring. My friends and I would compete for the best quality and quantity of A&E anecdotes. Bruises, wounds, bandages or - best of all - plaster casts were badges of honour. At primary school, if someone turned up on crutches they commanded awe and respect. When Mark Filby threw a stone in my eye at lunchtime one day, I genuinely felt that the attention my temporary eyepatch generated was enough to justify the 48 hours of literally eye-watering agony.

Then, as I reached my grumpy adolescence and developed a powerful aversion to any kind of commitment or social interaction, I would relish the potential benefits of injury; sudden disability, to my irrational teenage mind, represented the perfect excuse to avoid any awkward situation. Frequently, when driving to my part-time supermarket checkout job, I would fantasise about crashing my car, such was my resentment at being paid to sit down for a few hours in Tesco. Only a lack of courage prevented me from acting upon this misguided judgement, meaning that - instead of learning the hard way - I had to grow up before I would appreciate the ungrateful, insensitive arrogance of this attitude.

I certainly value my health now, and I have developed a sensible fear of pain. Yet I still have a residual sense of the benefits of injury. I think it's more of an emotional coping mechanism really: while I avoid the prospect of hurting myself, I still think the associated drama and attention would be of some consolation.

Throughout all of these phases, I have never really appreciated the impact upon those who care for me of my being in physical peril. But this morning I was provided with a stark new sense of perspective when I dropped my older daughter off at school.

A combination of my insistence the night before upon attempting to stay up to watch the Superbowl (I just about made it to half time before giving up when Katy Perry started prancing about), my snot-addled reluctance to get up in the morning, and the car being all icy, contributed to this morning's school run being rather more hurried than usual. I drove safely, of course - the big, slow lorry which insisted on being in front of me for most of the journey left me little choice - but I only parked the car on the road outside the school in the nick of time.

As I desperately grappled with my daughter's two unreasonably heavy school bags, the car door and the keys to lock it, I had to find from somewhere an extra hand to grab my daughter's as she spotted a couple of her friends, whose parents were only marginally more punctual than hers, and attempted to run across the road after them.

Somehow I managed to restrain her from doing so, before escorting her calmly and sensibly across the road, into the school grounds and up to the gate, where only the headmistress and an incidental secretary by now remained; all the other pupils were already in, with the exception of my daughter's two friends, about to disappear out of sight. She sauntered off in pursuit.

"WAIT!" I cried in sudden alarm, causing her to halt. I was still holding her bags (she normally only has one, but we had been asked to provide additional, dispensable clothing in service of muddy, outdoor fun). I've got form for sending my daughter in without her stuff. I had to go to the office and arrange for it to be delivered to her classroom. It was embarrassing. I wasn't about to go through that humiliation again this morning, so I beckoned my daughter back to me and weighed her down with her pair of bags. Finally, I watched her dash through the gate. She could still probably catch up with her friends before they got to the door. My work was complete for another morning.

And then she fell over.

Usually when you trip, putting out your arms to break your fall is an instinctive reflex. Unless you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand. If you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand, you land on your face.

If I was in any doubt about the integrity of my parental concern for my children, it was dispelled in this moment. I think I actually pushed the headmistress out of the way a little bit as I ran to my daughter's aid. I was now on the wrong side of the gate through which parents may not pass, and I didn't even care. I picked her up, subconsciously established the absence of blood, and just hugged her and hugged her until she stopped crying. But she wouldn't. Her chin had borne the brunt of the impact and she was in pain, and none of us were under any illusions about it being a good thing.

Mum, Dad: I'm sorry for all the times I saw hurting myself as a positive. I understand now that you probably didn't, did you? It probably quite upset you, didn't it? Sorry.

Of course, like any parent, I've seen my children hurt themselves many times. It's never pleasant - this is hardly a revelation - but somehow this occasion was so much more harrowing than all the others. Perhaps it was the dramatic nature of the events conspiring to cause the accident. Perhaps it was the setting: I had just successfully given her over to the care of trained, responsible adults in a safe location and was lulled into a false sense of security. Or maybe it was the fact that the incidental secretary turned out to be a crucial player in our story as she gently but assertively led my still-wailing child away from me and into the school, luring her with promises of an ice pack for her grazed and swollen chin. I could offer no more than a feeble goodbye as the doors closed on the secretary, my daughter and her distraught tears. I was no longer welcome in the effort to appease her.

As I drove home I was helplessness personified. I even phoned the school in search of reassurance as to her wellbeing. But I could not be fully consoled until the time came to collect her some six and a half hours later. She emerged through the same, fateful gate with a ridiculous, Looney Tunes bruise disfiguring her chin, but she was smiling. She was fine.

And, to tell the truth, I think she's quite proud of that bruise. So am I, to be honest.

Monday, 10th November 2014

My arm really hurts. I've just got home from giving blood. I'm not telling you this to show off; I'm just explaining why my arm hurts. Or did I mention that my arm hurts, only so that I could show off about giving blood? Ooooh, mystery.

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.