Sunday Bloody Sunday

I know it sounds lame, but I have always been iffy about donating blood. I mean, come on, I know you produce the thing every how-many-whatevers, but can’t they just wait for my next nosebleed or when I nick myself shaving again?

Even back in college, when you can get a day off from military training by simply volunteering to donate blood, I, unthinkably enough, opted to stay under the sun and do my marches and push ups. (Sounds pretty dumb now, thinking about it)

There have been many instances when blood donors were needed, even for my own family. But I guess my family knew I was a wimp, so somehow nobody looked in my direction. Before I could muster the strength to even say “oh alright, I’ll do it” there would be enough friends or relatives who would volunteer. Of course, I always felt guilty. I’m AB+, royal blood, they say, because it’s pretty rare. Royal chicken, more like it.

Anyhow, for some reason, when my friend texted me that her dad needed blood donors, I just said I’d go. Don’t know why but thanks to my fingers thinking faster than my brain, “send” was clicked before the alarm bells rang.

It wasn’t directly for my friend’s dad, it was just replacement for the blood bank to replenish the stock he took out. I didn’t tell my friend the idea scared the bejesus out of me. I tried to be cool and nonchalant about it. Little did she know I had to swing by church to muster the courage to drive to the hospital and not back out.

The blood bank staff gave me a really long checklist – with questions ranging from whether I had any known health problems to whether I had a drink the night before to whether I knew what AIDS is (like, duh). Then there were all these tests: weight, urine, blood check. Secretly and guiltily, I wondered if I would actually be relieved to fail something.

Had to wait an hour to find out whether I was eligible to donate at all. My friend was with me so we had coffee and chatted for a bit. All that time I was trying to keep my nerves at bay.

Finally, it was time. I was supposed to just find out whether I was eligible or not, but before I knew it, they asked me to wash my arms and lie down. It was all so quick my nerves weren’t able to go into overdrive. In about a minute I had to lie down and pretend to be texting as they stuck a needle on my right arm. Busy man I am. Texting a grocery list to myself.

After that, time seemed to stop. I felt the constant sting of the needle but stopped myself from looking at it. The TV was on, but it felt like an eternity (or was it just the show I was watching?)

And then, that was it. I was 430cc lighter and was told to just lie down so I don’t get woozy. Then I got bored, stood up and, apart from the tape on my arm, it was a normal Sunday again for me.

Ok so, this is a long blog entry for something that’s just about as groundbreaking as a tooth extraction. But it’s a huge enough deal for me. I guess the reason I didn’t get light-headed at all is because it was a big sigh of relief. The guilt is gone and somehow I know now that I can do this again and again (hey, it’s supposed to be good for you even physiologically). At the end of the day, I am just happy to do so while I’m still on the giving end.