For far too many years, I kept finding some excuse not to give blood. If it wasn't some distant sporting commitment, it was the opening hours at Pelican House. I shamelessly ignored each radio appeal, easing my conscience by procuring an organ donor card. The Hepatitis C scandal gave me further reason to stall. But recently reason got the better of me after I read that donating blood can actually be good for one's health. According to one report, the process helps to counteract blood clotting and thus might reduce the possibility of a heart attack. That was good enough for me. So, one fine Monday evening, I strolled down the canal and into the BTSB's headquarters on a mission of mercy which, coincidentally, I hoped would help to prolong my life.
My arrival provoked little fuss. I got a ticket, gave my details, and filled out a form of 20-odd questions. The only one I slipped up on was: "In the past three days, had you taken an aspirin?" Just a couple. "When exactly?" the nurse asked gruffly. Sunday morning. She nodded like she'd heard it a hundred times before.
Another pint
My right index finger was pricked and a narrow tube was filled with blood. The nurse then informed me my iron levels were being checked. A drop of my blood sank in the testing fluid, which meant I passed, so I was ushered into the waiting area.
"Waiting area?" I was irked.
"You mean you want more?" Indeed she did. Another pint, to be precise.
My turn came almost immediately. I was led to a wine-coloured leather chair where a new nurse rolled up my sleeve. She told me I was blood type A Rh positive, confirming what I had learned in a Leaving Cert Biology experiment. (It was during another such test - the dissection of a frozen rabbit which needed its legs prised open with a mallet - that I realised I wouldn't be putting medicine on my CAO form.)
"You're not nervous, are you?" the doctor asked as he checked my pulse. "Not at all," I replied calmly, forgetting that my throbbing arteries were giving the game away. As he glanced over my form, I felt obliged to remind him of the aspirins. "Taken for a hangover," I boldly admitted. Surely that's enough to bar me for life.
Alas, no. The inside of my left elbow was swabbed. I was told to look away and then he did the deed. "You mean it's in?" I asked timidly. He nodded, resuming our conversation about aspirins and Saturday night.
Phew! I sank back in my seat, relieved. Felt nothing at all. I had always dreaded that first incision. Now it was over, and I would soon be outside having my pint of stout. Or so I thought. Unknown to me, as I chatted away, the nurse watched my cheeks slowly turn a paler shade of pink.
Friendly questions
The doctor returned and asked me some more friendly questions. I had noticed, however, that he was paying little attention to what I said. Like the nurse, he was closely studying my face. Not long to go now, though. My arm felt a bit numb and I could sense the blood tickling the surface of my skin as it flowed down a tube into the bag the nurse held. Other than that I could well have been unwinding at home in my favourite old armchair.
As I held that thought, I was told that I had given my unit and that a sample was now being taken for further tests. It was at this point that my cheeks turned "a nice shade of grey" as one nurse later put it.
"Cold towel!" The cry went out. The doctor and three assistants rushed to my side. With ER speed, the seat reclined and a cool cloth was draped across my forehead. "Are you with him?" I heard someone ask the woman donating in the chair beside me. For a moment it sounded like they were looking for next of kin.
The doctor, however, was quick to reassure me that everything was fine. "Did you eat before you came in?" he asked sympathetically. I had my tea, actually. "I see," he sighed. "Well, don't worry. It's just mind over matter." His reply unsettled me. Was he trying to suggest I had some sort of problem?
As it was my first time at Pelican House I had no reason to assume this dramatic finale was anything but normal. But as I lay staring at the ceiling, I gradually realised there hadn't been another "cold towel" case since I came in. While everyone else was guided to a seat in the recuperation area, I was ordered to stay on my back, knees bent, and drink a few cups of chilled water.
A male donor beside me had some words of comfort. "I've seen it happen once or twice before," he said - and then ruined it by revealing this was his 39th blood donation.
Final insult
Further humiliation awaited in the coffee room, where fellow donors enjoyed a cup of tea or half-pint of beer. No such adult drinks for me. I was restricted to fizzy orange and cola. "We want to keep your temperature down," one nurse explained, "after your little . . . attack." That was the final insult. Any hope I had that there was some physical excuse for my weakening had been shattered. It was all purely mental.
As I left, clutching my free BTSB pencils, my left arm frozen in the customary Napoleon position, I took comfort in the fact that I hadn't been blacklisted. Although a streak of yellow had been found in my blood, I was told it would be accepted again. And I will return, if only to bury the badge of dishonour, the ignominy of being a "cold towel".
Pelican House is open Monday to Thursday 9.30 a.m. to 8.15 p.m. In Cork, donors can visit the Regional Centre at St Finbarr's Hospital on Monday 11.30 a.m. to 2.30 p.m., Tuesday and Thursday 5 p.m. to 8 p.m., and Friday 10 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. Mobile BTSB units continue to operate throughout the country [see page 2]. And remember, new donors are always welcome.