First timer blood-donor. I expected the volumes of paperwork. I didn’t expect the pin-prick to test my haemoglobin levels (silly, me). So as I held a bit of wadding to my finger, I waited for the machine to spit out my number. I felt optimistic; it had been ages since I’d been diagnosed as anaemic.
The number had to be between 12 and 16.
I got 12.2. So I only just scraped through that stage.
Then they led me through to the lines of squishy, vinyl long tables, with people attached to cables and I felt like I was talking into a Brave New World set. I went over to ‘my’ attendant.
“That headrest might be a little low,” I said. “I get dizzy.”
The attendant looked up sharply, then looked over my chart.
“You have Menieres Disease?”
“Yes.”
“Only diagnosed in November?”
“Yes.” I knew where this was leading. “But I feel fine today.”
She dropped the chart, leant on the table, and held my shoulder. “Still, I strongly advise against donating blood. You must look after yourself first. We take half a litre. That is a lot. You’ll then walk outside in 40 degree heat, and you will drop on the footpath and have an attack and will spend the next week in bed, unable to look after your little kids. I am a district nurse and my best friend has Menieres. It’s not worth it.”
I admit, I got a little teary. I made some feeble protests. But I knew she was right, and the one thing I don’t need right now is to get sick again.
So I walked out of there, sans bandage around my elbow, to the curious glances of the other givers.
So, to re-cap: bugger.
