I don’t have a rare type of blood but it is very useful, or so I’m told and so today I trooped off to give another pint at my local community centre. There was a time when you only had to crawl in off the street for them to take your blood but now they seem to be a bit more particular. The safety of the donor and future patient is paramount. I remember one of my first times when I went in wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, the doctor asked me if I had a bike which engaged me in a five minute conversation about the range of vehicles I owned, when I realised he was more concerned about me falling off afterwards and becoming a net recipient of his product.
Now a donation is a much more sophisticated process, much more high tech. For a start you need to fill in a four page form with a list of questions that hint at foreign travel and an exotic and deviant lifestyle that just isn’t mine. I tick all of the no boxes and wonder what would happen if I was to lie or inadvertently declare some false information. Would a swat team of phlebotomists parasail from a helicopter hovering above and swoop down to surround me and force me into a confession?
Everything now is weighed and timed with precision, even the length of time that the nurse rubs your arm with alcohol to avoid infection around your shunt. Your given a list of things to do and don’t about your donation while you wait to be called, a list of dangerous activities you mustn’t undertake after your initial assessment and even a small card to read of things to avoid when you leave, as you are lying down. You are pricked and poked, rubbed and squeezed and end up covered in an assortment of bandages and plasters to keep what is left of your blood in place.
They measure your blood for iron content by pricking your finger and take samples of your blood to make sure you don’t have hepatitis B or C, human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), human T cell lymphotropic virus (HTLV), which is known to cause cancer and even to check your blood group to make sure that there is no mistake, no human error.
This was my twenty second exsanguination, which is equivalent to nearly three times the amount of blood that is coursing through my vein, arteries and capillaries. After twenty five pints I will get a silver award but the real prizes kick in much later. After fifty pints I can look forward to receiving a fancy pen and after seventy five donations I will be invited to a swanky lunch at a local but classy hotel. At three donations per year that means I’ll be smacking my lips in anticipation sometime during 2030. One of my fellow donors was on sixty six and so the smell the roast beef for him was palpable.
Even at the end of it all I was being monitored. I was given a cup of tea and a biscuit or two (it was better when they had cheese Tucs) and watched to make sure that my arm didn’t burst or I didn’t slip off my chair in a faint. I wasn’t even allowed to roll down my short sleeve until a decent period had elapsed, just in case.
But now it’s all over and I have done my duty for another four months by which time they will have found some new technology or trial to test my resolve in giving my blood in the noble hope that it helps someone else.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 