Uncomfortable Stories About Blood

Uncomfortable Stories About Blood

Blood.

There’s a cool opening sentence, right?

Giving blood is important.

I’m not here to preach about how you should seek your nearest donor and find out if you’re eligible as soon as possible. Even if you’re a rare blood-type or if your particular blood type is in low supply like these ones here, I am not here to insist that you wander off out and give blood. You should, but that’s not why I’m here. That’s not what this little slice of your Friday is about. Perish the thought!

I’m here to tell you that, across my fifteen donations, I’ve had some uncomfortable experiences giving blood. That’s what this slice of your Friday is about – uncomfortable stories.

Giving blood is a really, really straight-forward method of charity. It costs nothing, you’re helping people, and they load you up with biscuits and tea afterwards. It’s one of the easiest good-deeds you can perform with an hour of your time. But, of course, you know what they say about good deeds and punishment…

Here are three times giving blood was an uncomfortable experience that was detrimental to my health.

When I Decided to Drink Afterwards

In hindsight, of course I’m gonna find it easier to get drunk when I’m missing a pint of plasma. I don’t know why I ever thought I wouldn’t.

It was an early donation, maybe my fourth or fifth. I popped in, emptied my delightful O-positive into the bag (which they would not let me hold for a selfie, no matter how hard I asked)(selfies weren’t a thing back then – they likely wouldn’t let me hold it because they detected my status as “a dropper,” and this woman’s day was already long enough without some chubby ginger twit water-ballooning a bag of blood all over her floor), and then I wandered over to the little snacks counter and helped myself to – I dunno – like seven teacakes before I vanished off to the pub.

It took three pints of lager.

We’ve all been there: careening towards becoming an utter wreck, there sometimes occurs a period of time where I’m hyper-aware of how drunk I am. I take stock of every movement my body makes, of every word that tumbles from my mouth, of my tongue’s aching thirst to have some more booze splashed in to push me clear over the edge.

At that point, depending on what kind of night I’m having, I might decide to cut my losses and go home. This sensation usually hits me reasonably late in the evening, but not with a pint of blood missing!

I identified how floored I was about to become, and about half an hour later I was in bed, talking shite to my dog, spooning a kebab and watching early episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The next day I was so hungover I wanted to stick my hand in the toaster. I no longer drink after giving blood.

When I’m Fairly Certain They Took Too Much

Call me paranoid, I get it. I’m accustomed to the feeling of giving blood now. I also know how I should feel after giving blood and how long it takes to make me feel correct again.

Don’t talk to me in the first half hour after a donation; I’m more-or-less gone. I’ll eat my weight in carbs then go to sleep early. By the next day, I’m usually golden.

But on this occasion, I don’t know man. Something wasn’t right.

The room in which I gave blood was absolutely freezing on this day, and as a result, the process took longer. That’s probably right, right? (What? I know stuff about science.) I was sitting on the wee table getting drained for what felt like an hour and all I had to show for it was the same-sized bag of blood I usually produce? I call bullshit. They took a double dose and switched the bags halfway through.

I know this because after I had – I dunno, whatever – like eight teacakes and left the building, I wasn’t right at all. I couldn’t focus on anything. I fell asleep at my desk. I kept getting words jumbled up, and my mouth dropped open in the middle of a gulp of water.

I just wasn’t right. I didn’t feel good for a couple of days, and I’m confident it’s because they took too much blood.

Why would they do this to me? Seems obvious, doesn’t it? They kept half for the needy and gave the other half to the underground vampire syndicate that was keeping them running.

Duh.

When I Thought I Would Switch to Platelets

Flattery talked me into giving platelets. On one occasion where I gave blood, another nurse approached me and asked if I was interested. They measured my count and assured me I’m walking around swinging a massive lady killer dick of extra platelets that I do not need. She asked if I could spare them, instead of whole blood?

Of course!

The process takes much longer, and they would expect to see me once every three weeks or so, but I’m cool with it. People need my platelets, and apparently I’m a PLATELET BEAST.

A dull sidenote…

Right, just a boring bit about the process of donating platelets that’s totally necessary for the rest of the story, so here’s a photo from Megan Fox’s Instagram to make it sexy.

When you answer the door for the delivery like… @fredericks_hollywood #momlife

A post shared by Megan Fox (@the_native_tiger) on

Platelets need to be separated from the blood. To do this, the wholeblood is taken from me, mixed with a chemical and run through a machine that forces the separation to happen, sending the platelets off to a little bag that looks like it’s filled with snotters and the rest back into me.

Still here? Here’s more Megan Fox.


Now, see that chemical that gets mixed through the blood to assist with the separation? That shit is poisonous as fuck, but the body is technically supposed to be able to break it down once it gets into you. Technically.

Okay, we’re back:

So the nurse was kinda poisoning me

All this nonsense was explained to me without the delightful photographs. The nurse talked to me about how it will wreck my heart if I don’t break it down faster than they’re pumping it into me.

The key symptoms I needed to be aware of were tingling lips and a metallic taste in my mouth. If I felt like this, I needed to let them know RIGHT AWAY. They made it entirely clear that they were trying to scare me.

But was I worried? Me and my ten inches of solid, rock-hard, platelet-giving cock? No sir. I am the platelet master. I can handle some semi-poisonous gunk swimming about in me.

Nope!

As soon as that first batch of blood tumbled back into my veins, I knew all about it. I felt like someone had poured a piggy-bank of old coppers and alka-seltzer into my mouth.

So, thoroughly full of the fear, I let the nurse know. She paused the machine for a bit. Give my innards the chance to catch up, y’know? Ten minutes later I was asking her to turn it off again.

This repeated for seventy minutes as I just sat there, casually terrified I was about to die.

I came away pale, sickly and a bit shaky. I only managed – I dunno, no big deal – like five teacakes that day. All good shit for a good deed, right?

I went back to try again. They said I could give it another go as long as I filled up on calcium beforehand. Sadly, the process repeated and they informed me I might not be cut out for platelet donations.

Obviously, with a mouth full of metal sick, I agreed.

Have you ever given blood?

Any horror stories to go along with it? Let me know! Here’s Twitter, here’s Facebook and the comments live down yonder.

Also, if you missed last week’s October round-up, here it is: https://www.itsgavinwriting.com/2017/11/03/the-october-round-up/

And as always, here’s a book you should be reading: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B072R5VWNP

It’s written by this sexual dynamo (…me), and it will make you giggle.

Enjoy your weekend!

It’s Gavin

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