You’d think giving away a pint of blood would be simple enough – after all, there’s no shortage of people out there willing to spill it over a car park disagreement. But no, the noble act of donation has become something of a saga for me over the past year.
April last year, I rolled up my sleeve and gave what I thought was just another routine contribution to the great British blood bank. The next appointment, however, didn’t quite go to plan. It turns out my iron levels had dropped below the acceptable threshold, meaning my otherwise perfectly serviceable blood was deemed unworthy. Not to be outdone by my own biology, I embarked on a robust diet of iron tablets and black pudding – the breakfast of champions (and the slightly anaemic).
By the time I was next due to donate, my iron levels were back in the green, but there was another snag – I’d had a tattoo. This, according to the NHS, puts you in the ‘potential biohazard’ category for a few months. Fair enough. I bided my time, eager to get back on the donor schedule. Just as I was about to, I went and got a second tattoo. Another delay.
January rolled around, and at long last, I booked in a session for a couple of days ago. Everything was set. No dietary deficiencies, no fresh ink – just me and my perfectly good blood. But fate, it seems, had other plans. The day before, I found myself wrestling with bitumen tape on an office container ceiling, which resulted in a delightful little accident involving molten bitumen and my knuckle. The result? A rather nasty, suppurating burn.
As anyone familiar with blood donation knows, the service can’t take any chances with infection. No one wants a pint of potential sepsis in their veins, after all. So once again, I was turned away, my good intentions thwarted by bad luck and questionable DIY practices.
I did, however, get them to test my blood iron, which I passed with flying colours - it was sufficient to stick me to a welding magnet.
At this rate, I’ll be lucky to donate again before I start getting offers for funeral plans. But I remain undeterred. The battle to give away my blood continues – assuming I don’t inadvertently set myself on fire or take up a hobby involving rusty nails in the meantime.
