Post #661548 by kraken on Fri, Dec 14, 2012 11:53 PM

Quite edifying to see Dan and Wendy donating blood.
I do that too, have for a long time. (I've forgotten when
the blood bank gave me my first one-gallon-donated
award.) My misadventures were a bit more exciting
than Wendy's feet-up-for-an-hour.

I first donated knowing that my blood type (O-neg) was
much in need just then. (I knew my type because a
friend studying to be a high school science teacher had
helped me type it myself in his lab.)

When I arrived to donate the desk was staffed by the
nicest old lady you could imagine. She was plump with
a very wrinkly face and all-white hair, and the charmingest
granny smile. All went well until this dialogue ensued:
"And do you know your blood type?"
"Yes, I'm O-negative."
"That's very good! And where was it typed?"
"I typed it myself."
For about three seconds her charming smile was replaced
by an expression I wouldn't want to see on someone
coming toward me in a dark alley. Then she clamped the
smile back on, with difficulty, and said:
"Well, we'll just type it again to be sure."

This must have disturbed what some people would call my
karma or my entry in the cosmic database, because a near
catastrophe struck as I was walking out the door after
donating. First I had to cross a very wide street, five lanes
just to the center island. I was feeling fine as I started
across on green, but almost immediately the light turned
yellow. I began running toward the center island, but
within ten strides I could barely stand up. Somehow I
made it there and hugged a light pole to keep from
collapsing into the street, but it was almost ten minutes
before I could finish crossing. Since then I don't shortcut
the recovery minutes after donating, and I park in a place
that will not require a strenuous return trip.

Then came many uneventful donations followed by a
messy one. As the technician stuck the needle into my
elbow, out spurted a brief stream of blood that flew about
18 inches--most of it onto the sleeve of my shirt. I was
not watching the needle stick so I have no idea how it
happened, and it never happened again, but for at least
two years I always held my other hand up during the
needle insertion to deflect any further spurts onto the
floor. Yes, the blood did stain my shirt sleeve perm-
anently, but fortunately it was an orange shirt.

Last month I donated blood again, for the first time in
over eight years. The reason for this hiatus is another
story and a gorier one, so I'll save it for a future post.