Right so. I’m 41. I’ve never needed any blood. I’ve never given any. The last time I tried to, I was 17 and under weight so the nurses refused to take any.
Roll on a few years and my reaction to blood has developed a few quirks.
I have exzema on my fingers which means that at any given time I could take your hand for a manly hand shake and pull away from you just as the pressure forces a hack to open and a few cc’s of blood starts to rise from my knuckles.
You’ll be alarmed, or concerned. I’ll think of it at best as an annoyance.
I’ll find the source, clean it up, and wait for the blood to coagulate – sticking plasters being a waste of time for exzema sufferers.
And I’ll be the same with anyone else – they might be pissing blood and I’d apply pressure to an arterial gush like I’m stopping champagne escaping from a freshly-popped bottle.
But, if I cut myself with a knife, say, while cooking, I’m down like a sack of spuds. Weird!
But last week, the NHS sent a lorry to our work and asked us all to volunteer – please give a pint of blood.
It’s one thing to make a conscious decision to do a good deed, but when you are actually asked to help, face-to-face, there isn’t anywhere to hide except in your own excuses.
And I didn’t have a good excuse at the time. So I turned up, looked away, held oot my arm and let them get on with it.
I missed running club that night, which annoyed me a bit as I’ve got a new training plan I want to stick to. But, having felt a bit of a prick, I’m more annoyed I left it so long to hold oot my arm.