So the expected thing would be to post about my resolutions for 2017 and all the ways I’m going to try and do better than last year.  However that would require me having my resolutions ready to go.  This always happens.  Every year I think I’m going to start the next with a clear destination in mind and every year it gets to New Year’s Eve and I haven’t even started to think about what my resolutions might be.  So while I continue to try and pin down the vague ‘really should do that/ change this/ stop that’ into actual resolutions, I thought I’d share a story from the end of 2016.

Warning now for talk of needles and blood.  I mean it’s kind of in the title but just in case.

I want to start by saying that I’ve given blood many times before now and that everything has been perfectly fine.  It is actually one of the easiest things to do and helps lets of people.  Spiel over.

I should have realised this was going to be different from the beginning.  Now if you’ve never given blood before, at the start they do a quick check to see if your iron levels are okay by taking a little bit of blood from the tip of your finger and dropping it into a solution to see if it drops.  I had a trainee nurse which was fine and I tried to be as helpful as possible (a lot fo smiling and nodding while my finger was stabbed and then squeezed).  My blood went into solution… and stubbornly stayed at the top.

“Oh, it’s not that unusual this time of year.  We’ll just run a more accurate reading.”  This involved a needle in the arm I wasn’t donating from and, of course, my numbers were perfectly fine.

Needle count: 2.  Bandages: 1.

The actual giving blood part went perfectly.  My mum was also donating so we joked about quietly (there’s something about the room that is a bit like a library in the way that you’re sure if you make a noise too loud someone’s going to shush you).  Chicken Run was on the telly.  I was looking forward to the biscuit afterwards.  I know you’re supposed to say the joy of donating and helping other people is the best thing but, let’s be honest.  Free biscuits are the real reason to go.  We convinced my sister to sign up too and booked in for an appointment.

Needle count: 3.  Bandages: 2.

This was where things went downhill.  I wasn’t feeling too great but they do say you can feel a bit weird after so I assumed it was nothing.  I sat down on a chair in the waiting room and- well.

Next thing I know a woman is running down a corridor yelling “We’ve got a fainter”, I’m being reclined onto several chairs, and told to elevate my legs.  My mum dashes out to get some aspirin for me and returns to find I’ve been hidden behind a blue curtain, supposedly so I could have some privacy but it didn’t help me feel any less embarrassed at causing a scene.  The nurses were amazing and I like to think that I created something of a talking point for them and everyone else in the centre.  It turns out that in a slightly-hysterical, nauseous state I become aggressively polite.  Never have I thanked someone so much in such a short space of time.

When it looked like I would be able to stand without keeling over, I was instructed to take it easy for a few days, which has been a lovely excuse to do bugger all.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some telly to watch *ahem* resting up to do, obviously.

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