The last time I donated blood in Ireland was more than 20 years ago in the local parish hall. I had recently received a gold pin in the post from Pelican House and was amazed that my blood was always accepted as it must have contained a large amount of Mateus Rose.
So on this night over 20 years ago, as usual the hall was full and there was a long queue for the “testing”. I hadn’t been for a few years as I was busy having babies. We were handed a very long questionnaire and you would have heard a pin drop while we were reading it.
“Have you been treated for an STI in the last five years?”
“Have you or someone close to you been exposed to the dengue virus, the west Nile virus or malaria?”
The man beside me trying to break the ice said: “Jaysus, I came in to give blood not get my tonsils out.”
I filled in the form with the confidence only someone who could answer “No” to all those questions could have.
My turn came to be “tested” and I had the dreaded one-minute wait. I had decided anyway at that stage I didn’t care if I was a walking diseased-ridden promiscuous 40-year-old woman I was not walking out that door without donating or the tongues would be wagging the next day. My character was on the line.
As I sat smugly waiting for the result the nurse began to shake her head, smiling and saying not to worry that I could try again next time.
“You mean you’re not going to take my blood?” I whispered desperately.
“No,” she said.”You’re anaemic.”
“Well feck anaemia and Pelican House,” I said.
“Do you think that baying, blood-thirsty crowd behind me are going to believe that?”
“Next please,” she shouted.
I had two seconds to decide my fate so decided to do the walk of shame with a smile on my face and hopefully put one on every one else’s too.
