Drawing first blood

Adam Rothwell
Intelligent Giving Researcher

ANYONE WHO'S READ Dracula will know that this masterpiece of horror literature could be subtitled When Giving Blood Goes Wrong.

Over the course of three hundred densely-argued pages, Bram Stoker makes a convincing case against blood donation. First, he says, blood donors turn into vampires. Then they die. And, finally, they turn into the un-dead.

On the way to the Bethnal Green blood donation centre – spookily enough located in a church hall – these thoughts caused me some anguish. Something was bound to go wrong. They’d jam the needle in wrong. Too much would come out. I was going to end up in hospital.


Awaiting his fate...

Arriving at the centre, a receptionist straight out of the Addams family showed me to a booth in the corner. Here, a nice old chap quizzed me about whether I’d ever had anal sex, or slept with a prostitute. Apparently, this needs to be done to ensure that my blood was safe to give, but it only added to my discomfort. I remembered that Dracula only ingested the blood of the morally pure.

Having proved my worth, the actual blood-donation process filled me with considerable fear. A remarkably blasé ‘donor care assistant’ prepared to stick a needle into my arm – but as I winced in anticipation, I waited for a jolt of pain that never came. As she stuck the needle in, I hardly noticed. After a few moments, she came took it out again. And that was that.

Giving blood, at least on the NHS, was frankly boring. The scariest thing about the nurses was their hair.

This was, I admit, a little disappointing. Blood donation wasn’t particularly difficult or even interesting. And, with the exception of the unexpected post-donation packet of crisps (provided free), it wasn’t even exciting.

I only wish that saving someone’s life could have been a bit more heroic.

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