Somewhat-serious warning: The following post is not for the absurdly-faint-hearted. If you're kinda-faint-hearted (like me at the idea of pain), you should be fine. If, for example, the thought of one of your friends (*cough* PB *cough*) planting a knife in his foot and bleeding a liter of blood over the toilet bowl at 1:30 AM does not make you queasy, you should be dandy.
In spite of my fear of acute pain (I'm only human, after all), I gave serious considering to donating blood. There was a collect of blood scheduled for today. I figured, if so many people were doing it ―perhaps the only time where having a needle in one's arm is considered generous and morally grand ;b ― I should give blood too. I just recently turned 18 and hey, it could be a good way to start off my adulthood.
I checked the prerequisites. I have no piercings, so I didn't have to worry about recent ones. I'm healthy and clean of any illnesses of any kind, I have no allergies (except a sharp allergy to stupidity), so basically I represent the ideal candidate.
Also, it's the cool thing to do. I mean, not that sporting a taped tiny wad of desinfected cloth to your arm is attractive (even though people look at you with respect), it just seems like the right thing to do, if you can withstand the thought of a needle in your arm.
I won't lie. Needles kind of creep me out. They represent imminent pain. Not a lot of pain, but I'm sensitive and paranoid (mental illnesses do not, apparently, affect the quality of your blood), so the thought of any pain kind of makes me twitchy. But hey, I'm a woman: our threshold of pain is higher than men's (fact!), and I can endure dull aches better than most.
But acute pain (even just a little of it) is another thing entirely. It makes me nervous, and horribly and embarrassingly talkative. I can't look cool and relaxed about it like the cute president of the students' assembly, who was sitting nearby patiently. I have to joke and make dumb comments about everything and ask questions and generally act out my stress.
I was 93rd in line. Perhaps I should mention that when I began to wait around, they were on number 68.
After me, carrying the number 94, was Marco, a kinda cute guy in my French class (he sucks at anything linguistic, but he's a well of trivial and not-so-trivial information), and a real flirt. I ignore his flirtitude ―it is a word, I said so― because I know he's been frenching (he's good at tongues, not linguistics) at least one other girl, though I do suspect there's been more than one. I don't answer his advances, but it doesn't keep him from trying.
Today, he and I were arguing about which program was best. I'm in Libs, and he's in Nat. Sciences. The chasm seperating us is grossly overrated, but it doesn't keep him from teasing me about the 'hierarchy'. The hierarchy is an alleged order of superiority in the main pre-uni programs of our college. On top are the Natural Sciences students, followed by Human Sciences students (middle ground), and last are Libs (or Vacation Sciences, everyone calls us). Computer students aren't part of the hierarchy, not in the sense of pariahs, but rather in the sense of them not-daring-to-ask-for-a-spot-in-the-whole-thing-to-begin-with.
We Libs fight back the oppression of Nat.Sci. as well as we can, but they take pleasure in belittling our importance.
"Excuse me, but I intend to save lives," Marco argues calmly, smirking.
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and when you come to write your report, I'll be laughing at your spelling mistakes."
"Libs don't all have your language skills," he counters.
"Oh, please. If we didn't exist, you wouldn't have patterns on your shirt, you wouldn't have a sense of fashion, you wouldn't be sitting in a comfortable chair and you'd have an unkempt mane of long hair. And you'd be irrepressibly bored on weekends. Heck, you might not even have weekends."
He runs his hand through his brushy hair. "I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad."
"Oh no," I assure him. "It would be bad. It would be terrible." I glance past number 95 --cute president of the student council-- and look at number 96 for approval. Number 96 is a shaking old man, whose face was sunburned and rippled. He doesn't look all there, but hey, he's probably more approachable than number 95, at this point. "Don't you think so, sir?"
Number 96 goes, "What? Huh, sure."
Number 95 holds back a laugh. Damn, he's handsome. But he's my senior, and besides, he most likely already has a girlfriend, so it's not like I can entertain any hopes.
Marco rolls his eyes. He smells nice. Not that I will let his flirtitude get to me. "Come on, just because I'm in Sci. doesn't mean I couldn't have invented weekends." He elbows me gently, smiling teasingly, "The French teacher thinks I'm smart."
I scoff. "The French teacher thought I was smart when I used honorifics on him in my first class. Please." I waggle my eyebrows. "Can you back it up with distinguished writing? I think not."
"Can you?" He daringly ventures.
Ah, foolish mortal.
"My average thus far is 100%." He looks suitably impressed. I glance at my watch. "Damn, I'm going to be late for my gym class."
"Is it that bad?" Marco asks. By now, both Number 95 and Number 96 are paying close attention to our antics. It's not like they have anything more entertaining to watch or listen to.
"Of course not," I say. "I'm lazier than a dead snail. But we're supposed to take notes for an upcoming test."
Marco shrugs. "You can go for the class and forget about the donation, though."
"I know," I say. "But I don't want to go to class, and if I don't give blood now, I might never take the chance again."
"Ah," Marco sighs. "Your life is so complicated." I squint at him, because I know he's going to add― "For a Vacation Sciences student."
"Bastard!" I exclaim, and Numbers 95 and 96 punctuate it with a laugh.
"Number 93!"
I turn. Oh my god, it's my turn, oh dear!!! I've waited for two hours!!! I wave goodbye to Marco and the old man, and smile at Number 95, then follow the nurse.
They take my blood pressure, my amount of hemoglobin, and ask me plenty of personal questions ("Have you been to/lived in/had sex with someone who came from Gabon since 1977?"), followed by unusually dumb answers ("Um, no... I wasn't born in 1977... Wait..."). Anyway, ultimately, it is decided I am indeed a healthy and desirable donor.
They sit me in the Funny Chair (I call it this because it's shaped like a V that got hammered on the head a couple of times), and the nurse desinfects my arm. She looks bored. I try to make conversation, to hide how nervous I am. Marco is later called and sent to the other side of the room, but Number 95 is seated nearby. He looks collected and mature, while I'm a twitchy wreck.
I should mention that being twitchy is not a good idea.
Here comes the gore, all dressed in blood (okay, not really).
"Close your fist over this," the nurse instructs me. I obey her. I figure, 'Okay, CM, you're feelin' good. You're farin' well. You haven't fainted yet, and they pricked your finger for the test earlier. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?' But when the nurse says, "Look over there," and points away from my desinfected arm, I get suddenly apprehensive, and the only thing that runs through my head is, 'I don't wanna hurt, I don't wanna hurt!'
The nurse isn't stupid. She goes, "Would you like to have someone to talk to and who will hold your hand?"
My pride, in light of Number 95's presence, commands me to say no. My terror takes over and has me saying, "Um, please?"
Another nurse, with a motherly face and nice crinkled eyes comes up. She stands beside me and takes my free hand in her own gloved one. Before she can even introduce herself, I'm on a roll.
"Hi," I say. "I'm CM. I'm a student here. I study Liberal Arts. People say it's crap, but I like it. I've never donated blood before. This is my first time. I was wondering if I'd freak out, but apparently not, since, you see, I'm here, and I'm not scared. I mean, not that much, you know?" She doesn't get any time to answer. I continue, "My favourite class is French, but I was thinking of going for a job as a scenarist, or a publicist, or a relationist."
"I'm going to put the needle in, now," the other nurse says. "Stop shaking."
"I'm not shaking," I dumbly argue, and at the last moment I remember not to look back at her. I stare at nothing in particular and hold the second nurse's hand tighter, and I continue, even faster than before, "I mean, this is my first year, I still have time to choose a university program and all that but―"
My voice cuts off. The needle just entered my arm. I feel it stab through my whole arm, and I tense. "I... uh..." I try to continue my phrase, but I can keep track, because the only thing I'm thinking about is, 'Oh god, oh god, oh god that hurts, that hurts, that hurts, she said it'd stop hurting once she started drawing the blood, oh god oh god, is it supposed to take this long? That hurts.' "Uh..." She's nudging the needle tip in every direction, it seems.
The pain recedes, and I know the nurse took the needle out of my arm. I glance at her as she applies a wad of clean bandage to my arm.
She says, "The vein vanished." I blink at her.
"Um, so... what does that mean?"
"I couldn't find the vein. It slipped away and I couldn't draw any flow."
I blink, and her final tone kind of makes me feel dumbfounded. "So..."
"So goodbye. Hold this," she indicates the bandage, "to stop the bleeding. You missed your chance for now. I'm sorry. Try again some other time."
TRY AGAIN SOME OTHER TIME?
I should mention I missed my gym theory class AND my one hour break while I waited in line to do this. I spent most of my afternoon waiting for this! I was nervous, but I was willing!!!
"But―"
"I can't try your other arm, because you have a small lesion near the vein. It's against the rules to draw blood from there. Sorry."
Before I can even argue more, the second nurse takes me away to a resting bed to let me slow the blood flowing from the puncture. All the while, I'm like, "But I waited all afternoon for THIS?"
Apparently so.
I'm not giving up, though. I intend to give blood at least once in my life, though I can't try again until April 19th.
Oh, and by the way, the needle, in retrospective, didn't hurt all that much. I was overreacting, as I always do when needles are involved. But trust me, if it had settled into my vein, I wouldn't have felt it much anymore.
Give blood, seriously. It makes you cool. And it makes you happy.
And it makes Number 95 look at you in sympathy as he lets his own blood be drawn.
DAMMIT!
Love,
In spite of my fear of acute pain (I'm only human, after all), I gave serious considering to donating blood. There was a collect of blood scheduled for today. I figured, if so many people were doing it ―perhaps the only time where having a needle in one's arm is considered generous and morally grand ;b ― I should give blood too. I just recently turned 18 and hey, it could be a good way to start off my adulthood.
I checked the prerequisites. I have no piercings, so I didn't have to worry about recent ones. I'm healthy and clean of any illnesses of any kind, I have no allergies (except a sharp allergy to stupidity), so basically I represent the ideal candidate.
Also, it's the cool thing to do. I mean, not that sporting a taped tiny wad of desinfected cloth to your arm is attractive (even though people look at you with respect), it just seems like the right thing to do, if you can withstand the thought of a needle in your arm.
I won't lie. Needles kind of creep me out. They represent imminent pain. Not a lot of pain, but I'm sensitive and paranoid (mental illnesses do not, apparently, affect the quality of your blood), so the thought of any pain kind of makes me twitchy. But hey, I'm a woman: our threshold of pain is higher than men's (fact!), and I can endure dull aches better than most.
But acute pain (even just a little of it) is another thing entirely. It makes me nervous, and horribly and embarrassingly talkative. I can't look cool and relaxed about it like the cute president of the students' assembly, who was sitting nearby patiently. I have to joke and make dumb comments about everything and ask questions and generally act out my stress.
I was 93rd in line. Perhaps I should mention that when I began to wait around, they were on number 68.
After me, carrying the number 94, was Marco, a kinda cute guy in my French class (he sucks at anything linguistic, but he's a well of trivial and not-so-trivial information), and a real flirt. I ignore his flirtitude ―it is a word, I said so― because I know he's been frenching (he's good at tongues, not linguistics) at least one other girl, though I do suspect there's been more than one. I don't answer his advances, but it doesn't keep him from trying.
Today, he and I were arguing about which program was best. I'm in Libs, and he's in Nat. Sciences. The chasm seperating us is grossly overrated, but it doesn't keep him from teasing me about the 'hierarchy'. The hierarchy is an alleged order of superiority in the main pre-uni programs of our college. On top are the Natural Sciences students, followed by Human Sciences students (middle ground), and last are Libs (or Vacation Sciences, everyone calls us). Computer students aren't part of the hierarchy, not in the sense of pariahs, but rather in the sense of them not-daring-to-ask-for-a-spot-in-the-whole-thing-to-begin-with.
We Libs fight back the oppression of Nat.Sci. as well as we can, but they take pleasure in belittling our importance.
"Excuse me, but I intend to save lives," Marco argues calmly, smirking.
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and when you come to write your report, I'll be laughing at your spelling mistakes."
"Libs don't all have your language skills," he counters.
"Oh, please. If we didn't exist, you wouldn't have patterns on your shirt, you wouldn't have a sense of fashion, you wouldn't be sitting in a comfortable chair and you'd have an unkempt mane of long hair. And you'd be irrepressibly bored on weekends. Heck, you might not even have weekends."
He runs his hand through his brushy hair. "I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad."
"Oh no," I assure him. "It would be bad. It would be terrible." I glance past number 95 --cute president of the student council-- and look at number 96 for approval. Number 96 is a shaking old man, whose face was sunburned and rippled. He doesn't look all there, but hey, he's probably more approachable than number 95, at this point. "Don't you think so, sir?"
Number 96 goes, "What? Huh, sure."
Number 95 holds back a laugh. Damn, he's handsome. But he's my senior, and besides, he most likely already has a girlfriend, so it's not like I can entertain any hopes.
Marco rolls his eyes. He smells nice. Not that I will let his flirtitude get to me. "Come on, just because I'm in Sci. doesn't mean I couldn't have invented weekends." He elbows me gently, smiling teasingly, "The French teacher thinks I'm smart."
I scoff. "The French teacher thought I was smart when I used honorifics on him in my first class. Please." I waggle my eyebrows. "Can you back it up with distinguished writing? I think not."
"Can you?" He daringly ventures.
Ah, foolish mortal.
"My average thus far is 100%." He looks suitably impressed. I glance at my watch. "Damn, I'm going to be late for my gym class."
"Is it that bad?" Marco asks. By now, both Number 95 and Number 96 are paying close attention to our antics. It's not like they have anything more entertaining to watch or listen to.
"Of course not," I say. "I'm lazier than a dead snail. But we're supposed to take notes for an upcoming test."
Marco shrugs. "You can go for the class and forget about the donation, though."
"I know," I say. "But I don't want to go to class, and if I don't give blood now, I might never take the chance again."
"Ah," Marco sighs. "Your life is so complicated." I squint at him, because I know he's going to add― "For a Vacation Sciences student."
"Bastard!" I exclaim, and Numbers 95 and 96 punctuate it with a laugh.
"Number 93!"
I turn. Oh my god, it's my turn, oh dear!!! I've waited for two hours!!! I wave goodbye to Marco and the old man, and smile at Number 95, then follow the nurse.
They take my blood pressure, my amount of hemoglobin, and ask me plenty of personal questions ("Have you been to/lived in/had sex with someone who came from Gabon since 1977?"), followed by unusually dumb answers ("Um, no... I wasn't born in 1977... Wait..."). Anyway, ultimately, it is decided I am indeed a healthy and desirable donor.
They sit me in the Funny Chair (I call it this because it's shaped like a V that got hammered on the head a couple of times), and the nurse desinfects my arm. She looks bored. I try to make conversation, to hide how nervous I am. Marco is later called and sent to the other side of the room, but Number 95 is seated nearby. He looks collected and mature, while I'm a twitchy wreck.
I should mention that being twitchy is not a good idea.
Here comes the gore, all dressed in blood (okay, not really).
"Close your fist over this," the nurse instructs me. I obey her. I figure, 'Okay, CM, you're feelin' good. You're farin' well. You haven't fainted yet, and they pricked your finger for the test earlier. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?' But when the nurse says, "Look over there," and points away from my desinfected arm, I get suddenly apprehensive, and the only thing that runs through my head is, 'I don't wanna hurt, I don't wanna hurt!'
The nurse isn't stupid. She goes, "Would you like to have someone to talk to and who will hold your hand?"
My pride, in light of Number 95's presence, commands me to say no. My terror takes over and has me saying, "Um, please?"
Another nurse, with a motherly face and nice crinkled eyes comes up. She stands beside me and takes my free hand in her own gloved one. Before she can even introduce herself, I'm on a roll.
"Hi," I say. "I'm CM. I'm a student here. I study Liberal Arts. People say it's crap, but I like it. I've never donated blood before. This is my first time. I was wondering if I'd freak out, but apparently not, since, you see, I'm here, and I'm not scared. I mean, not that much, you know?" She doesn't get any time to answer. I continue, "My favourite class is French, but I was thinking of going for a job as a scenarist, or a publicist, or a relationist."
"I'm going to put the needle in, now," the other nurse says. "Stop shaking."
"I'm not shaking," I dumbly argue, and at the last moment I remember not to look back at her. I stare at nothing in particular and hold the second nurse's hand tighter, and I continue, even faster than before, "I mean, this is my first year, I still have time to choose a university program and all that but―"
My voice cuts off. The needle just entered my arm. I feel it stab through my whole arm, and I tense. "I... uh..." I try to continue my phrase, but I can keep track, because the only thing I'm thinking about is, 'Oh god, oh god, oh god that hurts, that hurts, that hurts, she said it'd stop hurting once she started drawing the blood, oh god oh god, is it supposed to take this long? That hurts.' "Uh..." She's nudging the needle tip in every direction, it seems.
The pain recedes, and I know the nurse took the needle out of my arm. I glance at her as she applies a wad of clean bandage to my arm.
She says, "The vein vanished." I blink at her.
"Um, so... what does that mean?"
"I couldn't find the vein. It slipped away and I couldn't draw any flow."
I blink, and her final tone kind of makes me feel dumbfounded. "So..."
"So goodbye. Hold this," she indicates the bandage, "to stop the bleeding. You missed your chance for now. I'm sorry. Try again some other time."
TRY AGAIN SOME OTHER TIME?
I should mention I missed my gym theory class AND my one hour break while I waited in line to do this. I spent most of my afternoon waiting for this! I was nervous, but I was willing!!!
"But―"
"I can't try your other arm, because you have a small lesion near the vein. It's against the rules to draw blood from there. Sorry."
Before I can even argue more, the second nurse takes me away to a resting bed to let me slow the blood flowing from the puncture. All the while, I'm like, "But I waited all afternoon for THIS?"
Apparently so.
I'm not giving up, though. I intend to give blood at least once in my life, though I can't try again until April 19th.
Oh, and by the way, the needle, in retrospective, didn't hurt all that much. I was overreacting, as I always do when needles are involved. But trust me, if it had settled into my vein, I wouldn't have felt it much anymore.
Give blood, seriously. It makes you cool. And it makes you happy.
And it makes Number 95 look at you in sympathy as he lets his own blood be drawn.
DAMMIT!
Love,
CM
10 comments:
I'm not fond of needles either. But whenever I get my blood taken at the doctor's I end up watching (I think it's a morbid fascination) and it hurts in a tingly way and then I laugh even though I'm afraid by laughing it'll jar my arm and the needle will go deeper. Then the doctor/nurse thinks I'm crazy.
I would give blood, but I'm not old enough.
Or heavy enough.
Maybe someday.
~Southpaw
I hate needles. Hate-hate-hate, don't really know why, but in all likelihood I will never get a tattoo, never get a piercing, because I don't like getting stuck. There's also a trait in my family of fainting at the sight of needle-drawn blood, one's or someone else's.
Yet I really enjoy fencing. A foil is much akin to an oversized needle, and I don't mind getting poked with one of those so much. Go figure.
I also have good veins, and a common blood type, which make me a good candidate. So someday I really should embrace that tiger.
--Scop
I think it's safe to say that no one likes needles. (Except heroin addicts, and I'm fairly sure that if there was a way to bypass the needle thing, they'd totally go for it.)
I'm not nervous about blood. I don't think it's morbid fascination, just natural curiosity. Wanting to draw someone's blood just to see them lose it is creepy, but looking at blood when it is drawn for medical or accidental reasons is not strange. If I were at all interested in biology, I'd probably be a surgeon, I'm that easy-going. But hey, writing's my gig, so you'll never end up on an operating table with your life in my hands.
I'm blood type O+, if that means anything. It's the blood type of 39% of the canadian population, meaning the majority (I know because I read the posters yesterday).
But give blood, people! It saves up to four people every time!!
Love,
CM
Fencing is cool. But I guess it's not much of a needle if the foil doesn't actually go into/through a person. I much prefer dry fencing to being hooked up to that stupid machine with the annoying beeps.
If O type blood is so common, you would think that there wouldn't be shortages in blood banks. Hmm... maybe people are just losing blood too quickly all over the place.
~Southpaw
It's been said that along with a fear of heights comes a fascination. This may be true; I don't like heights (no skydiving for me, no sir), but I like to fly; the theory may transfer to needles, of which a foil is a version safe for fascination.
Blood doesn't bother me; I have a rural upbringing and I'm familiar with it. But there's something about it being drawn with a needle that has made my dad faint in the past.
O+ here, too; 38% in the US. My mom's O-, universal donor.
--Scop
I don't know why blood banks suffer shortages. Frankly, it matters very little. I want to give blood.
I don't know if I'd like fencing. Sure, you're supposed to wear a mask, but I'm still the kind to be nervous about getting poked in the eye. I tend to forget I'm wearing protection. As for whether it can be compared to needles... well, has a foil ever entered your skin and pricked hard?
If so... eeergh. o0
Love,
CM
The equipment is incredibly safe, masks included. Thrusts to the mask are very common (firsthand experience), but injuries are even more rare. Saber might be more to your taste. A thrust is still a valid point, and the head is included in target, but most attacks are cuts and therefore even more unlikely to poke out an eye.
I've seen broken foils, but that seldom happens unless the equipment is being used properly and taken care of. They bend a lot. Even then, the jackets are specifically designed to protect against broken foils; it's in the weave.
Only ever heard of blood being drawn with a foil once. My coach was practicing with someone and stumbled into the attack. It hit above his knee, and the weapon did not break, but he reported that it was a very hard hit. They came together with so much force that the skin split under the knickers. Just the same as hitting someone with a pipe or other blunt instrument: do it hard enough, and you'll split skin.
Ah, yes. I know the basics of fencing, and I'm aware that it's nearly impossible to get injured, but I'm still nervous about seeing anything come at high speed towards my face. My eyes are my most precious tool. The idea of losing them is enough to make me paranoid. ^^
Love,
CM
Does this mean you're also apprehensive about ball sports? Lots of objects come at high speeds towards the face in those. But I guess because balls are round it wouldn't be as bad to the eye as a foil. Obviously.
Even though some person at my school hit a girl in the face with a volleyball, and the retina spontaneously detached. Gross.
~Southpaw
Oh, no. I'm good at volleyball, and most ball games don't scare me, as long as the ball is big enough for me to know how to dodge it.
The smaller the ball, though, the more nervous I get. The only exception is badminton, because I'm really bad at it, and so I play with people who are just as bad, meaning it doesn't go fast at all.
I'm safe on that front, if anything.
Love,
CM
P.S. Yes, that is quite gross. And now I'm going paranoid again. Congratulations.
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