I hate giving blood. HATE it. The finger prick I don't mind, but I hate to feel the needle going in, and I hate watching my bag fill. I usually feel really hot and lightheaded when I give blood, so I'm the one scarfing down cookies and juice in the waiting room before I get back behind the wheel. I really hate it if I get a chance to touch the blood bag after it's full. It's all warm, and I realize that's a bag full of me they are toting off to a cooler somewhere.
But every holiday season, I try and give blood. I do it because there are always lots of wrecks during the holidays, what with people driving like maniacs in the crappy weather. So there always seems to be a spike in need for blood. Plus, I feel like it's a way to really give back at the holidays, not by buying someone a box full of canned goods (which is still awesome), but by actually giving part of yourself, something finite and precious, something that can't just be scanned at the Wal-Mart register.
So anyway, this afternoon found me driving down to Mississippi Blood Services. I even had an appointment. I got there, did my prelim check-in, and had my finger pricked.
They wouldn't take my blood. My iron's too low. Sheesh. I was right on the borderline, and the nurse said that she could prick a finger on the other hand, just to see if the second reading would be a tad higher. It was lower.
So now, among all the other places I have been thrown out of, I have been rejected from the blood bank. I had to leave, my little head hanging down, without making my donation. It was pretty pitiful.
But remember what I said earlier about perseverance? My plan is to spend the week after Christmas eating leftover rib roast and try again before New Year's. Tee. And may I also say, hee!