Colm O'Regan: I donated blood. I became a little teary - I'm such a gobshite

"And afterwards... The snacks! The most righteous custard cream I have ever had in my life. The one you eat to replace your blood is special."

Comedian and Irish Examiner columnist Colm O'Regan pictured in Cork. Pic: Denis Minihane.

I finally did it. 

It wasn’t for noble reasons. Just the ignoble ones which get most of my work done. Guilt and shame. 

There was a fella on Twitter talking about his wife — who has rare blood — donating regularly despite not having great health. She has donated 32 units and it goes directly to saving children.

And he said: What’s stopping the rest of ye, ye selfish so-and-sos?

Although he didn’t say so-and-so. It was a much stronger word than so-and-so. A word of proto-Germanic origin. 

I can’t not put this off any longer. Not if someone is going to be calling me a so-and-so.

There is nothing stopping me from donating. 

I know there are some things stopping and delaying other people but at any given time, there are plenty who should be well up for pints now. 

So I booked my appointment and last week arrived at the donation clinic.

There are forms with lots of questions. Questions that seemed tailored for people with far more interesting lives than me. So after answering ‘No’ to everything, I was passed fit to be tied around the arm.

We were arranged in a semi-circle of people. Some regulars. Some first-timers. The nurse taking my blood said I had “good veins”. I wolfed down that compliment like a custard cream. 

The nurse warned as the fella said when he looked at Gordon Sumner’s school photo: “There is a little sting.”

It was fine. I squeezed a ball and then the nurse said the magic words: “You’re donating.” 

I became a little teary. I’m such a gobshite. I get emotional at elections in former dictatorships, or the victory of the underdog in literally ANY sport in a shmaltzy American movie.  When Cody swallows his pride and comes back and rejoins the team, I’m blubbing.

So in hindsight, it’s probably understandable that I got a smidge emotional after I had a rush of blood to the arm.

When you donate, should you care to glance to your arm, you will see the blood going into the tube. I have to say, blood is SOME colour of a yoke. 

Officially it’s hexadecimal colour code #8a0303 1 with a wavelength of 611.37 nanometres but then you already knew that. 

It’s the sheer intense ‘reality’ of the colour that strikes me. In the tube and then into the bag. 

The bag has an anti-coagulant in it, so it sits on a little oscillating plate, like a sort of weird record player to keep it mixing. (Before its invention, a nurse would cradle the blood packet in their hands, rocking it a little.) 

Then I noticed the digital display counting the millilitres. They want 470ml. When I squeezed the little stress ball thing, the speed went up. It was like the last 30 seconds on the rowing machine, that one time I was on a rowing machine. Bro, I crushed it.

And then afterwards. The snacks! The most righteous custard cream I have ever had in my life. Obviously, all custard creams are completely justified. But the one you eat to
replace your blood is special. My body was telling me it needed a few packets and sometimes you just have to listen to your body. I had a dirty big can of Coke as well for good measure. (I do my own research, sheeple). Yesterday I got a text saying the blood has been sent to James’s Hospital. I’ve got worse texts.

There has been a drop off in donations since covid so they’ll take most of your bloods thanks very much. 

Free biscuits, free compliments about your blood vessels, free slightly teary eyes, free good feelings. 

I signed up at giveblood.ie. I’m back in January (assuming I haven’t gone off the rails). 

Hook that stuff into my veins.