Frances Holgage gave blood for the last time in the winter of 2007. She did not know this at the time. “I see you’re up to 92 units,” said the man as he checked her form. “Not much longer till the hundred.”
“Really?” She looked at him nonplussed. “That can’t be right. Surely I haven’t given that much?”
“You have – it’s all here,” he said, looking at the screen. “First donation while you were still at school – been going ever since. Long gaps between though. That’s why you’ve lost track.”
“OK, I suppose I’ll believe it if it says so,” she said looking at the screen, “doesn’t feel anything like as much.” She picked up the plastic pouch. “Hello 93 – can I choose any bed?”
“Yes, go ahead. Quiet today,” he added, “winter – people don’t like to give when it’s cold.”
Moving to a line of three unoccupied beds on the opposite side of the hall, she noticed how they looked like hand-me-down gurneys, lots of steel involved and requiring a touch of high-jump skill. Safely on top, she saw that a donor down the hall was attracting the attentions of the single sister on duty – probably a first-timer whose experience would not have him coming back. He had lost colour and various other staff were at hand. The knock-on effect was that she would have to wait a while for the sister to find her way down her way and insert the needle after the usual support staff had managed the blood pressure and the assemblage of the paraphernalia which lay neatly alongside her bed.
She remembered how terrified she had been the first time she had given. Blood had always been kept at a distance: she looked away when her mother bandaged a wound. When some of her friends ghoulishly sucked at a graze and said how nice and salty it tasted she was horrified. Yet, when the invitation was given at school one day, it had been her and not them who had volunteered to donate. She couldn’t say why she had put her hand up – not peer pressure as she knew the cool group weren’t interested. Perhaps it was a way of showing some individuality without having comments passed. Anyway, nothing bad had happened: she had looked away until the nurse said the sack was full and she could stop squeezing the little ball they had given her. Since then she had donated when possible – another way in which having children changed a life – never losing her fear at the sight of blood entirely, but able to look at the tube running red and the pouch slowly swelling.
Frances liked giving blood. Centuries ago, doctors had decided that the sick needed to have blood taken from them; now doctors knew they needed to have blood given to them, which was why she was here. The irony interested her – not only that but also her motivation for giving. If she was honest it was not for the sake of saving lives as much as enjoying the passivity of being bled. She and her blood being left alone until each had done its thing. And when it was done, she felt complete.
It was only when she was turned away at the hall one day that she had realised how much it meant to her. “Your iron is too low,” the lady had said after the cursory test. “We don’t want you to become too anaemic.” Frances had felt that she had failed a test of proper human life; as if she was a second-class citizen – and guilty for it. She knew then that her motivation was not altruistic but personal, a bloodletting of sorts – and accepted this.
“Thank you for being so patient.” The Sister was by the bed. “We had to stabilise the man over there. I’ll just take your blood pressure again.” She busied herself with the routine preparations then inserted the needle. Frances wondered if she gave blood herself; it wouldn’t do her any harm, feet up, others doing the work. “I’ll be back later,” she said, leaving the bed to move across the hall. “If you feel faint let us know.”
Left to herself, Frances began to squeeze the heart-shaped stressball which came with the pack. A sprinkling of donors lay on the beds. She noticed that they were all white, the demographic of the suburb in which the church hall stood. She wondered how, during apartheid, they had managed the system beyond the halls where blood was given. She had read how, in a hospital where a non-white doctor had been the senior man on duty, he had not been allowed to bleed white donors for emergency transfusions. How had people who knew that what could save a life was not skin colour but the blood under the skin done this? Blood might be thicker than water, but race was thicker still. She remembered how President Mbeki had refused to complete the form donors were required to submit because it racially profiled him. She wondered whether he had gone to donate so as not to complete the form or to give blood. Blood belonged to no race: its different groups could be found in all races and colours and could benefit anyone across that spectrum – but people preferred to see what appeared above the skin rather than beneath – superficial judgement made life easier.
“Hello, see you’re almost bled dry.” The voice startled her. “I won’t be next to you long then I’m sorry to say. Frances mumbled something as a man climbed up on the bed alongside. “People ask me why I keep on giving- it’s the only time I get told I’m an A + you see,” he continued. She nodded at him and smiled – she had not heard the joke before but wondered how many had. She dreaded what might come next and was relieved when the soft tune alongside the bed let her know her pouch had tipped the scale and that she wouldn’t be hearing any more. A nurse approached briskly, plucked a swab from the tray alongside, then removed the needle. She held the swab firmly over the puncture blemish before asking Frances to move her fingers into place while she managed the swollen bag and nested it in a shining steel receptacle.
“Feeling okay?”
“Yes thanks,” she replied. “Quiet today, isn’t it?”
“Too quiet – makes me want to eat the biscuits. You must go and get some – and a
juicebox. Sit down and rest a little.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
No one was at the table. Tea and coffee was a thing of the past, though once it had been explained to her that donors needed to sit and rest properly after a donation; a hot drink kept them there longer and allowed for better recovery. Now it was more grab-and-go style, juice and biscuits ready in their baskets. She didn’t think it such a good idea: you might not feel any different, but your body did. She had seen people standing up too soon and flaking to the floor on the way out. Being a seasoned campaigner, though, she took her deserts and moved out.
Polycythaemia (pol-e-sy-THEE-me-uh) – she had looked it up – was a slow-growing blood cancer. Too many blood cells. Frances smiled: ninety-three units over the course of her life should have reduced the buggers, not multiplied them. It was life-threatening, said the doctor from the transfusion service which had contacted and met with her. Proper medical care could prevent the possible incidence of a stroke or heart attack. It was also not uncommon for those with it not to show symptoms of ill-health.
But on no account could they ever donate blood.
