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I first gave blood last December, having realised that being on holiday meant it was actually practical to schedule. All went well except afterwards they kept making me sit down again because apparently I looked extremely pale. It doesn't take much to make me look extremely pale, on account of how I am in fact naturally extremely pale, so I didn't really think much of this. On the other hand I did feel a little bit dizzy, and also they were bringing me chocolate biscuits on a plate and I never say no to chocolate biscuits, so I humoured them.
Being on holiday again, I scheduled in another visit, and this time as a preemptive measure I decided I would visit Drexels on the way. I don't know if Drexels is an international chain or just a Christchurch thing, but it's a breakfast restaurant, of the kind that serves eggs and bacon and pancakes, and when you order exactly the amount of decadence you think you'll be able to eat they say, "Certainly, I'll just bring you some toast while you wait," and it comes with creamed butter and jam.
I did get to walk it off a little on the way to the Blood Service (they've cunningly located themselves in the middle of an area several buses skim the edge of) but was still feeling quite replete when I arrived. I was also feeling quite confident, because I was well over my latest cold, my latest mosquito bite allergy had died down, and I'd checked they don't care if you had the flu vaccine five minutes ago.
Then they pricked my finger and put a drop of blood in their dinky machine and said, "Yeah, nah. Go away for six months and get your iron levels up."
They also asked if I'd been feeling tired recently, and I said no, because I hadn't. Had I. Right.
And on the way home I stopped by an op shop and bought some books, and read and dozed on the couch in the sun for a few hours, and when I woke up I thought: Oh, maybe they meant tired, like "desperate for a holiday"-tired. Or like "close to tears complaining to a friend that I've never felt so exhausted"-tired. Or like how last holidays, just coincidentally after last donating blood, "sleeping for 10-12 hours a day for a good week or two"-tired.
Maybe that wasn't just catching up on sleep deprivation after all (though it certainly was partly that).
So I guess I'm going to be eating more red meat for a while.
Being on holiday again, I scheduled in another visit, and this time as a preemptive measure I decided I would visit Drexels on the way. I don't know if Drexels is an international chain or just a Christchurch thing, but it's a breakfast restaurant, of the kind that serves eggs and bacon and pancakes, and when you order exactly the amount of decadence you think you'll be able to eat they say, "Certainly, I'll just bring you some toast while you wait," and it comes with creamed butter and jam.
I did get to walk it off a little on the way to the Blood Service (they've cunningly located themselves in the middle of an area several buses skim the edge of) but was still feeling quite replete when I arrived. I was also feeling quite confident, because I was well over my latest cold, my latest mosquito bite allergy had died down, and I'd checked they don't care if you had the flu vaccine five minutes ago.
Then they pricked my finger and put a drop of blood in their dinky machine and said, "Yeah, nah. Go away for six months and get your iron levels up."
They also asked if I'd been feeling tired recently, and I said no, because I hadn't. Had I. Right.
And on the way home I stopped by an op shop and bought some books, and read and dozed on the couch in the sun for a few hours, and when I woke up I thought: Oh, maybe they meant tired, like "desperate for a holiday"-tired. Or like "close to tears complaining to a friend that I've never felt so exhausted"-tired. Or like how last holidays, just coincidentally after last donating blood, "sleeping for 10-12 hours a day for a good week or two"-tired.
Maybe that wasn't just catching up on sleep deprivation after all (though it certainly was partly that).
So I guess I'm going to be eating more red meat for a while.
