I distinctly recall the day I chose to play Good Samaritan and donate a bag of blood to some poor soul desperately in need of it. After a substantial wait, I struggled through the long application forms that needed to be filled out, then subjected myself to a nurse’s gruelling questions – screening, it’s called – about my non-existent sexual history and possible visits to suspect parts of the world. And when my name was finally called, I was relieved. I was doing what I had come to do. A noble act to save another being. I lay on the bed like a sacrificial lamb ready to be slaughtered for the sake of my love for humanity.

For some inexplicable reason, the nurse had tremendous difficulty finding my vein. She was poking me all over with a needle that hurt like, well, like a needle should. And she wouldn’t stop. She tried one arm. Jabbed around for a few minutes. No luck. She got me to turn around on the bed so that my other side faced her. Then she took several more thrusts at my left arm. Finally, after a few relentless blood-squirting exercises, she decided the right arm was probably the right choice after all. So I gritted my teeth, grinned politely, and turned around again. But it seemed my right arm wasn’t ready to cooperate. My rebellious veins were hiding, she chattered excitedly. And so she stabbed them into submission – using the needle in a lever-like fashion, she lifted the poor vein for ready piercing.

And now, bag hooked up to the needle, needle stuck in my arm, I was ready to go. It was a sight to behold. Dark red blood – my own – pumping steadily out of me into a bag I couldn’t quite see. A worthy addition to my list of good deeds? I thought so.

It was going so well that I recall feeling slightly impatient at having to lie down for so long. Perhaps if I had brought a book, I thought, or something I could listen to. But no, I hadn’t, and now I was left to count sheep and reflect on the dismal state of the world. I starting thinking about all the wonderful things I could have been doing if I hadn’t acted so nobly when I steadily became aware that I was feeling quite strange. As if I was going to throw up. Cold and clammy unease slithered through my entire body. Something in my head was pounding away. I felt wobbly and lightheaded even though I was completely still. I remember being rather disoriented precisely because I wasn’t quite sure what to make of my body’s ludicrous response to the act of giving.

I started hoping desperately for the thing to end. There were people milling about all around me, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. That wasn’t part of the exercise, remember. I certainly couldn’t display the contents of my breakfast on the white bed sheets – or worse, on the sterile floors below. My confusion at being so confused forced me to call out to the nurse. “Excuse me, I’m not feeling very well!” She came over. “Is something wrong?” she asked cheerily. “Yeah, I’m not feeling too well. I’m not sure why.”

“Well, how do you feel?” she asked. I told her, but she didn’t seem to understand. “Everything seems fine,” she insisted, checking my arm again, “Do you want to stop giving blood?” I was horrified. After all that work, I’d just give up? After the repeated stabbings, the extensive questioning, she wanted me to simply quit? No, I was going to go through with this. I was going to give blood.

She smiled when she heard. I think she was pleased, but I was too concerned with my own well-being to care. I don’t remember precisely what happened after that exchange, but I know I told her I needed to sit up and she asked if I could wait until it was all over and done with. I nodded weakly and lay still, cursing the constricting tubes and praying for my blood to gush out with greater abandon.

And then the bag was full and the nurse plunked a bandage where the incriminating needle had been. The entire inner part of my arm was a shocking bluish-purplish colour, as if I’d been beaten badly by an abusive boyfriend. The nurse said my blood had simply spilled out of my veins and was now frolicking about cheerily beneath the thin surface of my skin.

She suggested I sit on the bed for a few minutes before she rushed off to stick needles into other healthier blood donors. I did as she’d asked, but by now my eyelids were fluttering about groggily and my entire body felt as limp and weightless as if I were floating about in warm water. “Excuse me!” I called out again. I was somewhat annoyed because I couldn’t quite get up and the nurse didn’t seem to care much about my predicament. “Is there a garbage can anywhere? I think I’m going to throw up!”

Sight and sound had receded somewhat, but she must have turned around and looked at me, because I suddenly heard her yell, “Oh my!” and then she was by my side. “You’re completely white! Lie down, lie down!” Finally, I thought to myself, finally, she takes me seriously. But her plump body was teetering unnaturally before my eyes, and before long I couldn’t see or hear her or anything else anymore…