You can’t get blood from a stone

…or from me either, apparently.

[If you are very squeamish about needles or blood, you might want to skip this post.]

Yesterday I went to a blood donor clinic at Marianopolis, my old CEGEP (which has since moved to a different building, but anyway). I’ve been meaning to give blood for a while, and there was a brief news item on the local radio news the other day saying that my type (among others) was in short supply. So I looked up the Montreal clinics on the Héma-Québec website, and made plans to go to the next one that was conveniently located on a Tuesday that I’d be in town.

I’ve given blood almost 20 times, sometimes regularly and sometimes sporadically over the last 20 years. In fact, my first ever blood donation was at a blood drive at Marianopolis CEGEP in 1988. It generally goes very well, I’m completely fine with needles and blood. I’ve had nurses with various levels of expertise, occasionally the needle hurts a little. Once someone went through the vein to the other side and half my arm was blue for a week. This time was somewhat more complicated.

I passed the questionnaire, blood pressure, and iron tests with flying colours as usual, and they weren’t busy so I was led to a donation cot immediately. The nurse stuck a needle in my left arm exactly the way they always do. Then she looked at the paperwork, checked the blood pressure cuff, and then glanced at the machine. And looked at the tubing. And looked back at the machine. And took the square of gauze off my arm and jiggled the needle a little. And looked back at the machine. Then she asked me if I was OK. I was fine. The needle was a little uncomfortable, but I’ve got a stupidly high pain tolerance, so it didn’t really bother me. So she jiggles the needle some more. Then she called someone else over to help troubleshoot. He looked at the machine while she re-arranged the tubing and jiggled the needle. I wasn’t bleeding.

They couldn’t figure out if it was a blockage in the tubing or a problem with the needle placement. They apologised, and said they’d have to stop the donation. “It happens sometimes,” they said, “there’s nothing wrong.” I shrugged philosophically. No problem.

Then the nurse looked at the not-filled bag and the only-partly-filled smaller upper section (I’m guessing that this is where they take the blood for the various tests they need to do – a more convenient replacement for the trio of test tubes that I remember them having in the past).

“I haven’t done *something technical* So we could try again if you want?” the nurse asked.

“Sure. Try the other arm.”

So they bandage the first arm, and move me to a right-handed cot. And try again. With pretty much the exact same result. More needle jiggling, more peering at the machine. No blood.

They give up a little quicker this time.

“Sorry, just one of those things.”

It’s a shame, because it counts as a donation (they even made me lie on the recovery bed for 5 minutes, and fed me juice and cookies), and means I can’t donate again for 2 months. And based on the large, interestingly-shaped, multicoloured bruises I have on both arms, it would seem that poor needle placement had something to do with the problem.

Or maybe they are a result of all the jiggling.