This morning did not go to plan.
Before I detail exactly how it failed to go to plan, I suppose I ought to offer some explanation as to what the plan was. The great plan for this morning, oh avid reader, was to go give blood at the local centre. Such a simple plan. What could possibly go wrong?
I arrived on time, I registered, I did all the paperwork, and I was just sitting down awaiting my turn, when I picked up a leaflet about bone marrow donations.
It was here that I met Tim.
Tim, I was kindly informed by the leaflet, was struck down by a near-fatal illness, and required a bone marrow transplant to live. A pang of sympathy clutched at my heart, and I felt compelled to read on.
Tim, the leaflet further revealed, finally received the marrow transplant he needed, and is now living a happy, healthy life, restoring classic cars.
Lucky guy, I thought. I smiled, and all was good with the world.
I read on, and it was here that things started to go all... fruity.
While the leaflet was full of joy for the story of Tim's amazing recovery and reinvigoration, it didn't skimp on the details of his ordeal. In the time before a suitable donor was found, Tim required 250 pints of donated blood to keep him alive.
My brain immediately tried to process the thought of losing 250 pints of blood. My stomach tried to re-process my breakfast. Fresh air screamed my name like a neglected child screaming for its mother, and I headed rapidly and uncertainly for the door. The cool air blasted my face, and the blood vacated it as I begin to stagger blindly across the car park. This was most definitely not the plan.
I hit the concrete barrier across the way somewhat harder than I'd anticipated, but at least I now had a handhold. I stood, leaning back on the wall, waiting for my vision to fully return, and increasingly aware that I was not going to get out of this in one piece. Tim could have 250 pints of my blood and then more, if he'd just give me a second to lie down somewhere comfy first; but that wasn't going to happen. I slipped, staggered forward two steps, and then, with a distinct taste of iron, hit the deck.
I never did give Tim his blood. I did get looked after by lots of nice nurses, and was as pampered as it's possible to be when lying on a stretcher in full public view.
So, yeah. Not quite to plan then. After lots of fuss and bother, I found myself at home, where I am currently about to collapse into sleep. Goodnight Gaia.
I miss my angel.. sweatdrop heart
65 days... heart heart heart
Before I detail exactly how it failed to go to plan, I suppose I ought to offer some explanation as to what the plan was. The great plan for this morning, oh avid reader, was to go give blood at the local centre. Such a simple plan. What could possibly go wrong?
I arrived on time, I registered, I did all the paperwork, and I was just sitting down awaiting my turn, when I picked up a leaflet about bone marrow donations.
It was here that I met Tim.
Tim, I was kindly informed by the leaflet, was struck down by a near-fatal illness, and required a bone marrow transplant to live. A pang of sympathy clutched at my heart, and I felt compelled to read on.
Tim, the leaflet further revealed, finally received the marrow transplant he needed, and is now living a happy, healthy life, restoring classic cars.
Lucky guy, I thought. I smiled, and all was good with the world.
I read on, and it was here that things started to go all... fruity.
While the leaflet was full of joy for the story of Tim's amazing recovery and reinvigoration, it didn't skimp on the details of his ordeal. In the time before a suitable donor was found, Tim required 250 pints of donated blood to keep him alive.
My brain immediately tried to process the thought of losing 250 pints of blood. My stomach tried to re-process my breakfast. Fresh air screamed my name like a neglected child screaming for its mother, and I headed rapidly and uncertainly for the door. The cool air blasted my face, and the blood vacated it as I begin to stagger blindly across the car park. This was most definitely not the plan.
I hit the concrete barrier across the way somewhat harder than I'd anticipated, but at least I now had a handhold. I stood, leaning back on the wall, waiting for my vision to fully return, and increasingly aware that I was not going to get out of this in one piece. Tim could have 250 pints of my blood and then more, if he'd just give me a second to lie down somewhere comfy first; but that wasn't going to happen. I slipped, staggered forward two steps, and then, with a distinct taste of iron, hit the deck.
I never did give Tim his blood. I did get looked after by lots of nice nurses, and was as pampered as it's possible to be when lying on a stretcher in full public view.
So, yeah. Not quite to plan then. After lots of fuss and bother, I found myself at home, where I am currently about to collapse into sleep. Goodnight Gaia.
I miss my angel.. sweatdrop heart
65 days... heart heart heart
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