A trip to HSA

Hi all!

Man, have I been fricking busy! I thank you all for your fine comments in the previous and previous previous blog. Although I often wondered how come nobody actually tried to ask more deeply into the problem of me being attracted to some one older…..


Oh hell, never mind, I’ll talk about it now…


Yes! I admit! I got crush! In fact, I’d be the first person to say that although you may be attached/married/arranged by grandparents to enter a stranger’s life and become part of his family, we all, yes, we all! Still have eyes that can see, ears that can hear! OK?! I admit! Hands up!


Do not take out thy sight nor block thy ears nor cover thy skin just because you are ‘taken’. This is a free world, there is no ownership, love should never be described nor seen as such. Love is not slavery nor self- prohibition, but agreeing that when all is said and done, there is always somewhere else you want to belong with, a place, a person; that you’d rather be with, even after seeing-eyes and hearing-ears.


To move with the times, Love is no longer the same definition as when our parents came together. And was never the definition then when our grandparents came together.


So back to the crush, as all crushes go, this one went by pretty fast. First he looked like delectable Harrison Ford to me (HF being my all-time favourite lao-ah-pek crush). Now, he now looks just like a Ford, ie. efficient and generally trusty, but not much fanfare. So after this period of moral enquiry, that leaves only the ‘taking second glances at the more distinguished profs’, ‘imaging Daniel Wu strapped and naked on the bed’ and ‘enjoying another older colleagues lilting Scottish brogue’ kinda-fantasies left to be savoured and morally dissected.


Ah! To be human and conscious about your thoughts is the woe of Man.



But I digress! Today, I shall be talking about the myth of blood donation.


I have been donating blood on and off since a nondescript email was spammed to me in the 90s, asking for donors to save the life of a Timothy Chan Ho somebody. A little leukemia-stricken boy. Bolstered that finally an email is asking specifically for my own blood type, I went to HSA and asked to donate to him.


Only to be told that while HSA is extremely grateful for the blood I shall donate, there are many other kids, not just him, who’ll require immediate attention and that my blood shall be given in order of priority. Because for every child who’s had publicity and help through internet and email-forwarding, there are a lot of others who don’t.

Remember that. Everything that you know is always the tip of an iceberg. But every drop of blood that comes out from my arms can perhaps mean a few more minutes to live. To some people, these minutes mean the difference between closure and a lifetime of hanging ends, words unsaid and unheard.


Always remember that there is no action too small that will help or harm a person.


Ah! But off with these heavy words! I was talking about the myth of blood donation. I had heard it many many times, coming from first-timers, old-timers and no-timers (ie, never try before). In fact, most culprits are plump auntie first-timers nervously fretting on the donation couch, seriously regretting their burst of charity after seeing the nurse rip open the needle syringe package.


‘Mee-si, mee-si,’ they quavered. ‘I heard blood donation makes you fat. Is it true?’


To which the nurse will sweep her arm across the room and ask, ‘Auntie, you got see any fat ppl or not?’


Which always makes my wildly happy because I was included in the radar of ‘got any fat ppl or not’ while she swung her antennae fingers and forgets to stop where I am.


So you see, there is a more sinister reason for me wanting to donate blood. Other than the compulsory feeling of the brotherhood bond with Mankind that I am giving Life to the needful, is the feeling that on the contrary to auntie’s last-minute back-out line, I actually feel that I lost weight after donating.


And because of the digital scale in the doctor’s room during checkup.


Yup. You heard right.



Since blood donation is a commitment of every 3 months, every 3 months, I’d be asked by the doc to step onto the scale to weigh myself. And that particular scale, I have given it the honour of being the most accurate scale around in my Life. Let’s face it, normal bathroom scales are always a + or – of 2kg and even when I’m sick, my GP never asks me to measure my weight.



Ever since I started donating blood, my weight has been steadily declining from a cushiony 58 kg to plateau at my current 47kg. Of cos, I had been exercising over the years but certain things you just tend to equate one with the other. That said, it was a plateau I'm delibrately keeping since you aren't allowed to donate if you are 45kg and below.


Since I’ve become the borderline of ‘can or cannot donate blood because you have too little mass’, that scale is a constant fixture that I’d see every 3 months. And like an old friend whose name I’d forgotten, the doc would introduce us again. I’d catch up with it by climbing on top and update it the happenings (food intake and lack of exercise) in the past 3 months. It almost always tells me I’m keeping my weight at constant and that’s usually around 47kg. To which I’d proudly announce to the doc, who’ll tick my name in the form and proclaim me fit for blood donation.


So recently, the urge to do good and meet my old friend came back round again. A happy occasion, I walked in HSA feeling like a veteran, filling the form nonchalantly because I knew every single question.


Then when the doctor called my name, I did not hesitate once. I was excited that my old friend shall soon proclaim me a healthy 47kg and allow me to drip enough blood to fill a Yakult bottle.


The doc and I did the normal-- blood pressure, questioning of general health. Finally the doctor stopped scribbling and turned the page over to fill in my weight. I waited for the doctor to introduce me to that shy contraption at the side of the room.


He looked up with a bright smile.


‘OK! We’re done! Please proceed on to the glass door on the left.’


‘But….but….what about my weight?’ I glanced at the beckoning scale.


‘Well, what about it?’


‘Don’t you need to know my real weight?’ I was frankly aghast at his rudeness and lack of social cue.


‘Oh, that!’ laughed the doctor. ‘No worries! You definitely can donate blood.’


‘But you still need to fill up my weight!’ Last ditch attempt and frankly shaken out of routine, I pointed out the blank on the form.


‘Oh, that’s OK. You look like…hmmm…....' a pause. 'You look like you weigh 55kg.’


Missing my look of open-mouth horror, he neatly flourished the number ‘55’ onto the blank. Just like that.


So while invisible shards of glass pierced mercilessly through me, he callously added, ‘and that’s 10kg pass the official weight limit. So you’re safe to donate. I can TELL.’



AAARRGGHHHHH!!!! AARRGgghhhhh!!!!!!! aaaRRgghhhh!!!!!!!!


While I was silently agonising, he flipped my past records and quipped, 'hmmm....I can see your weight's now back to your first few donations, what happened?'


'I got married.' I mumbled in shock, hands moving over my suddenly slack thighs...


'Congratualations then, so both myths are true!'


'What myths?' Unconciously, I rolled out my suddenly obvious expanding love handles with my hands.


'That blood donation and marriage can make you fat, of cos. what else?'


.......Choujidan…..Blood donation will never be the same again……….


Out!


AKK