Okay, Heath, maybe before the next time you relate something like this, maybe a cute little “WARNING! IF YOU HAVE A FEAR OF NEEDLES YOU MAY WANT TO SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND PRACTICE EVEN BREATHING BEFORE READING FURTHER!” note at the top would be good? Just a thought. <shudder>
Anyway, I’m also O Pos, and donating blood used to be no big deal. Rest awhile? Have some OJ? Ha! Maybe for weaker mortals; me, I’m doing fine. So, first blood donation after being diagnosed and going on meds, I finish getting drained, wave off any attempts to have me recuperate, vault off the table, and somebody moved the floor so it was under my back (which had instantaneously gone from vertical to horizontal) and put the ceiling in front of me, while narrowing my vision into a tunnel. The nice attendant (who had caught me so I didn’t go down hard) put me back on the table and I enjoyed some of their nice orange juice. And now when I donate I carb up first and let the attendants know my sugars might crash when I exsanguinate.