Tammy Swift column: My vein attempts to donate blood

Every once in a while, my workplace will participate in a blood drive.

And each time, I hang my head in shame.

I realize the importance of giving blood. I know it saves lives. But I am thrice-cursed.

For one, I roll into the fetal position upon seeing any needle. For another, I can't stand the sight of blood. Finally, I've got wimp veins -- the kind that brawny arteries mock and bully at the beach.

For the life of me, I have no idea how my Lilliputian veins manage to keep me running. Sure, I get cold hands and feet -- a sure sign of poor circulation. And many might argue that there isn't nearly enough circulation reaching my head.

But, for the most part, I get around like normal people. The only time it causes me pain is when I try to donate blood -- as I did in the Tragic Bloodmobile Incident of 1986 -- and when I get blood tests.

The Tragic Bloodmobile Incident of 1986 is too grisly to recount here. Let's just say there was some screaming (mine), some flailing (also mine) and some talk about leaving quietly before I upset the other donors. Also, there weren't nearly as many cookies as my roommate had promised.

I walked away looking like a cast member from "Trainspotting," having failed to donate a drop.

The blood tests aren't quite as traumatic. Still, I can pretty much predict the routine. I warn the phlebotomist that I have "bad veins. They're, like, about the size of the veins between a mouse's toes."

"Oh, I see lots of those," she assures me.

I roll up my sleeve and present a call to arms. She looks concerned. "My," she finally says, after much poking and prodding. "They are small. Let's look at your other arm."

We repeat the routine. "Hmm," she says. "That's not good either. They roll around a lot, don't they?"

Although I can't do anything about it, I am secretly ashamed. I wonder if there is a workout I could do, which would build up my pathetic vessels into huge, bulging, immobile Alaskan Pipeline-variety veins.

Even when they manage to tap my blood, I can't look.

There's the whole needle issue. And the fear of blood.

I don't know when it started. I think it was sometime in third grade, when Sister Clavera showed a movie about a saint being tortured. I threw up.

Throughout my childhood, the fear continued. I nearly passed out on the playground when Darwin Foosh got his teeth knocked out. I couldn't watch gory movies -- especially those 1960s vampire movies, where the fake blood looked like red barn paint.

High school was worse.

Teen cinema of the early '80s consisted of two genres: slasher movies and "Porky's" sequels. As the other kids talked ad nauseam about Jason and "Motel Hell," I had nothing to add. The last movie I'd watched without covering my face the whole time was "The Apple Dumpling Gang."

Oh well. At least I can respect others who do have the guts -- and the veins -- to donate blood. Perhaps I can become a spiritual donor. I could even perform encouraging cheers outside of the Bloodmobile.

"Spirit, drive and Type AB ..."

Swift writes a weekly column for The Forum. She can be reached at tsruse2001@yahoo.com .