Jonny McCambridge: The blood donation - hauling myself off the sofa to help others

There are plenty of useful things I could be doing, but I choose not to at this moment.

I've got the telly on and a steaming mug of coffee beside me. I couldn’t decide between a Penguin biscuit or a Wagon Wheel, so I'm going to have both. I am contemplating which movie to watch though I am not being particularly discriminating because I suspect I will doze off halfway through. This is me time and nothing will disturb it. It's going to be great.

My phone buzzes to indicate a message has been received. I'm tempted to leave it, but you never know, it could be a Hollywood producer messaging to say a major studio wants to pay me millions to make a movie of my life, but only if I respond within two minutes. I'd better check, just in case.

I lift the phone and find a pair of my wife's glasses to help in reading the message. The top line of a text says: "Hi Jonathan, as an O Negative donor, your blood can be given to anyone.”

I set the phone aside, this is something which I can deal with later. I attempt to return to my movie, but the comfy spot on the sofa eludes me now and my state of easy relaxation has gone. I lift the mobile again and read some more lines.

It says: “NI needs 1200 blood donors every week. That's roughly 1 every 8 mins….This is your choice to make a lifesaving difference. Please book now.”

The message continues: “Thank you on behalf of the three people whose lives will be saved by your blood donation.”

I shift uneasily on the sofa as I reread the text.

As a writer, I know about the importance and power of using the correct diction. I understand the careful and calculated thought that has gone into the wording of the message.

What it does not say, absolutely, categorically does not say, is that three lives will not be saved if I don't haul my capacious backside off this sofa and go and give blood. If I choose to think that way, then that's on me.

I grumble as I ascend the stairs and open the drawer on the wooden chest at the side of my bed. I know what I'm looking for, but am not exactly sure where it is.

After a brief search I find the little red donation book with the image of a pelican on the front, covered in dust. I wipe it off and check the contents, curious to remind myself when I last gave blood. I know I've missed a couple of visits, but life can be so hectic, so many things get in the way. It must be a year? Maybe 18 months?

I am startled to read that it is more than four years since I last donated. My previous sense of discomfort is now giving way to something closer to embarrassment.

I am no longer on the sofa. Instead I am sitting on a hard chair in a nearby church hall where a medical professional is checking the answers I ticked on a sheet containing a long list of questions.

She asks about my health, if I have travelled abroad in the last year, if I am taking medication and if I have had something to eat today. At the conclusion, she signs the sheet and puts a sticker on it with the word 'LAPSED'.

Soon, I am stretched out on what can best be described as a plastic lounger. The nurse tells me I might want to look away when the needle goes into my arm. I tell her that I am not squeamish and watch as the shiny, metal point slides into my vein. It is not painful.

Soon, my blood is rushing along a thin tube and bubbling into a clear bag. The nurse chats to me for a few minutes. I tell her about my son, she tells me about her kids. Then the conversation stalls and she leaves me alone with my own thoughts, just for a minute.

I know from looking at my little book earlier that this is around the 40th time I have given blood. However, I can take no satisfaction from the landmark because of all the potential appointments over the years I have missed. If I had attended as regularly as I should have, I would have donated more than 120 times.

By an accident of birth I have O negative blood. It is known as the universal blood type as it can be given to everyone, making it crucial for emergency transfusions. Around 8% of the population have O negative blood. I regularly receive messages telling me how low the stocks of this blood type are.

It is strange to think that there are probably dozens of people walking around Northern Ireland with some of my blood inside them. Perhaps, as the regular text messages suggest, there are people who are alive today because of my donations.

But now, as the bag of crimson liquid swells and the nurse extracts the needle from my arm, I am troubled by the number of messages that I have ignored throughout the years.

I know that by habit I am lazy and selfish, that my thoughts are usually dominated by myself, rather than others. When there is a chance to help, even to save a life, I am not decisive enough in taking it. I tell myself that I must do better in the future.

I go to the little table where a few of the donors are sipping juice, nibbling chocolate biscuits and chatting about their experiences and plans for the day. I see that there is the choice of a Club biscuit or a Blue Riband. I can't decide, so I have both.