People say reporters like to stick it to them. Last week, somebody stuck it to me while I was reporting.

The 'stick" came while I was doing an "hour" story on what it's like to give blood. I'd made an appointment for 4 p.m. Jan. 24 at the Tri-City Knights of Columbus Council 1098 blood drive in Granite City. I walked into the gym and entered my name into a laptop.

I sat on a chair and read the plastic pages in a binder telling me what I could expect and what would disqualify me.

Nearby, Jean Daugherty, 70, or Granite City, sat down. She's been giving twice a year for 25 years. "Does it make you nervous to give?" she said.

"I'm a little squeamish," I said. "Little" wasn't the half of it. I've always been a baby around anything sharp.

"One of our sons tried to give. He almost passed out. He couldn't give it," Daugherty said. I wasn't encouraged.

I was called to a temporary white cardboard office to register. I got nervous when phlebotomist Shakeya Lewis told me she'd have to give me a finger stick for an iron level test. But it was barely a sting. I passed.

Then she left so I could answer some private questions on a laptop. Among them: Have I been pregnant in the last six weeks?

Then another phlebotomist, Ashlee Ingold, came into the room and led me to the blood donation area.

"I'm really looking forward to this because I don't feel bad about having a needle stuck in me," I said, laughing nervously.

"I have a very sweet innocent face," said Ingold, 26, of Bunker Hill.

I looked away and laughed again. Then it came.

Youch!

I grimaced and jumped. The whites surrounding my eyeballs were all visible.

"I don't think I've ever had somebody jump that high," Ingold said with a smile.

She checked to see whether the needle did any damage during my lurch. It didn't.

I laid there for about 12 more minutes, rolling the ball Ingold gave me to pump out the blood. A clot halted everything. The goal is 470 milliliters, but I stopped at 174. She speculated my body had said enough already and stopped.

Never mind that. My blood was still good for somebody who needed it.

"You're a trooper. You tried. You're the first person who ever made me nervous," Ingold said after bandaging my wound.

I went into a side room, where fried chicken and apple juice awaited. That chicken tasted good.

Daugherty was nearby.

"You going to give again?" she asked.

"I think so," I said.

You bet I will. I'm proud I did my part for people who need blood. Besides, if a wimp like me can give blood, anybody can.

But next time I hope Ingold doesn't draw my blood. I wouldn't want her to have to go through that again.