I try to be good and help out charitable organizations from time to time. I give small monthly donations to the local United Way and NPR station. I chip in to friends’ fundraisers when I can, and I shaved my head twice to raise money for a childhood cancer foundation. One thing I’m not very good at is donating blood.

It’s certainly not for a lack of trying. I’m O-positive, so even though I’m not the 100-percent universal O-negative, my blood can be given to 85 percent of people, so it’s universal enough to feel like it’s important that I donate. I’m in an iffy height range, but I meet the weight requirement for my height, so that’s not a problem either. I always eat breakfast and lunch, even on days I don’t donate. And technically I’ve only failed to give once. I’m just really bad at recovering.

I first donated the spring of my senior year of high school. The receptionist gave me a weird look when I told her how much I weighed, but other than that, I had no trouble with the paperwork, the finger prick or the donation itself.

Then I sat up on the stretcher in the gym and started to lose my hearing. I was also told that I went really pale, though I had to laugh to myself because I’m pretty pale to begin with; are we talking pale relative to the general population or pale relative to me when I’m not passing out? They put a cold, wet towel on my face and had me chill out (no pun intended) on the stretcher until my hearing was no longer muffled and I could trudge over to the snack table.

I would eventually learn that the hearing loss and shrinking vision is my “I’m going to pass out” post-donation routine.

I registered for another drive at the Groton Public Library, but I guess I was dehydrated because they hooked me up and my arm didn’t give up any blood. It was frustrating, yes, but no harm done.

Not defeated, I registered again for a drive at Dodd Stadium where I was working in the concession stands. They had a “bloodmobile,” and I scheduled an appointment for a few hours before my shift, just in case I almost passed out again. I told the people what happened in March, and they let me hang out longer in the donation chair and again on the snack bench so I could be sure this time that I wouldn’t pass out.

I stepped off the bloodmobile, made it about 10 steps, and had to sit down next to a garbage can at the entrance of the stadium because my hearing started to go again. They called an ambulance for me, so even though I was functional and standing when it got there, I still had to go. The EMTs hooked me up with some saline on the way to Backus, and while the ER had the honor of calling my mom to tell her I was in the ER, I had the honor of calling my boss to tell her that I passed out at the blood donation at the stadium and would not be at work that night.

They told me not to donate for a few years after that.

My one successful event was last August. For my birthday, I decided that four years should be long enough. I went to a donation center in Norwich in case something did happen. But nothing did, and they let me hang out, eat snacks and drink grape juice as much as I wanted.

Which brings us to this past November. My mom, who took it upon herself to donate before I arrived, had just finished giving blood by the time I got to L+M for my appointment. She decided to do some shopping with my sister and come back when I was done, just to make sure I was ok. When she did come back, I was on a stretcher tucked away in a nook with a cold, wet towel on my face because my body thought it would be funny to start the routine in the middle of me retelling the bloodmobile story to the other people at the snack table.

I’m tempted to try again for my birthday in August, but I’m starting to think that maybe donating blood isn’t my thing. It could be yours, even if you’re not an 85 percent universal donor like I’m supposed to be.

Amanda Hutchinson is a 2015 graduate of Ithaca College, a resident of Ledyard, and the assistant community editor for The Times. Read more of her work at amandalhutchinson.wordpress.com.