Nigel Holland - The 50 List – A Father’s Heartfelt Message to his Daughter - Anything Is Possible

Today, then, was the culmination of a serious purpose. After all, this wasn’t just about ticking an item off a list. It was about doing it for that warm glow of pride in an achievement – to enjoy the thought that my blood would be going to help someone somewhere; I’d confront my fear and I’d do good. What better example could there be for Ellie?

Even so, as we pulled up outside the church where the mobile service was, all I could think of was how fervently I wanted to just get in, give the blood and then get the hell out of there.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Lisa said reassuringly, as I parked the car in the church car park. She’d been saying it at regular intervals since we’d got up that morning, and though I was grateful – Lisa’s always such a big support when I’m feeling anxious – her reassurance was falling on deaf ears. I probably would be fine, I knew that, but that’s the thing with phobias: you think one thing, but your body does another.

The weather wasn’t helping much, either. There was heavy snow forecast over the coming days, and, perhaps as a taster, or perhaps as a personal portent, heavy rain had fallen overnight. And because a car had parked close to the ramped kerb I needed, my only way into the church was via a deep muddy puddle. Not something that would normally faze me – I’m quite an expert in my wheelchair – but, given the circumstances and my growing sense of impending doom, wheeling wetly through it (while busy cursing inconsiderate parkers everywhere) only added to my sense of foreboding.

Inside the church hall, where the temporary blood-letting – sorry, blood donor – service had been set up, there was little to cling onto that would reassure the average phobic. Seven gurneys, I counted, once I’d given my name and we’d transferred to the waiting area, and on each was a compliant donor, to whom was attached a needle, which was attached to a tube, which fed the donor’s blood, in regular deep-red drips, into a plastic bottle. If there was ever a point to turn tail, this was definitely it; but strangely, though it looked like a scene from Doctor Who , there was something about the vampires – sorry, nurses – who were running this particular show that made the whole scene look unexpectedly calm and peaceful. And as a bonus, there was no one actually screaming. To my surprise, I felt a sense of relative calm begin to descend.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Lisa whispered again, seeing my gaze and misreading the effect it was all having on me.

‘You know what?’ I whispered back (it was that kind of place – hush felt obligatory). ‘I am actually looking forward to doing this, now we’re in here.’

‘You are?’ She didn’t look convinced.

But there was no time to wax lyrical about my new-found inner calm, because my name was called then, and we went off to a small temporary cubicle, where a nurse bearing a biro wanted to know all about my condition. This was a surprise, as it had been discussed at some length on the phone, as well as being detailed on the registration form.

Risking a quip, I explained that my ‘condition’ was ‘sitting down’, which she obviously found so unfunny that she went to great lengths to explain that since she personally didn’t know anything about my real condition, she couldn’t take blood from me without a letter from my doctor.

‘But I’m absolutely fine to do that,’ I explained. ‘I’m not ill.’ I explained again that this had already been covered over the phone.

But she was having none of it. As they didn’t know that, even if I did, I would need to get the letter before they could risk taking blood from me. And that was the end of it. I would have to go away and then come back again the next time the blood donor service was in town.

‘Isn’t there any way around this?’ I asked her. ‘Coming here’s been a really big thing for me today. It’s one of my challenges, you see.’ I told her about my 50 List, half hoping she might have seen it in the local paper; I explained how it worked, and what I was doing it for. ‘And this one’s particularly dear to me,’ I finished, ‘because of my phobia of needles. I’ve had it since I was a child, and I was determined to beat it. Meet it head on –’

But I could tell from her expression that there was no way I’d be meeting it today. ‘You have a phobia?’ she said. ‘Oh, well, in that case, we wouldn’t take your blood anyway.’

Apparently they felt it wasn’t a very good way of ridding someone of a phobia. So that was that. They all apologized, and I wheeled myself out again, my needle phobia still there to fight another day.

‘Never mind,’ said Lisa as we drove home, mission not accomplished. ‘You’ll just have to think of a new challenge to replace it. There’ll be something …’

We lapsed into what we hoped would be a productive, thoughtful silence.

And it was. An idea suddenly came to me. ‘I’ll try wood turning.’

‘Wood turning?’ Lisa asked. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’

‘Erm … it’s dexterous? It involves using my fingers? It’s probably tricky?’

Definitely tricky, if my childhood exploits in woodwork class are anything to go by.

‘And there’s a thought,’ I said testily. ‘Let’s hope I don’t rip my finger off on the lathe and require pints and pints of blood to save me, eh?’

Lisa smiled. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said firmly.

Number of challenges still to be completed: Er … still 50.

But number of challenges that are almost definitely going to be happening less than 10 days from now, all at once, and ON THE BBC no less: A big fat 3! Hurrah! Now we’re talking.

Just put down the phone to a man called Matt Ralph. He is a BBC television producer. Am amazed . What a difference a day can make, eh?

Everyone makes New Year resolutions, don’t they? Give up drink. Lose a stone. Read War and Peace . Be a Better Person. But having already made 50 of them before Christmas – way more than most people – come the New Year, I didn’t need to do much resolving. No, what I needed to do was get on and actually do them, and suddenly here we were, edging into spring, and barely anything had yet been done, bar a failed attempt to get someone to take some blood. I was beginning to feel that my deadline, 9 December 2012, my 50th birthday, was breathing down my neck.

I hadn’t even been able to get out and do much training for the half marathon, my initial burst of enthusiasm having been rained on from a great height. Frozen rain, in fact: the much forecasted, much anticipated and now interminable snow. And there are only so many times you can make a circuit of the coffee table before losing the will to live and/or becoming so dizzy you pass out.

‘You need publicity,’ my friend Simon Cox said to me firmly. It was a Tuesday, the kids were in school, and he was over to discuss business. He was a client now, as well as a close pal of mine, and once we were done discussing e-commerce solutions for his company, I’d showed him the new 50 List website I’d created – my pet project once the kids had gone back to school.

I’d also by now set up a JustGiving account. My mentioning the list on Facebook had brought a flurry of enquiries from friends wanting to know where and how they could make donations – and, more importantly, who I wanted to have them. So it made sense to make things official by putting that information on the website too, explaining that anyone who felt inspired to could donate direct to CMT United Kingdom, the charity that was the first port of call for people with CMT, myself obviously very much included. The money would then be split equally between ongoing research and supporting youngsters, like Ellie, with the condition.