After three decades of deferring gay, bisexual, and queer men from donating blood, Canadian Blood Services (CBS) changed its policy in 2022, allowing a whole generation of men who have sex with men the opportunity to donate for the first time. For this series, we speak to several queer men about their personal reflections on these policy changes—how they felt about the previous restrictions, what the changes mean for them, and the work that still needs to be done.
Nathan Lachowsky (he/him)
Research Director, Community-Based Research Centre
Do you remember the moment you realized you would not be able to donate blood as a gay man?
Absolutely. I remember going to a basement blood drive at the University Centre in Guelph with some friends. As I went through the questionnaire, it struck me for the first time that I would someday become ineligible for donation. It felt like it would be my last time donating. I’m not sure if I had come out yet or was still figuring things out, but I vividly remember thinking, “I can answer this question honestly now, but my answer will change soon.” Just being asked the question stirred feelings of uncertainty about whether I should even be donating blood. At the time, I thought the question itself was problematic—I believe it was about lifetime or five-year deferrals for men who have had sex with men. I felt a mix of guilt, shame, frustration, and anger, but I didn’t address those feelings at the time. I just went through with it without talking to anyone. I didn’t donate again for 15 to 20 years, until the recent policy change. It’s been interesting to revisit this issue later in life, now as a professional rather than just a citizen.
What impact do those restrictions have on the lives of gay and queer men?
For decades, almost all blood donors in Canada were not sexually active gay men. This meant that questions on the donor sheet about medications, travel, sexual activity, drug use, and more, implied that these behaviours were risky. By framing certain behaviours as dangerous, it reinforced harmful stereotypes about sex workers, people who use drugs, and gay men. It’s challenging to directly link this exposure to broader societal stigma against gay men, but it definitely contributed to sexual, HIV, and gay stigma in society.
Also, when you think about being someone who went in to donate and was turned away… I’ve subsequently had that experience for other deferral criteria, but the act of showing up, completing the questionnaire, and then being told by a nurse that you can’t donate due to your answers, must have been deeply impactful. I remember a young gay man in Montreal during the early days of COVID who wanted to support research but was told his blood wouldn’t be accepted because of his sexuality. I can only imagine how that felt.
How did it feel the first time you donated blood after the change?
The experience was surprisingly uneventful, and in some ways, that was a positive. When I became eligible, I scheduled a blood donation appointment at my local centre. The process was efficient and well-organized, and I was impressed by how smoothly everything went. One notable change is that the screening now asks about multiple or new sexual partners, with a focus on whether you’ve had anal sex—no longer asking specifically about men who have sex with men. During my consultation, we didn’t discuss sex at all because nothing triggered further questioning. What struck me, however, is that they had no idea I’m a gay man who had been deferred due to the previous policy for years, nor did they know I was donating again because of this change. It made me realize that while we can track this shift in the community, it’s a missed opportunity not to collect this information from the operators to assess the full impact of the policy change.
On a subsequent visit, I found myself evaluating the process. I asked about the vials of blood they were collecting, and when the staff explained they test for various infections, one person reassured me that I likely wouldn’t have “any of those.” While I understand the intention was to comfort me, it was a reminder of how outdated and uninformed perspectives regarding HIV, hepatitis, and other infections still are. It made me question the education and training provided to staff. While there’s been a new focus on gender and sexual orientation inclusivity, we also need to address the stigma around HIV and hepatitis—issues rooted in the tainted blood scandal that infected thousands of Canadians. Without tackling that stigma head-on, any inclusion efforts risk missing the mark.
Given that experience, what recommendations would you make to blood operators?
Sitting in the chair with a large needle in my arm, I realized my reaction to the situation was different from how I would have responded in a public conversation. It made me reflect on phlebotomists and their training. We often focus on the curricula for doctors and nurses, but phlebotomists, as frontline healthcare workers, have just as much of an impact on a patient’s experience. I wondered what training this person, a recent graduate, had received on HIV and hepatitis. Given the shorter programs they undergo, what do they learn about these topics? And how is our community advocating to improve this?
Also, it’s crucial that inclusion training be multidimensional. If we narrow our focus to 2S/LGBTQIA+ inclusion in blood donation, thinking only of white, suburban, middle-class queer and trans people, we miss the broader picture. People have diverse identities and experiences, and inclusion needs to reflect that diversity. Furthermore, many young people today haven’t grown up with the history of HIV/AIDS, and it’s clear that education about this history is lacking—both in schools and at a societal level. I hope organizations like CBS, Héma-Québec, and other blood operators are ensuring their staff have access to education and resources on these issues, as they’re all connected to blood donation.
What advice would you give to gay or queer men who may be hesitant to donate blood after being deferred for so long?
The first time my husband and I donated blood, we did it together as a statement of showing up as a queer couple in this space. Even though some may not have read us as husbands, it felt important for us to demonstrate that our relationship is just as valid and safe as anyone else’s. So, my advice would be you don’t have to do this alone.
It’s also important for the queer community to talk about eligibility. For instance, people on PrEP—whether oral or injectable—are not currently eligible. So, while many in our community are now eligible due to policy changes, eligibility can be dynamic and depend on various factors. These are conversations we as a community should have more often.
Lastly, donating blood is a fully consent-based process. You can stop at any time, and I think Canadian Blood Services do a great job of caring for donors. If you’re curious about donating, I encourage you to show up and explore the process—but again, there’s no need to go alone. If you’re interested, there’s plenty of information available to help you get started. But remember, not donating doesn’t make you a bad person or a “bad gay.” Most people, even outside our communities, aren’t donating either. The key is to stay informed and, if you’re interested, try it out.
