In the Right Vein

[From my old blog, circa 2007]

 

“Have you had sexual activity with a person with hemophilia in the last 5 years?”

“Are you a woman who is pregnant?”

“Have you been held in a correctional facility (including jails, prisons and/or detention centers) for more than 72 hours in the last 12 months?”

“Were you born in, lived in or had sex with anyone who lived in for more than 3 months, or received blood products in Cameroon, Central African Republic, Chad, Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Gabon, Niger or Nigeria since 1977?”

Cameroon?

As I sat at the table last Friday answering “No” to the Red Cross professional asking these and about 30 other probing questions, I started thinking about the first time I ever donated blood. It’d be great if I had done it out of altruism, but really, it was a triple dog dare . . .

Back in the day, I used to work with my friend Big Balls Bob [BBB] and another woman we’ll call Special K, and the three of us spent inordinate amounts of time joking around, laughing and just having fun. I guess you could say we were quite immature, which, since we were all one year out of college at the time, would be accurate. You could also say we were all idiots, and I couldn’t fight you on that, either. We also constantly played practical jokes on each other—crank phone calls, booby trapping each other’s desks, leaving inappropriate material for each other to stumble upon, etc. And, like all good friends, if one of our weaknesses were exposed, the other two would gang up and immediately hammer it.

I made the mistake of mentioning that I’d never given blood, and that I was spooked a bit by the idea.

Well, you might be able to imagine a few of the pranks that came my way, but the camel-breaking straw was a heavy letter that arrived for me at the office one day. On official Red Cross letterhead and soaked with a sticky red substance, it said, “Dear Ray, We’ve checked our records, and you’re overdue for a donation. We will be arriving shortly to collect the two gallons you owe us. Please, do not put up any type of struggle as we know where you live and will get what you owe us, one way or another.”

It was signed, “Love, The Blood Auditors.”

It was time to end the madness! The very next blood drive, I was there on the table, being tapped like a keg. BBB went, too—Special K wasn’t “big enough” (read: heavy enough) to go on the ride, but she came along to “offer support” (i.e. mock us). After I realized that the slight pinch as the needle was inserted into my arm was the height of the discomfort, I scolded myself for being such an absolute pussy.

Special K and BBB moved on to tormenting me about clowns—which we won’t be talking about here EVER, aside from saying that if I ever believed there was such a thing as pure evil (not to be confused with pure eeevil) it undoubtedly manifests itself in child-molesting, serial-killing grease paint and a fright wig. John Wayne Gacy, Weary Willie, Stephen King’s It, Killer Klowns from Outer Space, Ronald McDonald .. . the evidence is overwhelming.

“Have you ever had sex with another man for money or drugs, even once, since 1977?”

Dang, am I still answering these questions? I think of a variation on the old Stripes joke. “For money OR drugs?” “No.” I answer, smiling. The Red Cross pro doesn’t find it nearly as amusing as I do. Go figure.

So even though I sorta met my fear and conquered it, I keep going back for two reasons: 1. Free cookies and juice! 2. If there’s any way to give more to charity while doing less, I don’t know it—I mean, I freakin’ lay on my ass for 15 minutes and people think it’s helping out! Come on! (By the way, April is the made up holiday of National Volunteer Month, if you’re so inclined.)

I also prefer to give blood because I know there’s pretty much only one thing it could be used for. I wish I could say the same about giving money to a “worthy” cause, but it seems that there’s way too many stories about financial abuses in charities. Chances are my blood is only going into someone that needs it as opposed to into the pocket of some seven-figure executive. Vampiric embezzlement notwithstanding, of course.

Truth be told, the whole experience is also pretty entertaining. The workers there buzz around, bantering back and forth as they flit from table to table like bees gathering pollen. I like the fact that there’s usually two or three of them—quasi-healthcare professionals—standing at the backdoor of the place, smoking. (Give and take, I suppose.)

Far and away, though, I am entertained by the little old ladies that serve as volunteers. Not because they remind me of my grandmother—far from it, really, as most of them are mean, pushy and annoying. No, I’m amused that they are rickety and weigh about 74 pounds with their diapers full, yet they are the ones who escort woozy donors to the juice and cookie table upon completion.

Look, I weigh about 200 pounds, and if I was starting to faint, the best that one of these old biddies could hope to do was break my fall! And I’m thinking they’re so bony and fragile that they wouldn’t be very good for that, either. Imagine landing on a sack full of broken chards of pottery, and I think that about covers it.

Overall, it’s been okay. Yes, I did have one bad experience when I got a not-bright and unfriendly phlebotomist on what I’m guessing was her first day out. I don’t know if any of you have ever actually had a needle strike a tendon in your arm instead of a vein, but it can be quite painful. And then when the same idiot switches to the other arm and hits a tendon there too, well …. I’ve not let one rotten apple discourage me.

Like I said, the Red Cross workers are otherwise entertaining, especially their interaction with each. They’re always constantly in motion, moving from table to table and donor to donor, and they all seem to have the same running dialogue that centers on either going on break or the number of hours till they day is finished. They’re all united in their condescension for the little old lady volunteers—they remind of a frustrated dad dealing with a kid when he’s trying to assemble a bike. “Okay, okay! If you have to help, you can screw the caps on the tires after I put air in when I’m done. But we’re not their yet! Go find a baseball card to put in the spokes or something.”

As luck would have it this time out, I manage to avoid the one worker who had been struggling to find a donor’s vein, and instead get a woman whose name tag says that she’s the head nurse. [*Insert your own joke here.*] Although I’ve found that some of the newer workers can be very gentle while the more experienced ones tend to treat you like a slab of beef, this woman knows what she’s doing. She’s fast, competent and funny—which works just fine for me.

Just as she is about to tap me, someone comes up and asks her a question. She glares at them, answers quick and then turns to me. “I hate when people bother me just as I’m about to stick a needle in someone’s arm!” she huffs. I smile and say, “Uh, if you want a few minutes to calm down before you stick that thing and drive it all the way through and out the back of my arm, I’ll wait” She laughs and taps me quick, and because I’ve discovered through trial and error that being very hydrated speeds the process up (and lay off the caffeine—it constricts blood vessels and slows bleeding), I’m filling my pint bag very quickly. She says she’ll be right back; I say I’m just gonna lay there and bleed.

In a few minutes, I hear the click as the bag is filled, and my nurse comes back. As she’s undoing the tourniquet on my upper arm, however, it slips out of her hand and lightly snaps me near my eye. My hand instinctively goes to protect my eye—fortunately, I use the non-needle arm otherwise there could’ve been an inadvertent gusher as she’s just pulled the needle out and I’m still bleeding at a good clip. My slight overreaction causes her to think that she’s done more damage than she really has. “Oh my god,” she says. “You were only supposed to give blood today, not an eyeball!” “That’s okay,” I quip. “I’ve got one on the other side, just in case something like this happens.”

Once she’s certain I’m not blinded, I’m good to go, and I wait until the little old lady helper is with someone else and make my wobbly dash for the cookie and juice table. I get there just fine, grab a package of Oreos, a bottle of oj, and start munching. At one point, the head nurse, who is with another donor, glances in my direction, and I put my hand over my eye and rub it, pretending to cry. She laughs and almost drops the needle in her hand. Ooopsie!

One of the little old ladies asks me if I have my donor card for her to sign. I lie and say I must’ve left it in the car or something. Why? Because I’ve just watched for the past five minutes as a surly pack of them abused a poor guy sitting at the other end of the table who must’ve had a problem donating. (I saw a group of nurses around him at one point, and even though he was on his table before I was on mine, I was done long before he was.) They keep trying to give him a pin for a certain number of gallons donated, and he keeps pushing it away saying, “But I wasn’t able to give today.” They keep insisting (badgering) him and he finally relents, taking the pin in a “Now fracking leave me alone” way. Nice.

I really don’t know how much I’ve given over the years. I’ve lost track, and to be honest, I don’t think charity should be some sort of collecting contest, you know, like who can get the most Mike Lum baseball cards or hickies by the end of sophomore year. (Not that I participated in any challenges like those. .. I’m just saying.) I do know, however, that I’ve long cleared the two gallon mark. . . .

Hey, you never know when the blood auditors may come around again.