The woman next to me must’ve weighed 600 pounds. She enveloped the more than she sat on it, which meant she (inevitably) was spilling over into my chair. There was nothing I could do; the chairs were tied together to keep people from moving them around. I’d gotten there at a bad time and there weren’t that many seats in the waiting area.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gone to sell plasma. They don’t call it that, though. Selling. They call it a DONATION. I used to donate blood, but I don’t remember getting money for it; maybe if they’d paid me for my very useful O positive, I wouldn’t have gotten annoyed by the amateur phlebotomist who couldn’t seem to find my vein and ended up poking me three times. Cookies and juice are nice… but money beats out shortbread every time.
At the least the facility was a clean one and I didn’t feel like I was endangering myself. It was close to home, and, ironically enough, in the same strip mall as the bar I frequented. In fact, that’s how I ended up going. I was sitting at the bar one afternoon when a guy I knew from the bar walked in, sat down, and ordered a beer. I looked over to say hello, and I noticed a bandage on his arm.
“You been in the hospital?”
“Naw,” he chuckled. “Sold plasma. It’s an easy way to get beer money.”
“Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “The worst part of it is the wait. You got to get there early, otherwise you’re there all day."
“Does it pay well?”
“It pays ok,” he said. The bartender sat a beer in front of him. “ You get more the first time you go… like a bonus. And,” he smiled and took a long drink , “it’s right next door.”
After that I went. Then I got in the habit of going. The first time made me nervous, but once I saw that all the needles were clean and everybody there wore gloves, I relaxed. A little. I had to not look at the needle, and there was no way I could watch them poke me. There were advantages, though. First of all, they always showed movies in the waiting area. They weren’t always good movies – actually, they were awful most of the time – but it cut down on the conversation factor. Also, they paid in cash, so no bouncing check or check cashing fees to deal with. There was also another side benefit; after selling plasma, they instruct you not to drink or smoke for at least two hours. This is to give the body time to make more plasma. What they don’t tell you is that if you drink right after you sell plasma, you feel the booze a little bit more… more bang for the buck. There’s nothing better than being able to indulge and feel like you’re being fiscally responsible at the same time.
On this particular day, I’d tried getting there early, before the morning drunks stumble in. Regardless of all the posters about people doing good deeds and telling us all the things they do with plasma – helping little kids and burn victims and soldiers overseas—most of the regulars (and there were quite a few) came in to spend a few hours watching TV and soaking in the AC and free water before buying their first bottle of the day. That day, though, it was just packed. Almost claustrophobic.
“SHIT, what’d I TELL YOU, huh? I tol you, didn’ I?” The large woman whose chair I was bound to was talking on her cell phone and filing very long finger nails. They were long like animal claws. I tried to imagine how she did anything… using her remote, eating food, wiping her ass… without breaking one of those things. “GIRL, pleeze. You know he ain’t NO GOOD. It’s his BROTHER you ought to go for. He cute and got a GOOD job. HELL, girl. At least he get you an employee discount. Be smart. You givin’ it away fo FREE now.”
The movie was, as usual, a mediocre movie. Low ball comedy. Lots of pratt falls and one liners. One of those movies that tells you how to react by the kind of music playing. Laugh when it’s bouncy. Cry when it’s slow. It starred some fuzzy haired guy I’d seen advertised in other movies. The people around me laughed. I generally took a book, but I didn’t always read it. This time I didn’t take a book with me. I was wishing I had. There weren’t as many people working as there should have been, so the check-ins were taking longer than normal. Some people were getting upset, but mostly, they enjoyed the movie. I just wanted to get in and get out and get to the bar in time for happy hour.
Finally I heard my name. I had to crawl out of the middle of the row I was sitting and make my way back to Examination Room 3, which was basically a glass encased office where they did the initial check-in. If you don’t make back to the examination room in time, or if you get somebody who’s in a bad mood or just generally impatient, then you have to wait. Luckily, I made back in time. The girl in the white lab coat looked at me. Then she looked at the picture on my file, and satisfied that I was me, motioned me ahead.
She sat behind the desk. “Step on the scale,” she said.
I did.
“Name, date of birth, last four of your social security number.”
I rattled them off.
“Thank you. You can have a seat.”
I did. Then she put the blood pressure cup around my arm, they thermometer in my mouth. The computer takes the readings automatically. My temperature, as usual, was low. My blood pressure was normal. Then she stuck my finger for a blood sample and put the little tube in the whirling machine that isolates and identifies iron in the blood. Lots of iron is good thing. I’ve seen people get turned away because they don’t have enough iron. Then she went through all the questions. Have I ever had sex with a man. Have I ever had sex with anybody who had sex with someone who had sex with a man. Have I gotten a new tattoo or a piercing in the last twelve months. Have I ever injected anything using a needle. Have I ever been addicted to drugs. Have I ever engaged in any activities that put me at risk for HIV. Have I ever had sex with anyone who engaged in any of those activities. Have I ever traveled to Eastern Europe or Martha’s Vineyard.
They ask basically the same two or three questions in a dozen different ways. The woman in the white coat doesn’t look at me while she asks these deeply personal questions. She reads them off the computer screen. I read them faster than she does. I answer no. She makes me sign a form.
“Go out and wait for your name to be called.”
I do. When I leave the glass booth, I look around for a seat. Someone else is sitting next to the 600 pound relationship counselor. I spy an empty chair in the front row, right in front of the television. I manage to climb over a few people and I get there before someone else did. Small victories count. The movie is nearly over. I thought about going to get a drink of water – the whole process is easier when you drink a lot of water beforehand – but I figured I’d lose my seat.
Eventually, I hear my name again. I stand up and walk towards the back. Another woman in a white coat leads over an empty reclining chair. The machine is next to the chair.
“Last name, date of birth, last four of your social.”
I rattled them off. She puts down my folder and gets ready to stick me.
“Left arm?”
“Yeah.”
She looks at me arm and presses around, trying to find the vein. Normally they stick me in the right arm, but there’s a bruise there from my last visit – which means they won’t stick me there again until the bruise heals. Something about an increased chance of infection. I can tell she’s having trouble finding the vein. She puts the cuff around my arm and turns it on, constricting the blood flow and, theoretically, making it easier to find my vein. I try not to think about the fair haired phlebotomist who tried to make me bleed out the last time I gave blood. I focused on one of the televisions they had in the back to keep people entertained. Another bad movie with a different fuzzy haired guy. He’s in love with this leggy blonde with a plastic rack who’s completely out of his league. I think I saw her on a television show before. One of those doctor shows. At least it’s not Ashton Kutcher, I think. I feel her swabbing my arm with iodine. It’s almost time for the pin prick –the one they always tell you won’t hurt.
When she sticks the needle in, it doesn’t feel right. Normally, it slides right in and hit the vein. No problem. Shit, I thought. “Is there a problem?”
She pulled back on the needle and tried again. “I thought I had it, but…” she didn’t finish. I didn’t ask her to. I wasn’t going to break her concentration.
She tries it a couple of more times. I almost jump out of the chair twice. I’m trying not to look at my arm, because I know what will happen if I do. I’ll pass out. She sighs, clearly frustrated. She pulls the needle out of my arm.
“I can’t find the vein,” she said. “Do you normally get stuck in this arm?”
“No. It’s normally the other one.”
She looked over at it. “It’s bruised.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s where they stuck me LAST time.”
“Well, I can’t insert a needle there, either.” She turned off the cuff that was squeezing my arm. Then she puts a cotton ball on the gaping hole in my arm and wrapped it with tape.
“So what’s that mean?” I ask. “You can’t find the vein, so I don’t get paid? I’ve been here four hours.”
She sighed. “I don’t make the rules, sir.”
“It’s bullshit,” I said. “It’s not my fault you can’t do your job. Pay up.”
The people attached to the machines around me were watching. They weren’t going to say anything – but I felt like I had their silent support.
“Sir, “ she began again,” I can’t DO that….”
“Listen,” I kept on. “I’M the one who walks out of here with a hole the size of a shot gun wound in my arm. I’m the one who got stuck and poked and prodded. I’m the one who sat for four hours next to the ghetto’s answer to Dear Abby. You screw up and you still get paid. But I DON’T. How is that fair?”
She sighed. Someone from one of the chairs giggled. I kept watching her.
“Look,” I said. “I’m not here for my health. I need the money. I know it’s not a lot, but I NEED it. Okay?”
“There’s something about the vein, “ she said, “and your elbow…”
“So it’s my fault? My elbow’s not normal, so I don’t get my money? How’s that fair?”
By this time, a guy without a white coat came over. “What’s the problem here?”
“She doesn’t want to pay me.”
“He can’t donate,” she said. “The vein on his left arm isn’t cooperating and his right arm is bruised. "
“Yeah, and that happened here,” I cut in.
He sighed. “Go ahead and give him his PIN number,” he told her. Then he looked at me. “Next time, though, make sure you’re able to donate before you come in.”
The girl handed me a little slip of paper with a four digit code on it. I smiled, accepted it, and walked over to the ATM style money machine. I punched in the four digit code and the machine spit out a twenty and two fives. All this for thirty bucks, I think. Then I exit, walk two doors down, and enter the bar.
