Part III
It is 11:09am. My plasma has not been acquired yet, but, since I just had a mini-physical, I now know why I’d be rejected. Fortunately, I have not had (in the last 12 months) physical/intimate contact with anyone from the Congo, or had sex with a man who had sex with another man, (but that’s why they call it DOWN LOW) had no recent tattoos, and not had sex for money; that’s why I am donating plasma. God help us all if it comes to that.
At 11:13am, I am finally called and qualified. I am truly curious though about this process. They separate the plasma from the blood? Yikes, I am remembering Charles Drew, from elementary school and getting very worried.
In my chair, I am still nervous, my donation folder sits proudly for all those around me to see, Yolanda D. White. All thoughts of privacy and anonymity are out the door. Again, no shame in my game.
The man sitting next to me seems more oddly out of place than me. Of course, I asked him too. “What are you in for?” He is a carpenter. Lean times for them too. He isn’t much of a talker though, I think the “N” word hurled around kind of isolated him a bit. He seems like he’d be more comfortable giving Plasma in Brookfield. Do they do that out there?
Anyway, we exchanged niceties, until the woman came with a needle gauge, that resembled a McDonald’s straw, and prepped me for the sticking! She was off the mark some, however, so she politely dug, shifted, and twisted the gauge in my arm, until the blood started to flow. Yes—Ouch. She didn’t blink or apologize.
I asked her how I would know, as she hooks the tube up to a machine that looked like I was on dialysis, if they put the same amount of Red Blood cells back in me that they took out. She said they “took a level.” I said, I don’t know what that level is. She said, “we do.” So, I rested that case.
At 12:01pm, my cup still does not runneth over and I am still trying to fill, what seems to be a gallon sized plastic container. About 30 more minutes later, I’m finally done.
No bells or whistles, no high fives or slaps on the posterior; just a four digit number scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. My coaches were no where to be found. When I asked around, I learned that they had been deferred!
Another donator pointed me to the machine, where I was to put in my four digits and my money would come out. It did. I took my 5 ten dollar bills and held them fast and close to me. This is Blood Money. On my way out, I checked out at the front desk.
They politely told me, that my donation did not count and will be tossed out anyway. To make it count, I had to come back and donate again, in a timely fashion or I’d have to start all over. Boy was I naive and drained, for that matter.
