Warning: This is a MONSTER post. They won't normally be this long.
I decided a while ago I was going to donate plasma for some extra cash. Unfortunately, as I discovered along the way, it's not the easiest process. The original center I looked up in Provo apparently doesn't exist. I should've guessed this when the website didn't have an address or a phone number. So I spent a couple weeks trying to find stuff about it: google, yellow pages. It wasn't a very active search (I do have schoolwork), but I still wasn't coming up with much. I started to give up on it.
Luckily, a friend of mine put up on Facebook that she had donated for the first time. I attacked the poor girl, asking her all sorts of questions like where it was, what the number was, what it was like . . . She gave me all the info I needed and it put everything in motion. I had to wait for a little bit for my social security card to be mailed to me because they apparently needed that. Seriously, who keeps their social security card on them, especially in college? I have it hidden away in the weirdest place.
Anyways, the Plasma Collection Center Incorporated is located in Orem (conveniently right across the street from the new In'n'Out). I went in on Wednesday to make an appointment since they told me over the phone I had to come in physically to make the appointment. So I did. I had to show them my driver's license, my social security card, and a postmarked piece of mail with my address here in Utah as proof of my residence. Unfortunately, the letter I had from December wasn't enough. So I had to drive back to the apartment to get one of the boxes I had gotten for Valentine's Day. Boy, did I feel stupid walking in there with a box in my hands. But it worked, they checked both arms for good veins, and I set up the appointment for Friday at 1:30.
Of course I spent Thursday night and Friday morning agonizing over the whole thing. If you don't know already, I'm terrified of needles. Just thinking about the whole thing made me sick to my stomach.
Friday came, whether I wanted it to or not. I made sure I ate the "good meal" at least 30 minutes before like they suggested. I'm not 100% sure two pieces of toast coated in jelly and a cup of peach yogurt was what they were talking about, but it was better than nothing. I even drank some juice with it. I drank 3 water bottles on Thursday and then chugged another one on my way to the center. Let me tell you, I've never had to pee so much in my entire life. I don't think I can keep the nickname Camel anymore, Mom! Anyways, I was freaking out the whole drive up there, but I had some awesome friends encouraging me the whole time :) Love you guys! When I got there, I checked in and they gave me a form to fill out and a book to read about AIDs risks and high risk behaviors.
Oh and guess what? Once you've checked in, you can't leave the center!!
So, once I was done with that, they called me into one of the booths. Let me explain this to you. It's an open "lobby" with tons of chairs set up in rows. The booths are windowless doors you go into along the left wall. They yell your name and a booth number and you go in. Creepy right? Well, when you get in there, there's a counter and very little space. It's almost like a little cell. I go in and they take all my information, make me look it over on the computer, and then take my picture (which I'm sure looked great since I had just come in from the heavy snowstorm and was soaked). And then they make me go sit in the lobby to wait to be called into a booth again.
Luckily "Iron Man" was playing so I got to watch some dang fine Robert Downey Jr. while I waited.
When they called me into the booth a couple minutes later, I was pretty okay with everything. I was ready to face that needle head on. I get into the booth and the girl makes me recite my full name, social security number, and address - which I do. Then I get on a scale and get weighed. Next, she made me hold my hands up under a black light. Now, I'm thinking this is really weird but she quickly explains it's to check to make sure I haven't donated anywhere else. After she's determined I haven't (which I could have told her if she'd just
asked) she then asks for my right pinkie and rubs dye all over the nail. I'm sure the look on my face clearly said "What the . . ??!!" So she tells me that's their mark to tell other donation sites that I'm a donor at this PCCI. I'm branded!! I want to go to Disneyland and see if the mark shows up under their black lights . . .
Now the girl's trying to make conversation with me and is explaining that this will happen every time I come in. She asks for my left hand, holds it under this plastic thing and holds this pink plastic rectangle up to my middle finger. I have no idea what she's doing. The she says "Okay, I'm gonna prick your finger" and then . . .
CLICK
She does it without warning! I jump and my heart starts beating double time because now, I'm totally freaked out. She squeezes blood out of my finger into a little tube and then makes me hold a cotton ball over the wound. Why did she need that much blood? Well, she put it into a mini centrifuge to make sure there's actually enough plasma in my blood as well as check the protein and hydration levels in my blood. While the machine's running, she takes my temperature and blood pressure, which are both really good. The machine finishes and she shows me the plasma separated from the blood. Apparently there is enough and my hydration and protein levels are both on the top end of the scale. So I'm good to go as soon as she takes my pulse. Of course, I'm panicking now so it's really fast.
"Are you a little nervous right now?" she asks.
I glared at her and said, "Yeah," while inside I'm thinking - excuse my French -
No shit, Sherlock.
After
that pleasant exchange, she sends me back out into the lobby to wait for 15 minutes and says, "Go calm down. Think happy thoughts."
Riiiiiight. Think happy thoughts while I watch people disappear into the back room and not come out and while I'm holding a cotton ball over a throbbing wound.
Yeah, I'm a wimp, I know.
I sat out in the lobby, watching the end of "Iron Man" and texting five different people. Everyone is telling me to breathe deep and not think about it, which wasn't exactly helping, but I was doing the best I could. Fifteen minutes later, I heard my name called and I went into the booth. This time, it was a guy who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. He made me recite everything
again and then took my pulse. When he was done, he turned and said, "It's still high. Want to wait again?"
Well, I wasn't backing out after the stupid finger prick. So I waited for another fifteen minutes (which I spent picking cotton out of the finger prick wound . . . ew) and went in again when my name was called. This time, it was a girl. She was smiley and cute and made me recite it all yet again. She started to take my pulse and then stopped.
"Okay. You had it there, but then I think you started to freak out. What's making you nervous?"
So I was honest and told her it was the needles and that I had been okay until the finger prick.
"You know, I hate needles too," she said. "But I donate. It's really not that bad. 99% of people say the finger prick is worse than the plasmapheresis needle."
"Really?" I say, because of course I'm skeptical.
"Really. Now, think of something else and tell me when you're ready."
Lets just say she was really helpful. I sat there and made myself think of other things and then let her take it. And it worked!
Next was the physical. I got called into a room with another girl where we listened to one of the employees discuss the process, high risk behaviors, disqualifying test results, AIDS risks, and complication risks. For a half hour. It's not like I hadn't read all the papers they gave me. And honestly? Hearing the possible things that could go wrong made me even more paranoid.
So then I waited to be called back for a physical. They called me a few minutes later (now they were playing some weird movie with Mark Wahlberg) and I went back.
I was being examined by a guy. Who makes me recite my name, address, social security . . . again.
First, they had to do a urine test. He handed me a cup and told me to go pee in it. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Pee in a cup? I was kinda hoping I would never have to do that. Not a pleasant thing.
There weren't any illegal drugs in my system. (No, really??) So then he proceeded to ask me all these questions. Family history, previous surgeries, involvement in high risk behaviors . . . My favorite were the sex questions. He kept asking different scenarios like "Have you ever had sex in exchange for money or drugs?" or "Have you ever had sex with a man who's had sex with a man since 1977?" I was fighting back giggles and the urge to yell, "I'm a virgin!" but I don't think he would have appreciated it, so I held my tongue. And during the body map, when I told him I had only the two ear piercings and no tattoos, he looked me up and down with this look that said, "Are you sure?"
Ya caught me, Skippy! I'm covered in tattoos and piercings under my BYU shirt!
To do the actual physical, he had to go get "a female co-worker" to chaperon. He brought back my friend from the third booth! She smiled at me and then proceeded to start playing around on the computer. He did all the basic looking at stuff and listening to my breathing/heart. All I can think is "Are you done yet?"
And then he sticks his hands under my shirt.
I turn to look at him, wide-eyed. He makes me lay down and says he's just checking to make sure nothing hurts when it's pressed on. He could've told me that before.
When I'm deemed healthy enough to actually donate, he sends me back to the lobby to wait while he gets the results signed off by a higher authority. I sit there, watching this weird Mark Wahlberg movie, that now has football in it. The guy who examined me brings me one of those Nature Valley granola bars and a Capri Sun. I started munching on the granola bar and was drinking water from the dispenser they had. By now, it's 4:45 and I came in at 1:30?
Good grief.
The girl calls me back and she's holding this box full of tons of supplies which is bringing back the nerves. She makes me recite everything again (if I didn't know my social security before, I sure know it now). I followed her back into Bay #2 after declaring I wanted to use my right arm.
It's full of guys.
They all turn and stare at me. They don't even bother to hide it, not even when I have to jump up into the chair because of course it's at my chest level. Does no one consider short people?
Two guys come over and start setting up the machine. One of them explains the process, which I won't even bother to describe here because it's just long and boring. Then he tells me the other guy is in training and has him come over and set me up. I start panicking again and praying he's not going to be the one actually sticking me because if he misses and has to do it again, I would flip. I try to block out all the questions he's answering and how he describes the process. Thankfully, the first guy comes back to prick me. He hands me a piece of PVC pipe and tells me to squeeze it while the cuff squeezes my upper arm.
"This your first time?"
I nod and he pulls out a BIG needle. I have to turn away.
So he tells me to take a deep breath in and then when he tells me to exhale, he sticks it in. My whole body tensed. He tapes it down and starts making small talk to distract me. He leaves and I turn my attention to my ipod and my book. For several minutes, while the machine takes my blood, I have to keep up a steady squeezing rhythm. When it's done, I can relax my hand as it puts my blood back in. This cycle goes on for 30 minutes, which is apparently really fast and a sign of really good hydration.
All in all, it wasn't that bad. I read, listened to music, and ignored the needle. The guy that did the extraction was obnoxious, telling me that I was going to be addicted to coming. Yeah, a plasma donor junkie? Not likely. And he yanked the needle out roughly. I wasn't his biggest fan. He wrapped my arm, which I had to keep on for at least two hours, and told me to sit for a few minutes before I got up. When I did, I had a sticker I had to take to a window. They took it, made me sign, and then handed me thirty bucks.
Cash. I get forty next time I go back.
Which I will be doing.
And it hopefully won't take as long next time. So, I'm a proud plasma donor! And thirty bucks richer!
Pictures!
No, I'm not flipping you off. That's the finger prick the next day.
This is the needle site. (Next day)
Closer shot. There wasn't a lot of bruising.
The bandage. I did bleed all the way through the gauze.
