That Road to Hell
Saturday morning. 6:45 a.m. I'm sitting in Parking Lot K of the auxilliary medical center for our local hospital system. Waiting to pick up my mother. Only slightly hung over. Easily cured with fast food hashbrowns and a very large, very cold Dr. Pepper. Breakfast of champions.
7:04 a.m. Still waiting. Thinking about the sketchy, sketchy man who followed me to my car the night before. Believe I could be lucky to be sitting in the parking lot at all.
7:09 a.m. Maybe I'd be better off with the sketchy man.
7:16 a.m. Mother finally arrives. I drive her home in order to monopolize her computer while she goes back to bed. She was at the sleep clinic where, obviously, she didn't sleep. Hence, a nap.
9:00 a.m. Since I'm on this side of town, I should go give blood. I haven't done it in quite a while, since the time I got turned away for low iron. No, not that time, the other one. No, the other, other one. I clearly do not eat enough raisins, cream of wheat or liver.
9:21 a.m. I arrive at the blood center. Sign in in the lobby. They're checking my name. They ask the guy signing up next to me whether he wants to give platelets.
"I will," I volunteer. They look at me, wide-eyed.
"Have you..." the volunteer starts. She moves closer to me, whispering. "Have you ever been...pregnant?"
"Uh, no."
"You're sure?"
Jesus, lady, if I'm not sure, I don't know who else could be.
Apparently, pregnancy manufactures certain...things? That stay in your blood? I don't know. Whatever. I haven't been. I'm trying not to be. I actually don't even need to try not to be, unless visited by a heavenly vision.
And, since I live in a town where everyone gets married at 18 and has had their first child at 18 and ten months, I'm clearly a strange, strange breed. I couldn't figure out if they wanted my blood or if they were going to put me on display:
"Come one, come all! The Amazing! The Incredible! The Unbelievable! The Childless, Unmarried 34-Year-Old! Guess her weight and win a prize!"
9:30 a.m. They're taking my blood for tests. They always have to spin it, since my iron's low. I'm answering the questions on the sheet. The one always gives me pause:
Have you had sex for money or drugs since 1977?
Now, technically, I hope most women could answer "no" to this question. However, I know many men that would dispute this. And some women. I mean, you get taken out to dinner and a movie, then go have sex? Isn't that kind of like a commercial transaction? You might as well just ask if someone's had sex since 1977, really. If you want to be completely honest about it.
But that would seriously cut down on the donor list, I suspect.
9:50 a.m. I'm in the chair in the back of the room, where they do the recirculation thing. They pull out some blood, run it through the centrifuge, then put it back in, sans platelets, with an added bonus of saline. Usually, this takes about 45 minutes. It isn't until they've got the needle in my arm that I realize the timer indicates 90 minutes.
"You can stay for that long, can't you? We're running a double batch."
I guess I can, you stupid beeyotch, since you've got a needle in my arm the size of a Bic pen and I might bleed out by the Voortman cookies if I tried to escape. So much for that lunch date.
10:42 a.m. I'm trying to squeeze the little rubber ball a bunch to speed up the process, but no go. Listening to depressing, depressing Damien Rice on the MP3 player I thought ahead enough to bring. Halfway through the "100 Most Influential Americans" issue of the Atlantic Monthly. No Sports Illustrated. What the hell kind of a waiting room was I in? Only ESPN: the Magazine. Which gives me a headache. I mean, I'm a little ADD. But not that much.
11:03 a.m. Foot cramps. Footcrampsfootcrampsfootcramps.
I have problems with foot cramping. Sometimes with high heels. Sometimes while swimming. Sometimes, oddly, when engaged in certain intimate acts with...well...whoever.
Let me tell you, nothing kills romance like hobbling around the room, watching your foot contort in strange shapes, trying to salvage that special moment with Mr. Right. Or with Mr. Right Now. "I'll be okay in a minute. Really. No, stay. Really. It'll go away. I swear! No, I really do like you! I'm not faking. At least, not yet!"
So I'm curled up on this chair, which is like the orange rotating chair Xander had in the basement that he tied Spike to in Season 4 of Buffy. I have to keep my arm on a level surface, but the rest of me is contorting in shapes to allow me to try to rub my protesting foot.
"Hon?" Because women who work at the blood bank always call you that. "Hon? Are you okay?"
"Foot cramp," I manage.
"Have some Tums."
Because...? They're magical? She hands them to me like Jack's Magic Beans.
I eat the Tums. They don't really work.
"Do you want me to rub your foot?" she asks.
I'm sure she's a very nice woman. She was incredibly nice to me. However, I don't like feet in general. And, while I have had a recent pedicure, I don't want this woman touching my feet. It isn't sanitary.
"No, thanks. I'll be fine."
11:40 a.m. I'm in the cookie/recovery area. I've been there one minute. I'm supposed to be there for ten minutes. I'm incredibly late for a lunch date with a friend. So I turn to the monitor.
"Would it be okay if I went out to my car for my phone."
She barely looks at me. "Whatever."
Cancel the lunch date. No one inspects my arm before I leave.
Amount of time involved: 2 hours, 20 minutes
Number of times I was asked about my childbirth history: 5
Number of times I was asked if I was giving blood solely to be tested for AIDS/HIV, hepatitis, etc.: 3
Number of times I was told I was so nice for doing this: Easily 12
Minutes involved with cramping feet: 26
Hours until I broke a rule and drank a beer instead of water as I'd been instructed to: 4.8
7:04 a.m. Still waiting. Thinking about the sketchy, sketchy man who followed me to my car the night before. Believe I could be lucky to be sitting in the parking lot at all.
7:09 a.m. Maybe I'd be better off with the sketchy man.
7:16 a.m. Mother finally arrives. I drive her home in order to monopolize her computer while she goes back to bed. She was at the sleep clinic where, obviously, she didn't sleep. Hence, a nap.
9:00 a.m. Since I'm on this side of town, I should go give blood. I haven't done it in quite a while, since the time I got turned away for low iron. No, not that time, the other one. No, the other, other one. I clearly do not eat enough raisins, cream of wheat or liver.
9:21 a.m. I arrive at the blood center. Sign in in the lobby. They're checking my name. They ask the guy signing up next to me whether he wants to give platelets.
"I will," I volunteer. They look at me, wide-eyed.
"Have you..." the volunteer starts. She moves closer to me, whispering. "Have you ever been...pregnant?"
"Uh, no."
"You're sure?"
Jesus, lady, if I'm not sure, I don't know who else could be.
Apparently, pregnancy manufactures certain...things? That stay in your blood? I don't know. Whatever. I haven't been. I'm trying not to be. I actually don't even need to try not to be, unless visited by a heavenly vision.
And, since I live in a town where everyone gets married at 18 and has had their first child at 18 and ten months, I'm clearly a strange, strange breed. I couldn't figure out if they wanted my blood or if they were going to put me on display:
"Come one, come all! The Amazing! The Incredible! The Unbelievable! The Childless, Unmarried 34-Year-Old! Guess her weight and win a prize!"
9:30 a.m. They're taking my blood for tests. They always have to spin it, since my iron's low. I'm answering the questions on the sheet. The one always gives me pause:
Have you had sex for money or drugs since 1977?
Now, technically, I hope most women could answer "no" to this question. However, I know many men that would dispute this. And some women. I mean, you get taken out to dinner and a movie, then go have sex? Isn't that kind of like a commercial transaction? You might as well just ask if someone's had sex since 1977, really. If you want to be completely honest about it.
But that would seriously cut down on the donor list, I suspect.
9:50 a.m. I'm in the chair in the back of the room, where they do the recirculation thing. They pull out some blood, run it through the centrifuge, then put it back in, sans platelets, with an added bonus of saline. Usually, this takes about 45 minutes. It isn't until they've got the needle in my arm that I realize the timer indicates 90 minutes.
"You can stay for that long, can't you? We're running a double batch."
I guess I can, you stupid beeyotch, since you've got a needle in my arm the size of a Bic pen and I might bleed out by the Voortman cookies if I tried to escape. So much for that lunch date.
10:42 a.m. I'm trying to squeeze the little rubber ball a bunch to speed up the process, but no go. Listening to depressing, depressing Damien Rice on the MP3 player I thought ahead enough to bring. Halfway through the "100 Most Influential Americans" issue of the Atlantic Monthly. No Sports Illustrated. What the hell kind of a waiting room was I in? Only ESPN: the Magazine. Which gives me a headache. I mean, I'm a little ADD. But not that much.
11:03 a.m. Foot cramps. Footcrampsfootcrampsfootcramps.
I have problems with foot cramping. Sometimes with high heels. Sometimes while swimming. Sometimes, oddly, when engaged in certain intimate acts with...well...whoever.
Let me tell you, nothing kills romance like hobbling around the room, watching your foot contort in strange shapes, trying to salvage that special moment with Mr. Right. Or with Mr. Right Now. "I'll be okay in a minute. Really. No, stay. Really. It'll go away. I swear! No, I really do like you! I'm not faking. At least, not yet!"
So I'm curled up on this chair, which is like the orange rotating chair Xander had in the basement that he tied Spike to in Season 4 of Buffy. I have to keep my arm on a level surface, but the rest of me is contorting in shapes to allow me to try to rub my protesting foot.
"Hon?" Because women who work at the blood bank always call you that. "Hon? Are you okay?"
"Foot cramp," I manage.
"Have some Tums."
Because...? They're magical? She hands them to me like Jack's Magic Beans.
I eat the Tums. They don't really work.
"Do you want me to rub your foot?" she asks.
I'm sure she's a very nice woman. She was incredibly nice to me. However, I don't like feet in general. And, while I have had a recent pedicure, I don't want this woman touching my feet. It isn't sanitary.
"No, thanks. I'll be fine."
11:40 a.m. I'm in the cookie/recovery area. I've been there one minute. I'm supposed to be there for ten minutes. I'm incredibly late for a lunch date with a friend. So I turn to the monitor.
"Would it be okay if I went out to my car for my phone."
She barely looks at me. "Whatever."
Cancel the lunch date. No one inspects my arm before I leave.
Amount of time involved: 2 hours, 20 minutes
Number of times I was asked about my childbirth history: 5
Number of times I was asked if I was giving blood solely to be tested for AIDS/HIV, hepatitis, etc.: 3
Number of times I was told I was so nice for doing this: Easily 12
Minutes involved with cramping feet: 26
Hours until I broke a rule and drank a beer instead of water as I'd been instructed to: 4.8
posted by Miss Head at
9:40 AM
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