I attempted to donate blood yesterday. It all went down like this: Jen and I were taking our usual morning walk around the campus, outside since it’s no longer a hundred-and-fuck degrees outside. We rounded one of the buildings, and I saw the mobile blood donation truck parked outside the main lobby. I said, “I think I’ll donate blood today!” She said, “SEE YA.” And she took off. Because she’s a big damn baby. But I love her anyway.
So. I read the required materials and signed the required paperwork. The technician took my temperature (98.1) and blood pressure (120 over 78) and pricked my finger to test the iron level. It was 12.1, which she said was too low to allow me to donate, and would I be okay with her supervisor coming in to re-test me? So I said yes, and he pricked another finger, and that test came back as something like 13.3, which apparently is okay. They both commented that I’m “a bleeder” because the blood (and that video will NEVER get old, just so you know) just “came right out” when they POKED A HOLE IN MY FINGER (hello???), instead of them having squeeze my fingertip to force it out. Umm… okay. Happy to make your job easier. I guess.
They sat me in a reclining chair and stuck a blood pressure cup on my arm and gave me a ball to squeeze to pump up my veins. And then they (two different techs) proceeded to search, and feel around, and search some more, looking for a vein in my left arm. They gave up and tried my right arm. They looked, and searched, and looked some more. Went back to my left arm. Pumped up the blood pressure cuff until my fingers tingled, and finally found a vein. Long time readers will recall that my veins are notorious for their lack of presence. I usually instruct the tech to take blood out of my hand when they pull for a blood test, but you can’t donate blood through your hand.
The technician doused me with iodine, marked where the vein was, told me to look out the window and think of puppies and fluffy clouds, and stuck me. Which didn’t hurt. What DID hurt a bit was when she, and then her supervisor, shifted the needle around, trying in vain (hah) to find the vein that had mysteriously disappeared. After a few minutes of this I said, “Um, hi? Can we stop now? That kind of hurts.” They were all apologetic and ceased their torture.
They recommended that the day before I try again to donate bloo-duh, I should over-hydrate to plump up my veins. I’ll try again the next time the bloodmobile comes around, since yesterday’s experience was apparently a worst-case-scenario and any new attempt will be cake compared to it. At least, according to the tech. So. If it fails again during my next attempt then I’m going to consider my duty SERVED and give myself credit for #13 on my 101 in 1001 list.
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I wrote an entry yesterday that will probably send me to hell. It was about a person at AcronymCo that creeps me the hell OUT and it was all judgy but it’s been festering in my BRRRAAAIIINNNN for MONTHS and I just HAD to get it out. I had Jen read it before I published and she said it was okay to post, but I felt bad. So I posted it as Private (NOT a feature I use a lot – you know me, Keeping It Real). That way my blog readers don’t leave me in droves AND I feel better.
PHEW.
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On a happy, final note, Marie finally got a new job! She starts Friday! Plus she has a new roommate who absorbs about $500 of her monthly expenses, AND her boyfriend is back in town. She is in a good mood, as you can imagine. She called me yesterday and was all, “Hi! First, we have a black president! WOOO HOOO! And second, I got a job! WOOO HOOO!”
Girl has her priorities. Heh.
I have this thing. About spelling. About needing said spelling to be correct. To an almost OCD level. So much so that my husband won’t write me love letters because he’s afraid I’ll return them to him marked up with corrections in red ink.
Snerkology 