I enjoy donating blood. While in college I went faithfully every two months to the clinic to hand over my sorely needed pint of B+, and in return I would get some cookies, a juice box, and the happy knowledge that I had done some small, positive act of service. I think part of it stemmed from being rejected based on my age when they were collecting blood after September 11th. I had a blood donor card from donating in high school, but I was still too young. I'm certain there was a small part of me that thought "Reject me now, but as soon as I'm of age I'm giving as often as I can and YOU CAN'T STOP ME, MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!" A defiant attitude that was beneficial for all.
I have since only donated a couple of times since graduating, mostly because the clinic is no longer an easy five-minute drive away, and I got over my annoyance at being rejected. But this summer there was a blood drive at church, an easy five minute drive away, so my sisters and I decided to jump on the bandwagon and hand over our blood.
Anyone else ever just sit and laugh through all of the awkward background questions they ask you? I usually start giggling at the first question that asks "Have you ever had sex...?" and want to say "Actually, I'm a virgin in every sense of the word, so we could skip all of these". No? Everyone else is a mature and reasonable adult? Okay, then.
Anyway, as I was getting strapped in, the guy drawing my blood had serious difficulty finding a vein. He decided it was because I was dehydrated and made me drink two bottles of water while he took Becca's blood. Okay, no problem. Afterwards, he STILL couldn't find my vein until he called a supervisor (it was my drawer's first day ever), who slid the blood pressure cuff up half an inch on my arm, and my vein popped up like, "Oh he-ey party people!" Problem solved.
I was eligible to donate again by the end of August. On my commute to school, or church, or institute, or the library - basically, any time I go up north on the LRT - I pass the Canadian Blood Services donor clinic. They always have a sign out that says things like "Did you know a cancer patient can need up to 8 units of blood a week?" or "Make donating part of your back-to-school routine!" or "Please give us your blood, we really really need it, please ohplease ohplease ohplease give us some blood!" Okay, maybe not that last one. But that's what I mentally interpreted the signs to mean every time I passed, and I felt guilty every time I rode on by without stopping in to hand over some fresh red stuff.
So this past Tuesday, on the way home from the library, desperate to escape the ridiculously overcrowded LRT car I was riding in (really, clowns the world over were like "Day-um"), I hopped off at the station across the road from the clinic and walked in to do my small part to aid cancer patients and medical researchers.
Well, first off they made me wear a ridiculous "First time donor" sticker, because I had never donated in Canada before, even though I assured them I was fully conversant with the process and did not need everything spelled out to me. The lady at the desk insisted, swearing up and down that donating in Canada was probably different than donating in the States. No, it really isn't.
I still had to read through the donor information pamphlet, where the major changes between here and there are mostly the font and spacing (and the French instead of Spanish). They still confirmed my information at every stage in the process; they still pricked my finger to take a sample and check my rbc count; they still put one of those retarded circle bandages over the prick, rendering my finger useless for my iPod touch; they still had me answer all the health questions on my own, then the embarrassing questions with an interviewer. At every stage, someone would ask me if I had questions; I kept answering honestly "No, this is the same thing I've gone through every other time I've donated. It really is the EXACT SAME PROCESS."
But what really annoyed me was when the person drawing my blood (we'll call her S) started looking for a vein. It was just like hide and seek, with my veins being the master champions of the UNIVERSE. I related my experience from June, explained that I'd just popped in on a whim, so no, I HADN'T drunk extra fluids that day, and I'd be willing to return another time, but also maybe move the cuff up a bit. Oh, hey there veins! Then she took the cuff OFF to sterilize my arm, then slipped it back on, my veins went back into hiding, and after five minutes of squeezing the skooshy heart and having my arm squeezed and slapped in an attempt to coax my veins out of hiding, I was ready to pack it in and made my wishes known. Which, of course, is when she poked the needle in my arm, then started scooting it around to position it in a vein. Blood started coming out, and I'm thinking "Okay, that hurt, but I'll live", but I guess it wasn't coming out fast enough for Miss S, because after a couple of minutes she was like, "Yeah, no, this isn't gonna work today. And since I already got blood from one arm, I can't use the other and you can't donate until November 13th."
I was then made to sit with an icepack on my arm to counteract the bruising that was sure to form as a result of her smacking it and excavating for a vein with a needle. I still got cookies and juice, but it was kind of embarrassing to be sitting there and told repeatedly that I need to drink more fluids before coming in, especially since I had already told her several times that I didn't PLAN to come in - I took the signage outside at its word when it said "Walk-ins welcome".
The poking didn't really bother me. I'm a weirdy who watches when they put the needle in; I find it fascinating rather than disturbing. And I had time to kill that day, so the wasted time didn't bother me. No, what annoyed me about the whole thing was the way I was kind of treated like an idiot the entire way through, from being made to wear a "first time donor" sticker, to having to read all the information pamphlets again, to being asked if I understand everything and do I have any questions, to being ignored when I explained that the cuff has to be higher on my arm to make my veins pop up, and also if I'm too dehydrated to donate I'll leave and come back, no, really, it's cool, okay OW!
I tried to tell her, I really did, but short of ripping the cuff off of my arm and slapping her hand away, there wasn't a whole lot I could do. And since I am not a combative or confrontational person (mostly), I didn't say what was on the tip of my tongue when she told me I'd have to wait, to wit: "So, why couldn't you have just told me to come back another time, or given me something to drink? Why smack me and stick me and dig around in my arm if you weren't going to let me donate, huh?"
I have now learned that proper donation preparation requires consuming copious quantities of fluids before arrival. Fine, I can do that. Spontaneous donation is out. But I swear, next time, if my veins are hiding again, I'm leaving BEFORE they get a chance to stick me, even if it means slapping hands and ripping cuffs. Because dealing with a bruise and poke after donating is one thing - at least you have the gooey good feelings of donating. But having a poke and a bruise when they didn't want your blood? That's just an insult that keeps throbbing and bringing back feelings of annoyance.
And to add insult to injury, I didn't even get a colorful bandage afterwards, just some tape and a cotton ball. So I went home and put a Toy Story band-aid on my finger and a camouflage band-aid on my arm. So there.
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