The Life of a Broke College Grad, Part 1

Or

The first time I "donated" plasma.

They call it donating, because they don't want to just come out and say you're selling your life fluid for a couple of extra bucks. Instead, you are compensated for the time it takes to donate.
And it does take time.

The first time I went to Grifols Biomat in Orange it took four hours to donate.

Grifols has donations centers all over the country.


It takes four hours the first time because I had to fill out paper work, have my iron levels, blood pressure and pulse tested, and answer tons of questions about my sex life (In the last year have you had sex with a man who has had sex with another man since 1978? Why 1978? Is that the magic number? Before that, AIDS didn't exist? What if I had sex with a man who had sex with another man New Year's Eve in 1977?)

Then I get physical. I lie on the table and let some strange dude listen to my lungs and heart, feel around on my abdomen, test my reflexes, etc...

Next on to the plasma bay. Three rows of eight comfy, reclining chairs. Sitting in each is a person hooked up to the plasmapheresis machines. A huge Big-Gulp-looking cup is attached to each station, slowly filling with a straw-yellow fluid. That's your plasma, the liquid component of your blood.

They take a lot. I'm not sure how much. I'll find out next time.

So there I sat, for an hour. With a huge (not kidding) needle in my arm. The machine sucks out my whole blood, spins out my plasma and puts the red cells, etc. back. It does it in cycles, so while the blood pressure cuff is tight on my upper arm, I squeeze the squishy ball I'm holding. When the cuff loosens, I relax and let the blood back in.

Yes, it is as uncomfortable as it sounds. Especially if (get ready to be grossed out) the needle is in the vein too far. With every squeeze of the squishy ball, you feel the needle moving around in there.

Occasionally I would look up from the fitness magazine (hula hoop workout for abs and buns!!) I had found in the waiting area, and check out the other donors. The majority were college age, with a few older people who looked broke. The kids were keeping busy, reading mags and books, texting and tapping away on their laptops one-handed.

Often the nurses would come by and ask how I was doing. Especially this one semi-annoying guy, about my age, who kept flirting with me. I didn't want to be rude and brush him off, what with the huge needle in my arm and the possibility that something bad could happen. So I made small talk. He wasn't so bad. I just don't feel like flirting when I'm being pumped. Plus, I'm sure the boyfriend would not appreciate this guy making dumb jokes for my benefit.

After your 44-ouncer is full, the machine automatically switches to saline solution, to rehydrate you. This part is seriously bizarre. It is cold. Cold. I could feel the chilly saline running through my veins.

After that, you're done. No cookies. No sodas. Well, OK, they have a teeny fridge, but you have to ask nice and look tired. This is not the Red Cross. This is a business. They herd you out of your seat, take away your blankie and ball, and send you to the receptionist, who is waiting with your check.

$25.

Yup. Four hours, plus my freakin' blood for $25.

But I was elated. I walked out of there feeling a little tired but ecstatic about my hard-earned money.
It's been a while since I've had any income, OK?

They say you can go back twice a week, not more than once every two days. They like it when people are on a schedule, they say. They have their Monday/Wednesday-ers and their Tuesday/Thursday-ers.
I guess I'll go back in two days. That's $50. Plus, if my blood is good enough, I can get up to $75 each time.
But it seems so soon. Will I really be ready? Donating makes me so tired; I'm basically useless all day afterwards.
My arm won't even be healed in two days. I'll have to go with the left side next time.

Bizarre.

Oh, I went out and bought a hula hoop. Rock-hard abs and buns of steel any day now...

This is not my butt.