who wants it

Getting denied at the plasma donation center was a surprising and illogically painful slap of rejection.

I was already humming and hawing at the notion of getting cash for my plasma but figured literally anyone could do this; it’s for a good cause, some extra scratch in my pocket, and as an added bonus I could learn what my blood type is finally. Instagram was putting up some shiny ads and damnit, I took the bait and made my first-ever appointment at the closest donation center, about thirty miles north.

What else am I doing with my days lately? I thought.

Per their emails ‘do’s and don’ts before your appointment’ I drank water all morning, had a sensible tomato, arugula, & pepper jack sandwich, loaded up my half-gallon size water bottle, and hit the road. The rains are finally upon us in the PNW and I struggled a bit with some intrusive driving anxiety before glumly noticing I also had to get gas when I was done getting needled and pumped.

Suctioned and strained? Whatever the less cringe terminology this situation is.

I parked, finally, trembling ever so slightly from nerves.

I double checked my face in my mirror, tucked the paper towel from my sensible sandwich in the seat next to me, and heaved my water bottle out of the car. I boldly walked up to the clinic’s shining double doors, trying to stroll in with a confident air that I hoped exuded a cool, careless, ‘whatever‘ attitude despite feeling very weird about my upcoming cash-for-fluid transaction.

An interesting blend of folks go to plasma donation centers. Of course, there were college students who looked a bit too thin to honestly give anything up, some middle-aged white-collar-looking folks who probably would donate as the holidays grew closer in homage to someone, as well as what I’m thinking were aging hippies, and lead singers/guitarists/drummers for the band that was going to take off any minute now. One spiky-haired, punk gentleman breezed past me straight to a phlebotomist who knew exactly who he was, and I instantly wished I looked cooler.

The receptionist was in her fifties, gave off grandma vibes and sweetly walked me through the most complicated process of paperwork to sign and review, as well as look at my various IDs, voter registration card, and mail addressed to me at my current address. The way this center identifies you for each subsequent trip is a fingerprint so she walked me through that too, all said and done this took close to forty minutes. I marveled at the system to just give some goo: sheesh.

Finally, mercifully, it was time to walk me back for a mini physical, mainly checking veins. I was directed to an absurdly comfortable faux-leather recliner, then the polite phlebotomist strapped a cuff to one arm, hit an ‘on’ switch to get the cuff squeezing, and started poking and feeling both elbows. I relaxed, relieved to finally get this show on the road already.

“The left side is strong,” she eventually declared, “but your tattoo might be limiting access to the strong vein in your right.” I cocked an eyebrow, flummoxed that my tattoo from a Bikini Kill album cover would hinder a sharp object in any way. She called over another nurse, this time an RN.

RN did not come to play. Her face furrowed while she poked and slapped, then finally stood up to announce that tragically, my tattooed right arm was not an option.

Turns out if you have tattoos in the ‘ditch’ of your elbow where one would put a needle, and they have to go through ink in order to place said needle, no plasma donation for you.

(In case you’re curious – you can give blood tainted with tattoo ink all day long but good luck finding someone to pay you for that, though should I find any vampires amongst my readers please do reach out.)

The nurse was apologetic, and said that if I hydrated more and maybe lifted some small weights before my next appointment they could likely use two veins in my other less-decorated arm. With that creepy sentence hanging in the air, she vanished without so much as a goodbye.

Two needles in one arm?? After hearing that I knew I’d never be going back. Two needles + one arm is not an idea I can entertain or even fathom being worth it given that even one stuck in for longer than a few minutes honestly gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Dejected, I looked back at the phlebotomist for further instruction but she had already moved on to another patient; only the so-very-sorry-looking receptionist remained. I gathered my things with the same shamed, hurried air I imagine a sobering participant in a one-night stand having as they gather clothes at the base of an unknown bed and marched back to the front desk. I’m 200% sure not one person gave a damn as I exited the chair without donating anything, but the ‘Peanuts’ gallery in my mind mocked me for being a loser who makes poor decisions in tattoo placement and haha, now you have to go get gas because of the trip you didn’t need to take! I thanked the receptionist, she urged me to come back in a few days after more hydration, and I walked out of that building as quickly as I could without trotting.

I got in the car, stunned that I was not a desired candidate for something that seemed like such a promised, obvious thing considering I’m chock full of blood. As I mapped my course to Costco for gas I ruminated that I made the trek in perilous-only-to-me conditions, was ridiculously out of my comfort zone for only the mental picture of two needles in my arm, I’ve a wasted chunk of time, AND I had to do my most loathed adult thing which is put gas into my car. It didn’t seem fair. For whatever reason I couldn’t shake the RN’s absolutely professional, not world-ending, non-personal, rejection.

When I got to the station I zipped over to the closest green light and parked, noticing just a little too late that the pump I had chosen had a yellow bag over it, and of course that there was a car both in front of me and now behind. My mood continued to sour as I noticed the car in front of me was from Canada, and they had removed three enormous gas vessels from their trunk to fill up. I slumped and rested my forehead on the steering wheel in annoyance.

What a day.

After a few minutes, an employee walks up to my window and says hey? The yellow bag is only blocking off the diesel handle, which we’re out of. You could still get gasoline. I brightened and chuckled with him over my silly oversight, put my car into drive, and just as he was crossing the front of my car I focused on where the pump handle was and hit the gas.

With that, I barely nudged, but definitely tapped him, as he was still walking in front of me.

That’s right. I hit a gas station employee with my car. I didn’t think to even look in which direction he was walking away from me, just threw it into drive to get closer to the pump and essentially booped him with my Jeep.

He kept walking, with a gait that didn’t suggest injury but that he was stepping over a dog turd with a nod like Jesus lady, just as I hollered “sorry!” out the window.

‘Fuck,’ I thought. I have to start handling rejection better.