NEW RELEASES
The Lengths I’ll Go to For a Cookie
I donated blood this past Saturday. I haven’t reported it but the last two times I went I had problems and things didn’t work out. I bring this up so that you can fully appreciate Saturday’s experience.
Two visits ago, the blood technician totally missed my vein. She asked if she could try again. My response cannot be written here since this is a family type blog. I had a black and blue the size of a half-dollar on my right arm for almost two weeks.
Because I’m crazy, I wasn’t quite ready to give up on the whole blood donating thing, being an O Positive and all.
So, I went again. This time, the blood technician was lovely. She hit the vein square on. Unfortunately, my blood would not flow. The technician thought I was probably dehydrated, which might certainly have been the case. I don’t like water and only drink coffee or tea or Southern Comfort.
A person who knows me all of my life thinks I should just stop going – I used to faint every time I gave blood – but I’ve progressed beyond that now. I decided I’d give it one more shot. I trained like an athlete, drinking 60 ounces of water a day plus coffee and tea for the five days prior to my appointment.
Needless to say, I was a bit nervous when I got there Saturday morning. I checked in and was promptly taken to the intake room. This is always good because I could easily become a runner. You don’t really need to donate blood, I tell myself, and you could make a run for it. No one can stop you; you can wait for Ed by the car. They don’t publish your name in the paper if you take off . . .
Anyway, two things happen in the intake room that are actually worse than the bloodletting. One, they stick your finger for blood to check your iron level which hurts like hell and, two, they ask you your weight. I always lie. If they really wanted to know your true weight they’d have a scale there, right?
After you make it through that, they leave you alone to answer a bunch of questions about diseases you’ve never heard of but can’t donate if you have them. Generally, the person who starts this process finishes it. But not for me on this Saturday. No, a different person showed up.
The person who came in to finish up was, let’s say, not that bright.
Not Bright Person: What is your birth date?
Me: 12/4/64
Not Bright Person: 1964? (He’s serious. He doesn’t mean – OMG you look great for being born in 1964! He means 19 as if any other number can precede 64 in this situation.)
Me: Yes. (But that is not the answer I wanted to give.)
Not Bright Person: You were out of the country in the past 12 months?
Me: Yes – in Turkey.
Not Bright Person
Not Bright Person: Where did you go in Turkey?
Me: Istanbul.
Side note – the computer system makes the blood person constantly sign back in if they don’t touch the program for 3 seconds. Every time Not Bright Person had to sign back in, he had to do it twice because the first time he couldn’t input his right password but got it correct on every second try. How can someone not remember their password every 3 seconds?
Not Bright Person: (After fumbling with the computer) Istanbul or Istanbul province?
Me: The city of Istanbul.
Not Bright Person: I’ll go get the atlas.
Side note – it takes Not Bright Person several minutes to locate the atlas that is sitting right on the desk where it always sits. Even I know where it is and I don’t work there.
Side note – it takes Not Bright Person several minutes to locate the Ts in the index. Then it takes Not Bright Person several more minutes to locate Turkey within the Ts – it took so long, I almost snatched the book out of his hands to find it myself.
Not Bright Person: (Putting the atlas on the table) Which one is Turkey? (I swear to god!)
Me: (Pointing) The one that says Turkey on it. (Before it can get any worse, I point to Istanbul) Here is Istanbul.
Not Bright Person: Where is Istanbul province?
Me: I have no idea, I’ve never been there.
Not Bright Person: Okay. (Closes book, I swear to God!)
It takes him another excruciatingly long time to gather up everything we need so he can take me to the back to draw the blood. Many times, you have to wait for the next available technician. Not Bright Person takes me right into the back.
Me: You’re not the person who is going to draw my blood are you?
Not Bright Person: Yes.
At this point, it took everything in me to not tell him that there was no way on God’s green Earth he was ever going to attempt to draw my blood after the last several minutes we’d spent together, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I glanced at Ed, who was all but done, in sheer terror. Ed, not being Mr. Perceptive, claims he missed it. How he could miss this look of terror after seeing it twice before – both times I gave birth – is beyond me.
Oddly, Not Bright Person knew what he was doing and didn’t hurt me. Generally, they leave you alone while the blood is filling the bag. Not him, however. He never left my side. Maybe he had me pegged for the runner I am. I’m not above pulling a needle out of my arm to save myself, I’ve even checked myself out of the hospital, but I digress.
Anyway, I found out that his parents were married for 15 years and divorced in 1999, he got some Ds and Fs in 4th and 5th grade (no shock there) and his mother went overboard punishing him, he got good grades in his senior year of high school (I’ll need proof) and I should ask for him the next time I wanted to donate.
I didn’t ask for any of this information and was not required to even participate in the conversation
I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering where the hell was Ed while this was going on. Ed was hiding because he couldn’t stop laughing! When I finally got to the snack area, he handed me six bags of Oreos and said “Here, you earned these.”