So, today I went and donated plasma. It's been a while. Mid-December was the last time I partied it up at the blood brothel.
Since January, I kept thinking I should go, but I just haven't had the oomph. I decided today was the day, so I scheduled meeself an appointment and 45 minutes later, I was semi-reclining on the little S-shaped beds that they have.
See the bed? Doesn't it look comfy? That's not my body, by the way. I did a cut-and-paste number on a picture I found online. These are the very beds I love to chill on. (I'm sure you didn't realize I modified this pic. Good thing I told you, eh?)
So, yeah, back to my story. I waited patiently for all the stuff they have to do to get the machine and my arm ready. And then came the stick. I must say that when I've taken a break from my bi-weekly plasma donations (like I did recently) I get a little nervous again for this part of the "procedure". But... there was no need. I felt almost nothing at all! I congratulated my phlebotomist on her fine stick-job and she proceed to get things ready.
This particular donation happened to be the one where they take a small vile of blood for in-depth testing to make sure I am still a viable donor. They call it a "Spee" (sp?). Said phlebotomist connected the Spee vile to the plastic line full of my blood and then several things happened at once. I am not sure what she intended to do, but she let the Spee vile drop to the S-shaped bed, and, as she did, she looked up at the machine while the vile fell off of the little needle/tube contraption. I watched my blood splash up on the bed and I garbled something incoherent to get her attention.
She, very alarmed, grabbed the "hemostat" and clamped the line off. She said, "You've probably got some blood on your butt, now."
Perfect! I lifted my rear in the air and she said, "Yep. Blood on your butt."
I assured her that it was fine. "A little blood on my butt is no big deal, and I wore my used-to-be-favorite jeans that have a huge hole in the knee and the back of the cuff is gone. They've nearly seen the end of their days anyway. A little smear of blood? It's ok!"
She got everything all cleaned up... well, not my butt... but the chair and everything. I merrily began squeezing my squishy thing to pump up my veins and enjoying the taste of plastic tubes on my blood's "return", all the while reading Eat, Pray, Love (which is an awesome book, by the way!).
Thirty five minutes later, I was "disconnected", gauzed, wrapped and done. I gathered my book, took my layers off (I'm always cold there) and stood up. '
Whoa, Nelly!' I thought!
I had forgotten about my bloody rear. When she said I had some blood on my butt, I had the image of a little smudge, a few drops, a tiny bit. I severely misconstrued her statment of "some blood on your butt". The majority of my entire left pocket was SOAKED! So much that my underwear and pants were STUCK tight to the cheek. I tried desperately to keep my derriere toward the little wall behind me and away from the onlooking donors.
I gratefully put on my coat that hangs just below my rear end and was reminded of some awkward moments from my youth. It was entirely unpleasant to try to walk out of there and drive home, but let's look at the bright side... I got twenty bucks and a good blog post!