They were so busy at the Octapharma plasma place yesterday (Thursday, the 21st) with it being "bonus" time and all, that it was quite a chaotic scene.
There were so many people there that it took Travis, who had arrived at noon, more than 3 hours to go through the process.
He has weighed in at 180 pounds, but insists that the Octapharma scale is reading about 8 pounds "light." If anyone would jealously guard his every pound, and, not only own a scale but calibrate it against the one at the supermarket, it would be Travis.
Odd, that the scale would read about 8 pounds light... I'm sure that it's a safety net, of some kind, put in place by Octapharma, (which is a Swedish company) to compensate for donors who wear up to 8 pounds of clothing.
I had quite a start when they initially told me I weighed 129 pounds. I hadn't been that light since I was about 20 years old and hadn't discovered exercise and diet as a means of putting on lean muscle.
I had thought that, since I'm only 10 pounds shy of being able to donate more plasma and make more money, I might start to stuff lead in my boots (a bit more each time) and "gain" the weight that way.
But, yesterday's experience put a damper on my enthusiasm for anything like that. And plasma donation, in general. Not that it doesn't feel good to have helped save the lives of people who use plasma products, it just doesn't feel good enough to offset the symptoms of Bundibugyo virus...
I wonder what those ABBA looking strawberry blonds in the white lab coats, wearing eye protection, who speak English with cute accents think about their little operation in the Deep South, located in a ghetto.
I got there at around 5 PM.
The lady who weighed me and took my temperature and blood pressure and a drop of my blood to check its "protein level" had taken a couple minutes before yelling "Next!" between myself and the guy before me. She had slowly, and kind of blatantly wiped her area down with disinfectant then slowly put on a fresh pair of latex gloves.
Prejudices
Let me get some prejudices aired and out of the way.
Yes, I think that the nurses there, who are all African American, are suspicious of a white guy like myself who brings his laptop, and that they make a show of doing their jobs "correctly" in front of me -like wiping the receiver of the telephone at their station with disinfectant, even though they hadn't even spoken into it; because it's part of some kind of checklist that someone like myself might be ticking off on some report that will be sent to the home office in Sweden.
I'm pretty sure that there is a plasma place "where all the white people go," and it is probably the one that Rose and Ed go to that is in Metarie, a white area. So, Travis and my presence is an anomaly at the Gretna one, since we don't live in the nearby ghetto, and why wouldn't we just go to the one in Metarie where we can be with our kind? (Because, when I found the place and that it was on a bus line, I ended my search right there, without even investigating the Metarie place, and because Travis just followed suit).
Initially the nurse told me that my blood pressure was low, and that she would have to take it again in another 10 minutes, but then recanted, saying "It went through."
Chicanery In Lab Coats
Then, I was sent to an overflow area of recliners that were occupied by a few other people. They were all black people and several of them came and went while I sat there, thinking that they would call me when it was my turn.
But, even though I was concentrating on whatever I was doing on this laptop, I could kind of see, out of the corner of my eye, myself being skipped over.
There were people complaining out loud about needing to be somewhere at some time or that "I ain't got all day; for real!" and words to that effect.
So, there began a covert operation, perpetrated by the employees who did the needle sticking, and who have gotten to know some of the people that go there, and who were skipping me, I suppose because I was patiently sitting and waiting my turn, not causing a ruckus. That might work in Metarie, but not in the hood.
And it is likely that, because I was on my laptop and "in my own world," the thought I wouldn't notice a dozen people going ahead of me during the 2 hours that I sat there.
Eventually, after they had gotten all of their friends on their way, they called me, but encountered a problem.
They had made me sit there so long that my intake data had expired. My blood protein levels had had enough time to potentially dip outside of the tolerated range during the almost 2 hours that I sat patiently through.
So, the same computer that let my blood pressure go through, at 117 over 68, had exposed their shenanigans in skipping over me, who was, one of only 3 white guys there, out of maybe 88 people.
No other donor before me or after me had to be re-screened, because none of them had "timed out" after having been made to wait so long.
When I finally did go to the stabbing area (not the separate overflow section) I saw that there were people crowding around the stabbing recliners, waiting to jump in as soon as someone vacated the machine; ahead of anyone who might unwittingly be waiting in the overflow area.
"Go back to where you was..." said a lanky black man, who was not wearing an Octapharma uniform, but who was sitting in the stabbing area, probably waiting to jump on the first available machine.
"No, I told him..." said a nearby nurse, who had probably been told that somewhere a spreadsheet in Sweden is being pored over by someone who is noting that "rescreen" is in bold-face and is flashing next to my name, probably with "his blood pressure was low the first time" typed into the "reason for re-screening" box next to it. Or, most likely a code: "R103" (low blood pressure) or something.
I wouldn't find out until I got home that it had taken Travis, one of the other of a handful of white people that go to that particular lab, just as long as myself to have donated.
I would also find out that Travis felt weak and had flu-like symptoms, including running nose and sneezing, like I did.
"I'm pretty much done with plasma selling, after today's experience," I said to Travis. "Tonight might only be the 2nd or 3rd time that I've taken off busking for 'health reasons,'" I added.
We had no idea that the place could become so crowded and chaotic once donors had reached their bonus numbers of visits. This didn't make sense on the level that, in order to pile up enough donations to be making their 6th one of the month on September 21st, then the place must have been equally crowded on the days leading up to it. We determined that a lot of people must just have "Tuesday and Thursday" as their "days," when they visit each week, so that it's easy to remember and they don't miss out on any bonuses.
They are supposed to use a new needle for each donor and to use new vessels in which to centrifuge out the platelets before returning the fluid part, along with some saline solution to the donors veins.
But, donors have been screened for hepatitis, AIDS, syphilis, ebola and bundibugyo virus, and have answered the intake questions honestly, about their not having shared needles with guys who have sex with men from west Africa since their last visit, and there has probably never been a problem before. But...
The nurse asked me which arm I wanted to use.
"The right one," I told her. I usually don't care, but on Tuesday, the person who inserted the needle in my vein, put it in at a slanted angle, so that she repeatedly had to come by and pull it out some before re-taping it, because the hole at the tip of the needle, I guess, was against the wall of my vein, blocking some of the flow.
Before I left, the stabber had gone into an office in back and had a brief word with a white coat wearing lady, before returning with an ice pack that she taped over the spot in my arm with and Ace Bandage, something that they had never done before. She had just mumbled something when I mentioned that fact. It was obviously as a result of her having put the needle in kind of crooked and having lacerated the wall of my vein in more than one place, causing swelling and a black and blue mark the next day, to go with soreness up and down my arm.
So, "The right one," I specified this time.
The nurse directed me to a machine "Go right there," she said.
The machine was set up on the left side of the recliner, for people who want to use their left arm. Had she gotten her right and left mixed up, amidst all the confusion of bonus day?
That looked like the only available machine at the time, and so I decided to just use my left arm, which was still sore from being mangled 2 days prior, rather than give them a reason to send me back to the overflow area/.
She put the needle in the same vein which had the black and blue mark around it, and the machine ran, but not apparently very efficiently. It took 10 minutes longer than usual to drain me, and the hose was doing a strange kind of bucking motion, accompanied by a gurgling sensation around my vein.
If the 40 bucks wasn't so important at the time, I might have spoken up and told her that the machine seemed to be trying periodically to push the plasma back in my vein rather than draw it out.
It was not a very smooth donation. Further insult was added to injury when I checked the balance to discover that the 25 dollar "bonus" had been added to the measly 15 dollar amount that I get for the first donation of a given 7 day period.
I didn't feel very well at all as I walked the mile to the Wal-Mart, some food for Harold the cat, and a few bananas, a mango, and a Rock Star Zero energy drink for myself. That usually perks up my mood, but I still felt a bit down, when I decided that I would stay in that night, eat a good meal, get a hot bath and a good night's rest.
I met Travis out front and we both went inside together. He was blowing his nose frequently and had taken some Benadryl (sp?) he said.
It isn't just Travis and I that have accrued 6 visits to the place this month, and were in line to receive the "6x bonus," of $25, and dreamed of walking out of there with a crisp 50 dollar bill after an hour spent there.Beast, Travis' cat, on my windowsill, from off of it has knocked every potted plant
There were so many people there that it took Travis, who had arrived at noon, more than 3 hours to go through the process.
He has weighed in at 180 pounds, but insists that the Octapharma scale is reading about 8 pounds "light." If anyone would jealously guard his every pound, and, not only own a scale but calibrate it against the one at the supermarket, it would be Travis.
Odd, that the scale would read about 8 pounds light... I'm sure that it's a safety net, of some kind, put in place by Octapharma, (which is a Swedish company) to compensate for donors who wear up to 8 pounds of clothing.
I had quite a start when they initially told me I weighed 129 pounds. I hadn't been that light since I was about 20 years old and hadn't discovered exercise and diet as a means of putting on lean muscle.
I had thought that, since I'm only 10 pounds shy of being able to donate more plasma and make more money, I might start to stuff lead in my boots (a bit more each time) and "gain" the weight that way.
But, yesterday's experience put a damper on my enthusiasm for anything like that. And plasma donation, in general. Not that it doesn't feel good to have helped save the lives of people who use plasma products, it just doesn't feel good enough to offset the symptoms of Bundibugyo virus...
I wonder what those ABBA looking strawberry blonds in the white lab coats, wearing eye protection, who speak English with cute accents think about their little operation in the Deep South, located in a ghetto.
I got there at around 5 PM.
The lady who weighed me and took my temperature and blood pressure and a drop of my blood to check its "protein level" had taken a couple minutes before yelling "Next!" between myself and the guy before me. She had slowly, and kind of blatantly wiped her area down with disinfectant then slowly put on a fresh pair of latex gloves.
Prejudices
Let me get some prejudices aired and out of the way.
Yes, I think that the nurses there, who are all African American, are suspicious of a white guy like myself who brings his laptop, and that they make a show of doing their jobs "correctly" in front of me -like wiping the receiver of the telephone at their station with disinfectant, even though they hadn't even spoken into it; because it's part of some kind of checklist that someone like myself might be ticking off on some report that will be sent to the home office in Sweden.
I'm pretty sure that there is a plasma place "where all the white people go," and it is probably the one that Rose and Ed go to that is in Metarie, a white area. So, Travis and my presence is an anomaly at the Gretna one, since we don't live in the nearby ghetto, and why wouldn't we just go to the one in Metarie where we can be with our kind? (Because, when I found the place and that it was on a bus line, I ended my search right there, without even investigating the Metarie place, and because Travis just followed suit).
Initially the nurse told me that my blood pressure was low, and that she would have to take it again in another 10 minutes, but then recanted, saying "It went through."
Chicanery In Lab Coats
Then, I was sent to an overflow area of recliners that were occupied by a few other people. They were all black people and several of them came and went while I sat there, thinking that they would call me when it was my turn.
But, even though I was concentrating on whatever I was doing on this laptop, I could kind of see, out of the corner of my eye, myself being skipped over.
There were people complaining out loud about needing to be somewhere at some time or that "I ain't got all day; for real!" and words to that effect.
So, there began a covert operation, perpetrated by the employees who did the needle sticking, and who have gotten to know some of the people that go there, and who were skipping me, I suppose because I was patiently sitting and waiting my turn, not causing a ruckus. That might work in Metarie, but not in the hood.
And it is likely that, because I was on my laptop and "in my own world," the thought I wouldn't notice a dozen people going ahead of me during the 2 hours that I sat there.
Eventually, after they had gotten all of their friends on their way, they called me, but encountered a problem.
They had made me sit there so long that my intake data had expired. My blood protein levels had had enough time to potentially dip outside of the tolerated range during the almost 2 hours that I sat patiently through.
So, the same computer that let my blood pressure go through, at 117 over 68, had exposed their shenanigans in skipping over me, who was, one of only 3 white guys there, out of maybe 88 people.
No other donor before me or after me had to be re-screened, because none of them had "timed out" after having been made to wait so long.
When I finally did go to the stabbing area (not the separate overflow section) I saw that there were people crowding around the stabbing recliners, waiting to jump in as soon as someone vacated the machine; ahead of anyone who might unwittingly be waiting in the overflow area.
"Go back to where you was..." said a lanky black man, who was not wearing an Octapharma uniform, but who was sitting in the stabbing area, probably waiting to jump on the first available machine.
"No, I told him..." said a nearby nurse, who had probably been told that somewhere a spreadsheet in Sweden is being pored over by someone who is noting that "rescreen" is in bold-face and is flashing next to my name, probably with "his blood pressure was low the first time" typed into the "reason for re-screening" box next to it. Or, most likely a code: "R103" (low blood pressure) or something.
I wouldn't find out until I got home that it had taken Travis, one of the other of a handful of white people that go to that particular lab, just as long as myself to have donated.
I would also find out that Travis felt weak and had flu-like symptoms, including running nose and sneezing, like I did.
"I'm pretty much done with plasma selling, after today's experience," I said to Travis. "Tonight might only be the 2nd or 3rd time that I've taken off busking for 'health reasons,'" I added.
We had no idea that the place could become so crowded and chaotic once donors had reached their bonus numbers of visits. This didn't make sense on the level that, in order to pile up enough donations to be making their 6th one of the month on September 21st, then the place must have been equally crowded on the days leading up to it. We determined that a lot of people must just have "Tuesday and Thursday" as their "days," when they visit each week, so that it's easy to remember and they don't miss out on any bonuses.
They are supposed to use a new needle for each donor and to use new vessels in which to centrifuge out the platelets before returning the fluid part, along with some saline solution to the donors veins.
But, donors have been screened for hepatitis, AIDS, syphilis, ebola and bundibugyo virus, and have answered the intake questions honestly, about their not having shared needles with guys who have sex with men from west Africa since their last visit, and there has probably never been a problem before. But...
The nurse asked me which arm I wanted to use.
"The right one," I told her. I usually don't care, but on Tuesday, the person who inserted the needle in my vein, put it in at a slanted angle, so that she repeatedly had to come by and pull it out some before re-taping it, because the hole at the tip of the needle, I guess, was against the wall of my vein, blocking some of the flow.
Before I left, the stabber had gone into an office in back and had a brief word with a white coat wearing lady, before returning with an ice pack that she taped over the spot in my arm with and Ace Bandage, something that they had never done before. She had just mumbled something when I mentioned that fact. It was obviously as a result of her having put the needle in kind of crooked and having lacerated the wall of my vein in more than one place, causing swelling and a black and blue mark the next day, to go with soreness up and down my arm.
So, "The right one," I specified this time.
The nurse directed me to a machine "Go right there," she said.
The machine was set up on the left side of the recliner, for people who want to use their left arm. Had she gotten her right and left mixed up, amidst all the confusion of bonus day?
That looked like the only available machine at the time, and so I decided to just use my left arm, which was still sore from being mangled 2 days prior, rather than give them a reason to send me back to the overflow area/.
She put the needle in the same vein which had the black and blue mark around it, and the machine ran, but not apparently very efficiently. It took 10 minutes longer than usual to drain me, and the hose was doing a strange kind of bucking motion, accompanied by a gurgling sensation around my vein.
If the 40 bucks wasn't so important at the time, I might have spoken up and told her that the machine seemed to be trying periodically to push the plasma back in my vein rather than draw it out.
It was not a very smooth donation. Further insult was added to injury when I checked the balance to discover that the 25 dollar "bonus" had been added to the measly 15 dollar amount that I get for the first donation of a given 7 day period.
I didn't feel very well at all as I walked the mile to the Wal-Mart, some food for Harold the cat, and a few bananas, a mango, and a Rock Star Zero energy drink for myself. That usually perks up my mood, but I still felt a bit down, when I decided that I would stay in that night, eat a good meal, get a hot bath and a good night's rest.
I met Travis out front and we both went inside together. He was blowing his nose frequently and had taken some Benadryl (sp?) he said.
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