Today was blood donation day. Despite the good deed, I left the needle poking room with a lack of accomplishment. There’s this one point right before they stab you that they have you answer a bunch of questions about your lifestyle and try and gauge if you are unexciting enough to donate blood. I passed.
Here’s what a typical survey/test looks like:
- In the past 3 years have you traveled to a foreign country other than Mississippi or Alabama? No.
- In the past 12 months have you accessed the back door of your partner? No.
- In the past 6 months have you yammed questionable women in questionable locales? No.
- In the past 3 months have you shed blood for your hood? No.
After answering about 200 questions of this nature, a nurse usually comes by to console the broken man that you are because of the lack of adventure that pervades your life. She congratulates you on being a loser. You are now ready to donate blood...
They bring you over to a cot to lay on to make you feel comfortable during the donation process. The thing is that the cot they offer you to lay on is a Vietnam Era relic that has had its fair share of run-ins with sweaty backs. These cots are not for the O.C.D. of heart. If you’re willing to look past this small detail, you still have to contend with a nurse that has the bed-side manner of either Tammy Faye or Daria all-the-while being treated like a horror movie victim.
At the end of it all, to congratulate you for your service, you’re handed some O.J., a cookie, and a letter warning you of the dangers of donating blood. It goes something like this:
“Thanks for your donation. While donating blood is usually a safe and harmless process, you may experience abnormal bruising or AIDs. If you suspect something’s wrong, contact our automated operator so that we can direct you to a facility that will properly take care of you (yeah right).”
That letter’s great. It even goes on to say that after the humiliation and torture you’ve just endured, you blood may be useless… but don’t stop trying!