(no subject)

[which_chick]

A letter to our Dear Red Cross.



Dear Red Cross,

I went to a friend's cousin's church on Saturday for a blood drive (senior class community service project for one of the members). I used to give blood pretty regularly, back in the day, and I figured it would not hurt me to get back into doing so. Plus also, my friend was going and I figured I might as well tag along with her.

When we got there, I told the polite and helpful lady taking admissions that I'd blown the vein in my right arm from selling plasma in college. I read the informational handouts and signed in. When a screener became available, I went into the cubby to be screened.

The screener, friendly and helpful, went over the health questions with me, verified my identity, updated my address (they still had Bigler Hall from State College as my address), asked my date of birth, social security number, and weight. She tested my blood pressure, temperature, and iron content. All were fine. She explained the computerized health question thing and left me to get on with it. When she returned, we went over the information because I said I'd been out of the country in the last three years (to the Bahamas). And I reviewed the information sheet with her, including the "alternate" phone number listed, which was to the dorm at Penn State that I'd lived in when I blew the vein in my right arm from selling plasma twice a week every week for four years, a fact which I mentioned.

And then I went with the very nice, friendly phlebotomist lady to the donation tables. I mentioned that I'd blown the vein in my right arm from selling plasma. And the phlebotomist lady said, "Okay, let's take a look" and told me to show her my arms, which I did.

Now, like most hominids, I have two arms. Each arm has two easily-visible veins in the elbow crook, so four veins total. On my right arm (which has at the end of it my vastly-preferred hand), the vein furthest from my body when the arm is in "donation" position looks like a fucking pencil. It is huge and stationary, easily palpable, a veritable firehose under the skin. It pops to the surface at the slightest provocation... you can WAVE the rubber strappy thing at it and it'll pop up like a dog begging for scraps of lunchmeat. It runs down my arm and around over my forearm bones, easily and ropily visible there, too. (I should point out at this juncture that I am female and that most females do not have ropily visible veins at my bodyfat.) The thing is, the huge, stationary, pencil-thick firehose vein got broken at Sera-Tec when I sold plasma and I haven't let anyone put a needle in it since 1992. I have long *suspected* that it's broken forever but I don't actually have any evidence for this because I've never let anyone try since Sera-Tec broke it.

I don't have to tell you, Dear Red Cross, which vein the phlebotomist lady selected. No dummy she, phlebotomist lady picked the firehose.

"That's the one that got blown from selling plasma in college."

"That was a long time ago." (I am forty. It was a long time ago.) "It looks fine now, absolutely lovely." (Yes, yes it does.) "We'll use that one." (Maybe phlebotomist lady knows better than me. I haven't let anyone stick a needle in it since that awful day at Sera-Tec in 1992. Maybe it's better now. Do veins heal? It still, like circulates and stuff...)

So she iodine scrubbed. And she inserted the needle. She hit the vein on the first try because it is truly a fire hose of a vein. She did have to kind of push a little because, "there's some scar tissue there" (which would be from when the vein got blown back when I was in college and selling plasma for beer money and it's not like I'm lying because you can SEE the damn scar on the crook of my arm where they hit me twice a week at SeraTec) but she got the needle in the vein. And there was no blood. Nothing. She wiggled the needle around a little. (I love it when they do that.) Nothing. She pushed it in a little. She pulled it back a bit. (All motions of the needle in one's arm are super fun.) Finally, blood started seeping slowly into the bag. "Well, it's not Speedy Gonzalez, there, but it'll do. Squeeze your hand every five to ten seconds."

(Time passed, more time than was reasonable.)

Bag had gotten about halfway full. Phlebotomist lady calls another phlebotomist lady over to look at this vein. First lady says, "It's just not flowing well at all. I don't understand. It's a beautiful vein, look, you can see it nearly up to the strap." Other lady, "It is a beautiful vein." Me: "It's the vein I blew in college while selling plasma." First lady wiggles the needle around some, second lady crouches down to look at bag not-filling-up. "Try pulling it out a little. No... that's not any better. How about in?" First lady bends down to look at the bag: "Nothing's working and now that's slower than it was. She's gonna clot."

The first lady finally pulled the needle, generating half a pint of biological waste. (Red Cross cannot use partial pints. They have to throw them away. They don't like to tell people this because it upsets them.) She looks at the crook of my elbow, which is somewhat battered and puffy. I can tell that it will bruise. Now, I am not a person who bruises easily, but this is going to be a three-color spectacular. Awesome. Just what I wanted. Also, crook of arm hurts in an unpleasant and ache-y way.

The lady then says to me, "You need to tell people that this vein is blown."

I say, "I did that. You didn't listen to me."

"No, I didn't. I am sorry. It looks beautiful, so beautiful that I figured you did not know what you were talking about."

(And how many times have you been here when a needle's gone into my right arm? This is your first rodeo? How nice for you. Guess how many times I've been here when a needle's gone into my right arm. ALL OF THEM.)

"That's why you need to be more assertive next time. Seriously, stick to your guns. People are going to have difficulty believing that vein does not work."

The fuck? I do not go to donate blood so that I can practice my assertive skills against phelbotomist types who have fixated on the (purely decorative) fire hose in my right arm. Damn it.

Comments

[moeckie.livejournal.com]

I have the opposite problem. My veins are tiny and they hide. Phlebotomists take it as a personal challenge when I tell them I am hard to stick. I have begun offering up the back of my hand and insisting they stick me there. "But it hurts more," they argue. It hurts a bit more on the stick but I don't end up with bruises and long term pain. The one that didn't listen is all too common. It's like they have to prove their mad skillz or something...sadly, the skills do not include listening to the souls inhabiting the bodies.

Red Cross Letter

[bhconrad.livejournal.com]

And I suggest that you make a printout of your assertive posting here, and mail it to the Johnstown Red Cross office . That will be a test of your assertive skills, which should please the director of that blood drive no end. Or, at least, it will make someone pay attention next time for another hapless victim of the "I know better than you, oh Mere Mortal!" Think of your experience as taking one for the team. Fix the errors within your power. This posting will become a memo, I guarantee you.swparedcross.org/Keystone.php.