Juice Vs. His Blood: Part 2

Despite the fact that I didn't get to give them even a drop of my blood the last time I tried to donate, the Red Cross gave me a ring last week to ask for more. I sighed and told them I'd come down to try again. This time I drug the wife along with me since she had the day off.

We had no appointment, but had been told to just show up between 11a and 4p, so we rolled in around 2:45. There were three people ahead of us, so the wait just to go back and fill out our computer-based embarrassing question survey was already a long one. I kept wanting to find fault in how the Red Cross staff was running things, looking for proof that they were being inefficient in taking my blood from me and causing me to wait needlessly. However, every time I voiced any questions like this the wife pointed out the flaw in each given theory and I was left to just be frustrated at waiting as a concept rather than being able to get justifiably irritated with the Red Cross.

Finally, after nearly an hour, we were called back to do the blood test and questionnaire. More waiting commenced and then I was called out to one of the tables. None of the Red Cross personnel were the same as those when I last tried to donate, so before I sat down I asked if it would be possible to switch the arm rest from a right arm position to a left arm position, because the blood techs last time suggested we try the left. They said no problem and switched it right over.

Seemed a good sign that my vein was immediately visible to this tech. She marked it with a Sharpie, which I first mistook for the needle being inserted, as I wasn't watching. Thought I had finally met a needle that didn't hurt, only to be disappointed when I looked down to see only a black mark on my arm. After a good scrubbing with iodine, though, I was stuck with the real needle soon enough.

"Oh, it looks like it rolled," she said, referring to my vein. Motherpussbucket! An image of another sweaty, nausea-inducing 10 minutes of having the tech drag the needle around beneath my skin in an effort to find the frickin vein flashed before my eyes. However, this time all she had to do was pull the needle out slightly and blood began to flow. She told me to squeeze the foam ball she'd given me between my thumb and forefinger every few seconds. Evidently my blood wanted out, because I filled up the bag within 6 minutes.

So now we know for sure that when it comes to giving blood, I'm a lefty.