Long time readers may recall my previous difficulties in obtaining and retaining eyeglasses. As I have detailed before, at only one point in my glasses-wearing career have I been able to both order and receive frames and new lenses in less than two weeks, and often I've had to wait far longer. No matter what kind of frames I need, the two week waiting period has become standard and I no longer expect anything less. However, I suspect that it is directly because of my acceptance of this inconvenience that the universe has seen fit to throw additional wrenches into the works just to increase my vision-related-irritation.
Two weeks ago I went in for my annual eye exam. Wasn't having trouble with my vision, but just thought it was time to get it done, particularly since my current pair of glasses have become pretty scratched up and the finish on their two-year-old frames is starting to chip. Had `em examined, they'd changed ever so slightly, and, while my eyes were dilating, I went out to choose some new frames. I decided to stick with the Silhouette frame brand, as I like the rimless glasses look. This time, though, I decided to choose ones with thicker, darker temples. In fact, I found a pair that fit even better than my current pair of glasses. Turns out their lenses were a third of an inch wider than my current lenses, allowing the temples to rest even that much further from the sides of my head, which in turn caused them not to pinch the sides of my fat face. Who knew? Sign me up, I told them.
So I ordered new frames with the same lens shape as my old ones, only wider. They said it would probably take two weeks.
Oh, no, I thought, there's no probably about it. It will take two weeks.
And two weeks passed.
On Friday I phoned the optometrist to see if they had arrived, for I had not yet received a call. Yep, they had just come in and I could pop down and pick them up.
I waited at their fitting desk for a few minutes while the fitting tech (not the semi-evil Liz, of tales past, although she was at the front desk, leading me to suspect that her off-putting manner and inattention to detail might have earned her a demotion from the frame technician side) finished wiping the new pair up. I was afraid that they wouldn't look as cool as I recalled them being. I didn't trust my blurry, dilated memory. But they looked as cool as I'd hoped and fit superbly. Only... I couldn't quite see clearly through the right eye of them. I looked across the room at a framed print with writing on it and held my hand in front of the left eye. Yep. Blurry.
"Um, I hate to say this, but the right eye of these is blurry."
The tech seemed flustered at this. "What eye?" she asked.
"The right."
She checked my records and compared them to my previous records then said it looked like my right eye was listed as somehow having better vision than from previous years.
"That's my bad eye," I said.
Again, she seemed confused and continued to consult records on her computer. Finally she asked if she could take the new pair of glasses back and test them in a device that could measure their power. She returned a few minutes later and was very apologetic, but said it appeared that the lab had sent the wrong lens. Normally, she explained, she would be able to let me take the glasses and just pop the replacement lens in when it arrived. But because these were drill-mounted, she had to have them back for just three or four days. I was disappointed, because I really liked how they looked, but I couldn't get angry about it. For, you see, I have now come to accept that it is both my lot in life to never receive glasses in under two weeks, and my lot that there will always be additional complications that will assure that I don't receive them for at least an additional week. And, really, unless they have some sort of emergency WE SCREWED UP rush service back at the lab, I'm going to assume the 3 or 4 days they said really means two weeks anyway, so this time out it's likely a total of four.
Guess we'll see in a few.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I felt the earth move under my... well, you know.
So there the wife and I were, sitting in an Italian restaurant near Harrisonburg, VA, when I felt the floor beneath us begin to vibrate. It felt similar to how a laundry room floor might feel if the floorboards were loose and the washer was off-kilter. Then it grew stronger, kind of like a train passing only there were no tracks nearby. Now for all I knew this Italian place had a dough mixer in the back that had just thrown a rod, but the first thought I was able to express was...
"Are we having an earthquake?"
The wife felt it too, but said, "No, I don't think so. The powerlines aren't shaking."
I looked up, though, and saw that the chandeliers were swaying. And then it was all over. Probably lasted less than 10 seconds.
Soon other people at nearby tables were overheard to wonder what the vibrations had been caused by. The train theory was floated, but our waitress confirmed that there were no tracks nearby. The wife was still unconvinced that we'd had an earthquake, but she too could see the chandeliers as they slowed to a halt.
A few minutes passed and I just couldn't let it go. Technically, I've been in earthquakes before, cause I was born in southern California and my family lived there for a year or so; I just don't remember any of them. In fact, my father once made a jigsaw puzzle out of shards of a mirror that had shattered during such a quake. It had been leaning against a wall, atop a dresser in my room. He glued the pieces down to a board and it's now bolted to his office wall.
I popped out my phone and did a quick internet search for "earthquakes, virginia." Soon enough I found the US Geological Survey website which showed a big red dot on top of our location, signifying earthquakes registered in the last hour. Bingo. It had been an earthquake and, really, the first one I could remember feeling in my life. I texted my dad to let him know, then began texting friends back in WV to see if they had felt it too. From Charleston to Morgantown, they had.
Throughout our trip home, nearly everywhere we stopped, people were talking about the quake. Some had not felt it, because they had been driving, but it was the primary topic of conversation regardless. I mentioned to the wife that more than likely it was such a small quake--at least for us--that most Californians would hardly count it, but it was pretty cool for Virginia all the same. I kind of dug it.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard at My House #11
(The latest and hopefully final chapter in the ongoing telemarketing conversation saga between me and Associated Community Services.)
*RING*
ME-- Hello?
DEBBIE-- Hello JUICE?
ME-- Yes.
DEBBIE-- Hi, this is Debbie calling. How are you today?
ME-- Okaaaay.
DEBBIE-- I work for AC Services. We do fundraising on behalf of the Children's Cancer Fund of America. You know... we're the people who get the cancer medicines to the children in need.
ME-- Yes, Debbie. I am familiar with AC Services. I've actually done the research and it would seem that a lot of the funds AC Services raises does not actually make it to the charities you're fundraising for.
(Not even the slightest of pauses.)
DEBBIE-- Would you like to speak with someone about this?
ME-- No. Actually, what I would like is for you to put my name on your do not call list.
DEBBIE-- We can do that, sir. You have a nice day.
ME-- You as well.
*RING*
ME-- Hello?
DEBBIE-- Hello JUICE?
ME-- Yes.
DEBBIE-- Hi, this is Debbie calling. How are you today?
ME-- Okaaaay.
DEBBIE-- I work for AC Services. We do fundraising on behalf of the Children's Cancer Fund of America. You know... we're the people who get the cancer medicines to the children in need.
ME-- Yes, Debbie. I am familiar with AC Services. I've actually done the research and it would seem that a lot of the funds AC Services raises does not actually make it to the charities you're fundraising for.
(Not even the slightest of pauses.)
DEBBIE-- Would you like to speak with someone about this?
ME-- No. Actually, what I would like is for you to put my name on your do not call list.
DEBBIE-- We can do that, sir. You have a nice day.
ME-- You as well.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Homeward Bound
I'm trapped in my house today, much as I was yesterday, waiting for Suddenlink.
Our Suddenlink internet and phones went out yesterday morning, right in the middle of an email I was composing. I saw all the lights on the cable modem drop out, then the rightmost three came back on and blinked at me for 20 minutes. I phoned Suddenlink up, expecting to hear an automated message that they were down, but no. Not in our part of the state. So I waited until I got through to someone in the high speed internet department and explained the situation.
Trouble is, I can't really use my cell phone in the office where the computer is located, as we really only get reception on the north side of the house or out on the deck. So I had to keep putting the phone down to go back and try the reboot instructions dude told me. Apparently all the reboot instructions I'd been given in the past for cable modems are incorrect. Instead of unplugging it for a minute and removing the backup battery, there's now a little reset button in a hole in the back of the modem which you have to use a pen or pencil to press. Only when I jabbed one in the hole, I could feel no button at all.
Frustrated with process of running back and forth to the living room to explain all this, I finally risked taking the phone back to the office at which point the call was dropped. I phoned Suddenlink back, waited on hold for a while and got through to someone else. Between us, we could not restore the connection, so she suggested a service call was in order. And, lucky me, there was an open slot sometime in the afternoon between 11 a.m. and 9 p.m. Would I be around? I hadn't planned to be, but I said sure and gave her my cell phone number so the tech could call me back. The rep then asked if I wanted to go over my bill to make sure I was saving as much money with them as I could. I declined, as I had already done that during a previous call to them.
"Well, I would like to point out that we do offer phone service in your area that can provide you with free long distance for a low monthly fee," she said.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I already have phone service through Suddenlink." Only then did she notice that it already said that on her screen.
The afternoon stretched on with no call from Suddenlink. Finally I decided to have another go at making sure everything was hooked up right with the modem. I checked the phone wire connection from the wall to the modem, then from the modem to the router, then checked the coaxial cable from the wall to the modem. All seemed solid enough, but I decided to unscrew the coax and then plug it back in just to see what happened. Lo and behold, all the lights on the modem lit up and the whole thing reset and began running properly within a minute. Awesome.
I phoned Suddenlink back to alert them to my good fortune and to let them know that they could cancel the service call. According to them, though, the modem still wasn't firing on all cylinders, so the lady suggested I go ahead and take the service call. "I see we already have it scheduled for tomorrow between 1 p.m. and 9 p.m."
Sonofa-- REALLY? Tomorrow?! So I'd been trapped in my house all day with no hope of a service call?
Oh, but it got even better. She next asked if the cell number I'd listed during my earlier call would be a good one for the service tech to use to contact me. And she repeated it back to me, but instead of the first three digits ending in a 1, she listed them ending in a 2. Ahhhhhh, so there was even LESS hope of being contacted by Suddenlink AT ALL.
So now, here I sit, internet seemingly functioning at full capacity, awaiting that blessed call. And I'm pretty sure there's no way in hell they're actually going to call, unless I decide to do something foolish, like go run an errand. Perhaps I'll test the theory.
Our Suddenlink internet and phones went out yesterday morning, right in the middle of an email I was composing. I saw all the lights on the cable modem drop out, then the rightmost three came back on and blinked at me for 20 minutes. I phoned Suddenlink up, expecting to hear an automated message that they were down, but no. Not in our part of the state. So I waited until I got through to someone in the high speed internet department and explained the situation.
Trouble is, I can't really use my cell phone in the office where the computer is located, as we really only get reception on the north side of the house or out on the deck. So I had to keep putting the phone down to go back and try the reboot instructions dude told me. Apparently all the reboot instructions I'd been given in the past for cable modems are incorrect. Instead of unplugging it for a minute and removing the backup battery, there's now a little reset button in a hole in the back of the modem which you have to use a pen or pencil to press. Only when I jabbed one in the hole, I could feel no button at all.
Frustrated with process of running back and forth to the living room to explain all this, I finally risked taking the phone back to the office at which point the call was dropped. I phoned Suddenlink back, waited on hold for a while and got through to someone else. Between us, we could not restore the connection, so she suggested a service call was in order. And, lucky me, there was an open slot sometime in the afternoon between 11 a.m. and 9 p.m. Would I be around? I hadn't planned to be, but I said sure and gave her my cell phone number so the tech could call me back. The rep then asked if I wanted to go over my bill to make sure I was saving as much money with them as I could. I declined, as I had already done that during a previous call to them.
"Well, I would like to point out that we do offer phone service in your area that can provide you with free long distance for a low monthly fee," she said.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I already have phone service through Suddenlink." Only then did she notice that it already said that on her screen.
The afternoon stretched on with no call from Suddenlink. Finally I decided to have another go at making sure everything was hooked up right with the modem. I checked the phone wire connection from the wall to the modem, then from the modem to the router, then checked the coaxial cable from the wall to the modem. All seemed solid enough, but I decided to unscrew the coax and then plug it back in just to see what happened. Lo and behold, all the lights on the modem lit up and the whole thing reset and began running properly within a minute. Awesome.
I phoned Suddenlink back to alert them to my good fortune and to let them know that they could cancel the service call. According to them, though, the modem still wasn't firing on all cylinders, so the lady suggested I go ahead and take the service call. "I see we already have it scheduled for tomorrow between 1 p.m. and 9 p.m."
Sonofa-- REALLY? Tomorrow?! So I'd been trapped in my house all day with no hope of a service call?
Oh, but it got even better. She next asked if the cell number I'd listed during my earlier call would be a good one for the service tech to use to contact me. And she repeated it back to me, but instead of the first three digits ending in a 1, she listed them ending in a 2. Ahhhhhh, so there was even LESS hope of being contacted by Suddenlink AT ALL.
So now, here I sit, internet seemingly functioning at full capacity, awaiting that blessed call. And I'm pretty sure there's no way in hell they're actually going to call, unless I decide to do something foolish, like go run an errand. Perhaps I'll test the theory.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard at My House #10
*RING*
I look at the caller ID and see it is a number from Utah. I suspect it might be a telemarketer, but I also have a client who I think is from Utah, or maybe New Mexico, so I decide to answer against my best judgment.
ME-- Hello?
CALLER-- Hi this is Erica with Dish Services. We’re just calling today to let you know about a special Dish Network promotion.
ME-- All right.
CALLER-- Do you have DirecTV or another satellite service?
ME-- Actually, I have Dish Network.
(Pause)
CALLER-- Uh… okay. Well… Thank you for being a loyal customer, then.
ME-- You’re welcome.
CALLER-- Have a nice day.
ME-- You too.Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Bloodletting
Last week, whilst putting in my 15 minutes at the gym (not really that few, but my wife likes to say so), I noticed there was a blood drive sign up for the coming Monday. It's been a goodly while since I've given blood. In fact, I don't recall donating any since before 2005, which was the year my blood was injected full of lots of fun things in order to prepare and protect my system for a trip to Central America. After that, I was forbidden from donating blood for a year and that's now stretched into six. But I happened to be free for the Monday in question, so I signed up for a 2 o'clock slot.
Of course, five minutes after I left the gym (15 minutes later) I had forgotten about the appointment entirely, having failed to slot it into my phone's calendar.
On Monday, at 2 p.m., I coincidentally (or by unconscious self-suggestion) happened to walk into the gym, whereupon I noticed the Red Cross blood drive taking up the majority of the gym's basketball court and screamed "YAAAH!" in my head. Then I remembered that my appointment was at 2 and saw that I was exactly on time. Yay me.
I filled out the paperwork, read over the material and was soon ushered in by one of the bloodletter ladies for what I expected to be the usual battery of embarrassing sexual history questions. The bloodletter lady asked if I had brought my donation card, at which point I had to admit to her that I had not because I only coincidentally came to the gym at the time of my appointment and not not actually prepared myself for donation in advance. She was able to look me up by driver's license number and brought up all my old contact information from Tri-Metro. We updated everything, she asked me a few minor questions and then she departed, leaving me to answer all the embarrassing questions via a questionnaire on her laptop. Wow, what an improvement, and modern thinking at work.
This made me wonder if similar measures are now being taken at the blood plasma donation clinic located behind the first apartment the wife and I rented as a married couple, back in Charlotte. That plasma clinic was located behind what was then called the Sailboat Bay apartment complex, adjacent to the Eastland Mall, was a convenient place to go and make a few extra bucks from week to week. In fact, if memory serves, we used to make around $100 a week between us from donating plasma. It took around two hours to donate on a good day, more on a bad one, and you had to come twice a week to get the full amount, because they only gave you around $20 for the first visit and $30 for the second. I tried to look at it from the perspective of "Hey, I got paid $50 for reading American Gods one week." (Which reminds me, I've never told the story here of the time I worked for Onstar and once got paid time-and-a-half one weekend to read American Gods and pass out free ice cream in the break room. Erm. Well, that's pretty much the story right there. Somebody had to do it and I thought that somebody needed to be me, just so I could forever more tell folks I got paid $15 an hour plus a $100 overtime bonus for reading Neil Gaiman and watching cream. It was great.) But the reality of my situation was that I got paid to read American Gods while sitting in a waiting room amongst people who clearly had some serious chemical dependency issues who you just KNEW were only donating plasma in order to get money to go buy intravenous drugs. And while that was fascinating and horrifying character study material, it was only the backdrop to the twice weekly 100 question embarrassing questionnaire recited at you from memory at breakneck speed by the most bored questionnaire-giving plasma technicians on the planet. My answers never changed once, but I had to take it every week. Similarly, there was also a brief physical exam including a blood test and lots of paperwork to fill out, which we had to do with each and every visit. This prompted me to wonder just how efficiently this place was being run if they couldn't be bothered to keep and consult any of the massive pile of records we created in a month. Then, after more waiting in the rehab group session room (i.e. the waiting room) we were sent with our day's paperwork file to the donation room which was lined with donation stations separated by a double-sided plasma centrifuge machine covered in hoses and looking for all the world like something out of a David Cronenberg film. Once seated, we would eventually be stabbed with needles and have a portion of our blood pumped out, the plasma separated from it and then pumped back into us. Again, that was on a good day. On a bad day? Well....
Back then I was around 40 pounds heavier than I am now and not as well-sculpted as my 15 minute increments at the gym have made me now. With the added poundage, the veins in my arms were sometimes difficult to locate. Oh, the techs would stab away with confidence, even trying to use my weekly track mark as a guidepost, but rare was the time they actually hit blood on the first try. And several times, after dicking around too long and not finding blood, they had to send me home WITH pay as per their rules and regs. This was okay by me, as they had to pay me regardless of whether or not I left any plasma with them. But eventually, after many painful and fruitless stabbings over the course of weeks, it was decreed from on high that only three of the nurses working there, who were of a certain class and experience level, were allowed to touch me at all, for those ladies were the only ones who could find a vein in my ham of an arm. The plasma collection would take around 50 minutes, then we'd be paid, encouraged to come back and set free. The wife and I used to save the money we made there and buy Christmas presents for our friends and loved ones, just so we could tell them that their presents were paid for with our very blood.
At the gym, after being escorted to a bleeding station, I had to wait around 10 minutes while the techs finished letting blood on a couple of other donors. Now, after being stabbed twice a week for several months, needles don't bug me. But while I wasn't at all nervous, I must have looked it because everyone kept asking me if I was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," I told them. Then more time would pass and they'd ask again. "Yep, I'm great," I'd say. Eventually, they tourniqueted me up and tried to fine a vein. If I'd been there on purpose, rather than coincidence, I would probably have done them the favor of doing a bunch of curls first so that the veins in my arm would stand out more. But, I hadn't, so they were left to their own devices. They seemed pretty confident they'd found one and marked it just to be sure. Then more time went by before they actually stuck me and by the time they did the vein had moved or they just missed it, cause it came up dry when they stabbed for it. Without pulling the needle from my arm, they moved it around under the skin in search of the vein.
"Are you all right?" they kept asking.
"Well, it hurts a bit, but other than that I'm fine."
This is never pleasant, but they were as gentle as they could be. Finally, the tech in charge of me tagged out and the lady who'd interviewed took over. She too moved the needle around, a bit more vigorously, causing a burning sensation to erupt in my arm. I groaned at this, causing them to ask me again if I was all right.
"That really burns, but I'll be okay," I said. The burning subsided only a little when they stopped moving the needle. After some consultation with one another, it was decided that if I felt all right and was up for it, they would like to try the other arm. They explained that since no blood had hit the bag, it would be okay to just switch.
"That's fine by me," I said. After all, I'd invested over half an hour at this point, so let em have some blood. The trouble was, they didn't take the needle out right away. I guess there was prep that had to be done and they were also wrapping up the letting with a couple of other folks, so I was left to sit there with the needle still burning in my arm for around five minutes. About a minute into that, though, I began to feel light headed. I tried to breathe harder to get some circulation going, but all I could feel was the burning in my arm and the blood draining from my face. I thought I could maybe man up and ride it out, but there came a point where I simply knew that if I didn't say something I would pass out in another 20 seconds or so.
"I'm feeling very light headed," I said.
You would think I'd said I was on fire. Immediately there was activity around me from the two ladies who'd been working on me and then a third. They lowered the backrest of the table and I slipped down into a more prone position, at which time all the blood came back to my head and I once again felt perfectly fine. The rest of the five minutes was taken up with my being asked if I was all right and if I needed anything to drink and then a straw being offered to me from a cup held by one of the ladies and then more questions as to whether I was all right.
The needle was eventually removed and then I was raised incrementally so as not to upset my delicate condition and then asked to swivel around so they could use the arm rest with my left arm, etc. I kept telling everyone for the 15th time that I was fine, but it took a while before they began looking for another vein. Then, just after they'd found one clearly visible to one and all, the tech who'd interviewed me said, "Nope. No can do." She was holding a cell phone, having consulted with someone off site. I'd had a reaction and there would be no more stabbing of my person that day. When she said "reaction" I pictured some sort of skin rash, but, no, she meant my near brush with fainting.
"But... I'm fine," I said. They just looked at me. "All right. Whatever."
They thanked me profusely for my time, told me to stay out of the gym for several days to give my arm time to heal, and encouraged me to have some refreshments before I left. I took the biggest bag of cookies I could find in their punch bowl full of bagged snacks and made for the car.
Before the day was out, the interior of my elbow had begun to bruise. As of this writing it is bright purple and looks like I've been walloped with a stout tree branch. And I don't even have the knowledge of my Type O blood well-donated, or even a check for $20 to show for it.
Of course, five minutes after I left the gym (15 minutes later) I had forgotten about the appointment entirely, having failed to slot it into my phone's calendar.
On Monday, at 2 p.m., I coincidentally (or by unconscious self-suggestion) happened to walk into the gym, whereupon I noticed the Red Cross blood drive taking up the majority of the gym's basketball court and screamed "YAAAH!" in my head. Then I remembered that my appointment was at 2 and saw that I was exactly on time. Yay me.
I filled out the paperwork, read over the material and was soon ushered in by one of the bloodletter ladies for what I expected to be the usual battery of embarrassing sexual history questions. The bloodletter lady asked if I had brought my donation card, at which point I had to admit to her that I had not because I only coincidentally came to the gym at the time of my appointment and not not actually prepared myself for donation in advance. She was able to look me up by driver's license number and brought up all my old contact information from Tri-Metro. We updated everything, she asked me a few minor questions and then she departed, leaving me to answer all the embarrassing questions via a questionnaire on her laptop. Wow, what an improvement, and modern thinking at work.
This made me wonder if similar measures are now being taken at the blood plasma donation clinic located behind the first apartment the wife and I rented as a married couple, back in Charlotte. That plasma clinic was located behind what was then called the Sailboat Bay apartment complex, adjacent to the Eastland Mall, was a convenient place to go and make a few extra bucks from week to week. In fact, if memory serves, we used to make around $100 a week between us from donating plasma. It took around two hours to donate on a good day, more on a bad one, and you had to come twice a week to get the full amount, because they only gave you around $20 for the first visit and $30 for the second. I tried to look at it from the perspective of "Hey, I got paid $50 for reading American Gods one week." (Which reminds me, I've never told the story here of the time I worked for Onstar and once got paid time-and-a-half one weekend to read American Gods and pass out free ice cream in the break room. Erm. Well, that's pretty much the story right there. Somebody had to do it and I thought that somebody needed to be me, just so I could forever more tell folks I got paid $15 an hour plus a $100 overtime bonus for reading Neil Gaiman and watching cream. It was great.) But the reality of my situation was that I got paid to read American Gods while sitting in a waiting room amongst people who clearly had some serious chemical dependency issues who you just KNEW were only donating plasma in order to get money to go buy intravenous drugs. And while that was fascinating and horrifying character study material, it was only the backdrop to the twice weekly 100 question embarrassing questionnaire recited at you from memory at breakneck speed by the most bored questionnaire-giving plasma technicians on the planet. My answers never changed once, but I had to take it every week. Similarly, there was also a brief physical exam including a blood test and lots of paperwork to fill out, which we had to do with each and every visit. This prompted me to wonder just how efficiently this place was being run if they couldn't be bothered to keep and consult any of the massive pile of records we created in a month. Then, after more waiting in the rehab group session room (i.e. the waiting room) we were sent with our day's paperwork file to the donation room which was lined with donation stations separated by a double-sided plasma centrifuge machine covered in hoses and looking for all the world like something out of a David Cronenberg film. Once seated, we would eventually be stabbed with needles and have a portion of our blood pumped out, the plasma separated from it and then pumped back into us. Again, that was on a good day. On a bad day? Well....
Back then I was around 40 pounds heavier than I am now and not as well-sculpted as my 15 minute increments at the gym have made me now. With the added poundage, the veins in my arms were sometimes difficult to locate. Oh, the techs would stab away with confidence, even trying to use my weekly track mark as a guidepost, but rare was the time they actually hit blood on the first try. And several times, after dicking around too long and not finding blood, they had to send me home WITH pay as per their rules and regs. This was okay by me, as they had to pay me regardless of whether or not I left any plasma with them. But eventually, after many painful and fruitless stabbings over the course of weeks, it was decreed from on high that only three of the nurses working there, who were of a certain class and experience level, were allowed to touch me at all, for those ladies were the only ones who could find a vein in my ham of an arm. The plasma collection would take around 50 minutes, then we'd be paid, encouraged to come back and set free. The wife and I used to save the money we made there and buy Christmas presents for our friends and loved ones, just so we could tell them that their presents were paid for with our very blood.
At the gym, after being escorted to a bleeding station, I had to wait around 10 minutes while the techs finished letting blood on a couple of other donors. Now, after being stabbed twice a week for several months, needles don't bug me. But while I wasn't at all nervous, I must have looked it because everyone kept asking me if I was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," I told them. Then more time would pass and they'd ask again. "Yep, I'm great," I'd say. Eventually, they tourniqueted me up and tried to fine a vein. If I'd been there on purpose, rather than coincidence, I would probably have done them the favor of doing a bunch of curls first so that the veins in my arm would stand out more. But, I hadn't, so they were left to their own devices. They seemed pretty confident they'd found one and marked it just to be sure. Then more time went by before they actually stuck me and by the time they did the vein had moved or they just missed it, cause it came up dry when they stabbed for it. Without pulling the needle from my arm, they moved it around under the skin in search of the vein.
"Are you all right?" they kept asking.
"Well, it hurts a bit, but other than that I'm fine."
This is never pleasant, but they were as gentle as they could be. Finally, the tech in charge of me tagged out and the lady who'd interviewed took over. She too moved the needle around, a bit more vigorously, causing a burning sensation to erupt in my arm. I groaned at this, causing them to ask me again if I was all right.
"That really burns, but I'll be okay," I said. The burning subsided only a little when they stopped moving the needle. After some consultation with one another, it was decided that if I felt all right and was up for it, they would like to try the other arm. They explained that since no blood had hit the bag, it would be okay to just switch.
"That's fine by me," I said. After all, I'd invested over half an hour at this point, so let em have some blood. The trouble was, they didn't take the needle out right away. I guess there was prep that had to be done and they were also wrapping up the letting with a couple of other folks, so I was left to sit there with the needle still burning in my arm for around five minutes. About a minute into that, though, I began to feel light headed. I tried to breathe harder to get some circulation going, but all I could feel was the burning in my arm and the blood draining from my face. I thought I could maybe man up and ride it out, but there came a point where I simply knew that if I didn't say something I would pass out in another 20 seconds or so.
"I'm feeling very light headed," I said.
You would think I'd said I was on fire. Immediately there was activity around me from the two ladies who'd been working on me and then a third. They lowered the backrest of the table and I slipped down into a more prone position, at which time all the blood came back to my head and I once again felt perfectly fine. The rest of the five minutes was taken up with my being asked if I was all right and if I needed anything to drink and then a straw being offered to me from a cup held by one of the ladies and then more questions as to whether I was all right.
The needle was eventually removed and then I was raised incrementally so as not to upset my delicate condition and then asked to swivel around so they could use the arm rest with my left arm, etc. I kept telling everyone for the 15th time that I was fine, but it took a while before they began looking for another vein. Then, just after they'd found one clearly visible to one and all, the tech who'd interviewed me said, "Nope. No can do." She was holding a cell phone, having consulted with someone off site. I'd had a reaction and there would be no more stabbing of my person that day. When she said "reaction" I pictured some sort of skin rash, but, no, she meant my near brush with fainting.
"But... I'm fine," I said. They just looked at me. "All right. Whatever."
They thanked me profusely for my time, told me to stay out of the gym for several days to give my arm time to heal, and encouraged me to have some refreshments before I left. I took the biggest bag of cookies I could find in their punch bowl full of bagged snacks and made for the car.
Before the day was out, the interior of my elbow had begun to bruise. As of this writing it is bright purple and looks like I've been walloped with a stout tree branch. And I don't even have the knowledge of my Type O blood well-donated, or even a check for $20 to show for it.
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