Saving lives one honey bun at a time

Today marked the first time I’ve ever donated blood. I’ve been asked numerous times, and I’ve always given the excuse that I was afraid of needles. Well, after having a baby, you get poked and prodded so much that you get to the point you’re used to being a human pin-cushion, so that excuse doesn’t hold water.

I usually use the tattoo excuse as well, but it’s been almost two years since my last tattoo, so that doesn’t fly either. (On top of it, the girl told me that as long as I go to a licensed place in the state of Kentucky, it’s not an issue. I guess because tattoo parlors have stringent guidelines, I don’t know. She goes, “As long as you don’t get it in someone’s basement, you’re fine to come in the next day.” Well, good info to have.)

Now, I must admit that they were giving away $10 Speedway gift cards and that did sort of influence my decision a little bit. I even mentioned to the girl it was sort of pathetic they had to bribe people with gas cards and she goes, “Well, the summer is our downtime, so we have to get people however we can.” You know as well as I do that the Central Kentucky Blood Center didn’t pay for those, they were donations, so it’s not like they are really out any money – and Speedway donated them, so they get a tax deduction, so it’s really a win-win-win.

First I head downstairs and I have to sign in and answer stupid questions like, “What is your job title?” (Which, my official job title wouldn’t fit in the space provided, I might add.) What’s my job title got to do with my ability to donate blood? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to say my job title is heroin dealer, even if it is what I do. I’d definitely have a better cover story for that one. (Plus, I could just be a dealer, and not an addict, so that won’t even adversely affect my ability to donate. Hey, it could happen.)

Then I have to go get the finger prick to test for anemia (I’m not anemic, hey!) and she asks me "Do you weigh less than 120 pounds?" I'm like, "Seriously, look at me!" and then I have to answer 49 questions that get weirder and weirder as I go on. Among them:

“Have you had sexual contact with a man who has ever had sexual contact with another man?” (If you were male, you had to select the “I am a male” check box, though, honestly, it could apply.)

“Have you ever had sex with a prostitute?” I’m cracking up at this point. I even asked her, “Have you ever received a positive answer to that question around here.” She goes, “You’d be surprised.” (No, now that I think about Winchester Road, I’m not really surprised in the least.)

There were more – many, many more that mentioned illegal, immoral and indecent acts. I’m trying to stifle my laughter but it’s not really working. Part of me is glad they ask these types of questions (as the potential recipient of blood), the other part of me thinks it’s a little invasive. At the same time, is there some sick dude out there who wants to donate blood in order to infect as many people with AIDS as possible, sure there is. I mean, people are bitter and stupid, and some are both!

Enter the donation part. I sit down and I give the girl my normal bit whenever someone’s about to poke me with a needle: “Good luck, and most people end up using a butterfly.”

She goes, “Well, you’re donating blood today, you get the needle attached to the bag. Most people who tell me they need a butterfly are just used to people in doctor’s offices who don’t take the time to look.”

She does her bit – cleaning the area for 30 seconds, letting it dry for 30 seconds, and then out comes the 16-gauge needle. AUGH!!!!!!!! Wow that’s a big ass needle. The last time I remember a needle that big being used on me was when I was 9 and had a cathedar put in my arm to keep a continuous IV going. The difference being that needle was so thick because they thread a tube through it … and they used numbing agent before they stabbed me with it! (I still have the scar from that giant needle too.)

I talked to her the whole time, mainly as an effort to maintain some levity and to keep track of how I was feeling. You know how when you drink (liquor, not just anything) sitting down you don’t realize how drunk you are until you stand up? Well, I figured if I was quiet, I wouldn’t realize how light-headed I was (if it happened, which it didn’t) so I kept talking. Besides, have you ever known me to shut up?

I mentioned the size of the needle to the phlebotomist (who was freakin’ awesome, by the way – didn’t really hurt and she hit the vein first try instead of digging around like some people have been known to do) and she said she never realized how big it was until she was with her boyfriend while he was donating blood. She said it doesn’t seem that big when you’re on the other side of it. (I asked her if she donated and she goes, “Yeah, but I always look at the person’s face, not the needle.” Personally, if I were her, I’d be directing that person what to do – and that’s why I’m not a phlebotomist. Among other reasons.)

I also joked that it was funny that all their snacks were diet killers. She laughed and goes, “Well, they have to be.” I think it goes along with the bribery of free t-shirts or gas cards. If there were two people taking blood and one offered a handful of Triscuits to people after they donated and the other one offered Little Debbie Fudge Rounds, I guarantee you the Triscuit lady would end up in line to donate at the Little Debbie girl’s table. (Both out of boredom and a desire for Fudge Rounds.)

So, after I sat there and had my pint of blood taken away, she handed me a list of “rules.” One of which was I was not allowed to fly an aircraft for three days. Damn. If only I had known that donating blood was going to thwart my weekend plans of stealing a plane and heading to the Bahamas, I never would have done it. (It’s not as fun if I have to explain the joke, so if you are not familiar with the Barefoot Bandit, please scratch “understanding this joke” off your list of things to do today.)

Then I wander over to the cooler and pick up my baby-sized can of Diet Pepsi (I love those cans, they are so freakin’ cute) and my choice of a variety of diet killers. Granola bars (but not the good Nature’s Valley ones, so screw that), peanut butter crackers (eww), cheese crackers (tolerable but not when I have the Little Debbie smorgasbord in front of me), Nutty Bars, iced cakes (you know the ones I’m talking about, the square ones that you don’t know what’s really inside and you don’t care because it’s Little Debbie), something that resembled a giant Fig Newton (eww again), another form of iced cake but one I had never seen before; and the motherload – honey buns.

My mind was made up for me when I saw the unmistakable white icing that is too flat and smooth to be good for you, but you can’t resist. I opened the package, feeling like a walking oxymoron with my Diet Pepsi in one hand and ass-size-inducing honey bun in the other, but I didn’t care because I just gave blood and I could, darn it.

Unfortunately for me, I think that honey bun was made in 1967 because it was teetering on the edge of nasty. The taste was there, but I like soft honey buns. Not the ones where the only soft chewy part is the millimeter in the very center. Choke it down, I did, though, because I knew the mean old lady would yell at me if I tried to walk away too soon. (She was telling people to fill out their crazy-question questionnaire by telling them to go to the other side of the room and answer all the questions. At least my girl laughed at the questions with me.)

I did notice the Speedway gift card had a Christmas bow in the lower right corner, so it’s obviously an old card. But hey, since it can’t go stale like the honey bun, and I have my super-cool blue armband accessory where the needle was, I still emerged with something, right?