An Story (I don't feel like getting all the tenses to agree, sorry)
A few days ago was my 5th time donating plasma. The first time they took my blood pressure it was too low, so they had me wait while I increased it by thinking over the possibility of not being able to donate. The second try they let me donate. I wasn’t very happy that the person who was going to stick me was the same person who had already made my arm bruised and raised for a while. He seriously dug around with the needle for a while and said my vein was rolling away. It didn’t hurt much but it was weirding me out. After a while we realized the flow was really slow, and he dug again. Then my elbow pit starts to balloon and blood starts squirting out. I said something like “LOOK!” and he said “yeah, it’s infiltrated.” As if I knew what that meant- I only wanted to know if I was going to survive- I remember signing to the possibility that I may “be deceased” donating plasma. So he pulled the needle and I wanted to bail, but he said he should stick my other arm so I could get that 1/5 of my blood back. I’m thinking I should get paid more if I have to endure this- double for getting stuck twice, plus some for the nightmare material I was gathering. Someone went to get ice, but they were out. Thankfully, a different person came to stick my other arm but still had to dig around and say “next time let us know you have rolly veins.” Most of my blood returned to me, and she said it wouldn’t make any difference whether I donated or not (except I wouldn’t get paid for my pain!) so I decided to stay. However, my blood pressure was so low that it wasn’t working- I hadn't been told before that my diastolic had only risen to the lowest number they accept. Thus I escaped without "donating"- it would have been blood "unwillingly given" like on Harry Potter (I think I'm a nerd, but McKay said I only qualify to be his apprentice). I may never go again. To quote the cashier I talked with afterward: “What I do for a dollar!”
A few days ago was my 5th time donating plasma. The first time they took my blood pressure it was too low, so they had me wait while I increased it by thinking over the possibility of not being able to donate. The second try they let me donate. I wasn’t very happy that the person who was going to stick me was the same person who had already made my arm bruised and raised for a while. He seriously dug around with the needle for a while and said my vein was rolling away. It didn’t hurt much but it was weirding me out. After a while we realized the flow was really slow, and he dug again. Then my elbow pit starts to balloon and blood starts squirting out. I said something like “LOOK!” and he said “yeah, it’s infiltrated.” As if I knew what that meant- I only wanted to know if I was going to survive- I remember signing to the possibility that I may “be deceased” donating plasma. So he pulled the needle and I wanted to bail, but he said he should stick my other arm so I could get that 1/5 of my blood back. I’m thinking I should get paid more if I have to endure this- double for getting stuck twice, plus some for the nightmare material I was gathering. Someone went to get ice, but they were out. Thankfully, a different person came to stick my other arm but still had to dig around and say “next time let us know you have rolly veins.” Most of my blood returned to me, and she said it wouldn’t make any difference whether I donated or not (except I wouldn’t get paid for my pain!) so I decided to stay. However, my blood pressure was so low that it wasn’t working- I hadn't been told before that my diastolic had only risen to the lowest number they accept. Thus I escaped without "donating"- it would have been blood "unwillingly given" like on Harry Potter (I think I'm a nerd, but McKay said I only qualify to be his apprentice). I may never go again. To quote the cashier I talked with afterward: “What I do for a dollar!”
I got a used but scratch-free Pirates of the Caribbean for 24 cents and free shipping online!
At the university bookstore I saw very expensive paper made out of manure. Then someone told me about cowpie clocks- a lady in Provo gets “organic cowpies” clear from Southern Utah and makes cowpie creations out of them on her picnic table and ships them. The most creative I had ever seen people get with cow pies is when Boyd threw one at Beth and me and called it a frisbee.
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