Saturday, January 19, 2008
Donating plasma last night, the doctors stuck me thrice. Adrian missed my vein the first time. He eventually set the needle in, and I underwent the first draining cycle. But when the tubes began returning blood to my body, pressure began to build up and would have collapsed my vein, if I hadn't called Adrian over. Someone else (Toby) moved the needle to the vein in my left arm that did not bleed well the time before last (with bruises still observable above and below the puncture). The machine took one withdrawal, but the return hurt and I waved my right arm frantically for someone to rescue me.
Toby, Adrian, and a third person came over; they then summoned the floor supervisor, who, after pressing the vein a bit, gently explained he would move the needle to a second vein in my left arm that seemed suitable. That one drained fine, and I received five extra dollars for having been stuck thrice.
Adrian felt terrible, and walked by several times muttering that twenty-five dollars was not compensation enough for the pain he had put me through. He even tried pressing some of his own money into my hand, but I wouldn't let him. When I was his supervisor at the deli, he just had to make wraps and serve people chicken strips. Sticking a needle in someone's arm cannot always be as simple as they make it look. The floor supervisor seemed braced for me to scream from the pain or get reproachful, but I felt no need for theatrics. I wasn't being ignored, and no one had done anything incompetent.
I hobbled home and took a sleep.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 5:21 AM]