Wednesday, 20 July 2016 03:16 pm
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deckardcanineSome weeks ago, the Red Cross sent me a letter saying that I had tested positive for syphilis, but a follow-up test said otherwise. That was my second false positive this calendar year, and they will not allow a third. I didn't take the notice seriously until my dad tried to schedule another appointment, whereupon the system said I'd be eligible to donate blood or platelets in 2290.
I know for a fact that I don't have syphilis. Not only do I exhibit no symptoms, but I've done nothing that could spread it to me. I could get a doctor to back me up on this. But reps on the phone have assured me that it would make no difference. The Red Cross knowingly uses an extra-sensitive test prone to false positives. They're not taking any chances.
For this reason, I'm declining my parents' suggestion to write to a higher-up in the organization. I accept that they will never accept my blood or platelets again, barring a policy change. Hope they don't run dry any time soon.
My folks' next suggestion is to get more actively...activist in another way. I think I'll increase my financial donations to the Red Cross instead.
The other thing I can do is encourage others to give blood in my stead. If you don't have a blood-injection-injury phobia or another disqualifying factor, please consider.
Perhaps it'll help if I describe my experience.
I started more than a decade ago. A few things have changed in that time, but it feels mostly the same. Details might vary by location.
My dad and I have been the most regular donors in the family, for reasons of consistent eligibility (until now). We would come on Saturday mornings, when we hoped for relatively small crowds. The receptionist had us read packets in case there was something new for us to learn. There usually wasn't, so we skimmed, put the packets back, and read from books or magazines that we'd brought. Sometimes the waiting area's pre-owned TV had something interesting on, whether programming or a DVD, but the audiovisual quality wasn't great. The area had other options lying around, especially for young children.
In a matter of minutes, my number would be called and I would enter a small room. A phlebotomist would check my blood pressure and the iron content of a small sample of blood from my ring finger. (Reportedly unlike most donors, I wouldn't look away; I wanted to anticipate the exact moment of pricking.) In earlier days, the phlebotomist would read off a series of yes-or-no questions about my present condition and mostly recent past; later, I got to enter the answers themselves on a computer while alone in the room, tho the phlebotomist would review the answers and, if I'd been out of the country recently, ask where.
From there, it was a few minutes' wait for a chair to be ready. "Chair" may not be the best word, given that it reclined greatly and kept my feet about level with my waist, but it did have armrests at adjustable angles. The phlebotomist (not necessarily the same one as before) would ask whether I was allergic to iodine; the answer being no, he or she would apply it in a square shape to the inside of the elbow of my choice. (I felt fortunate to have a prominent vein on my non-dominant arm.) Only once did a phlebotomist cause a slight spurt with the initial injection. For me, the injection wasn't so much painful as a tad jarring, what with the sudden sensation of a metal tube; in any event, the feeling passed rapidly. The needle and tube were taped in place, preferably with some tape on my watch, because peeling it off a hairy arm can hurt more than the injection.
The next maybe hour would involve me squeezing a stress toy every few seconds with one hand and holding a book or beverage with the other, occasionally checking the blood pouches. (Unless you like to read a lot of a magazine, it probably won't last long enough, so I recommend a book.) If I was giving platelets, which take about twice as long, I would pick a DVD to watch with headphones on a portable player on a tray over my stomach. My location had a pretty extensive library for that. I do not recommend using both arms for platelets if you can help it, for then I was utterly at the mercy of the busy staff to do anything; besides, it didn't seem to save time after all. If my fingers tingled, I could ask for Tums.
When the phlebotomist determined that the pouches were full, he or she removed the tape, pressed a swab to the point of injection, gave a similarly jarring sensation with a nonetheless careful yank of the needle, wiped off the iodine, and told me to take over the pressing and hold my arm skyward for a bit. Afterward, I had a randomly colored bandage wrapped several times around my elbow, slightly impairing its mobility. I followed advice to keep the bandage on for five hours; if the blood hadn't clotted by then, I would add a smaller bandage for a while. (Nobody told me, but I found a similar amount of time for the Band-Aid on my ring finger appropriate.)
I would then go to a table with bags of miniature cookies and pretzels, near a fridge full of bottled water and canned juices. Sometimes there'd be something extra, such as a T-shirt, an umbrella, or a pair of sandals. If I didn't want the prize myself, I'd take it for someone in need. It was in this area that I reconvened with my dad. (The one who got called up first wasn't always the first to finish, especially when one was giving platelets, in which case the first to finish typically left to find lunch.) In a few minutes, we'd be out the door. On lucky days, we were in and out in less than an hour.
Some further tips: If you don't normally drink plenty of water as I do, do so before you show up and have a bottle ready by the time you're in the chair. (I've never seen anyone bring their own drink from home; that might not be permitted.) If the weather demands long sleeves, wear the kind that are easy to roll up. And be patient.
Maybe that honest testimony just reinforces your dread, but I like to think it makes the scenario less alien to newcomers. It should help prepare you.
And if you need one more incentive, it was the pet cause of Robert Heinlein.
I know for a fact that I don't have syphilis. Not only do I exhibit no symptoms, but I've done nothing that could spread it to me. I could get a doctor to back me up on this. But reps on the phone have assured me that it would make no difference. The Red Cross knowingly uses an extra-sensitive test prone to false positives. They're not taking any chances.
For this reason, I'm declining my parents' suggestion to write to a higher-up in the organization. I accept that they will never accept my blood or platelets again, barring a policy change. Hope they don't run dry any time soon.
My folks' next suggestion is to get more actively...activist in another way. I think I'll increase my financial donations to the Red Cross instead.
The other thing I can do is encourage others to give blood in my stead. If you don't have a blood-injection-injury phobia or another disqualifying factor, please consider.
Perhaps it'll help if I describe my experience.
I started more than a decade ago. A few things have changed in that time, but it feels mostly the same. Details might vary by location.
My dad and I have been the most regular donors in the family, for reasons of consistent eligibility (until now). We would come on Saturday mornings, when we hoped for relatively small crowds. The receptionist had us read packets in case there was something new for us to learn. There usually wasn't, so we skimmed, put the packets back, and read from books or magazines that we'd brought. Sometimes the waiting area's pre-owned TV had something interesting on, whether programming or a DVD, but the audiovisual quality wasn't great. The area had other options lying around, especially for young children.
In a matter of minutes, my number would be called and I would enter a small room. A phlebotomist would check my blood pressure and the iron content of a small sample of blood from my ring finger. (Reportedly unlike most donors, I wouldn't look away; I wanted to anticipate the exact moment of pricking.) In earlier days, the phlebotomist would read off a series of yes-or-no questions about my present condition and mostly recent past; later, I got to enter the answers themselves on a computer while alone in the room, tho the phlebotomist would review the answers and, if I'd been out of the country recently, ask where.
From there, it was a few minutes' wait for a chair to be ready. "Chair" may not be the best word, given that it reclined greatly and kept my feet about level with my waist, but it did have armrests at adjustable angles. The phlebotomist (not necessarily the same one as before) would ask whether I was allergic to iodine; the answer being no, he or she would apply it in a square shape to the inside of the elbow of my choice. (I felt fortunate to have a prominent vein on my non-dominant arm.) Only once did a phlebotomist cause a slight spurt with the initial injection. For me, the injection wasn't so much painful as a tad jarring, what with the sudden sensation of a metal tube; in any event, the feeling passed rapidly. The needle and tube were taped in place, preferably with some tape on my watch, because peeling it off a hairy arm can hurt more than the injection.
The next maybe hour would involve me squeezing a stress toy every few seconds with one hand and holding a book or beverage with the other, occasionally checking the blood pouches. (Unless you like to read a lot of a magazine, it probably won't last long enough, so I recommend a book.) If I was giving platelets, which take about twice as long, I would pick a DVD to watch with headphones on a portable player on a tray over my stomach. My location had a pretty extensive library for that. I do not recommend using both arms for platelets if you can help it, for then I was utterly at the mercy of the busy staff to do anything; besides, it didn't seem to save time after all. If my fingers tingled, I could ask for Tums.
When the phlebotomist determined that the pouches were full, he or she removed the tape, pressed a swab to the point of injection, gave a similarly jarring sensation with a nonetheless careful yank of the needle, wiped off the iodine, and told me to take over the pressing and hold my arm skyward for a bit. Afterward, I had a randomly colored bandage wrapped several times around my elbow, slightly impairing its mobility. I followed advice to keep the bandage on for five hours; if the blood hadn't clotted by then, I would add a smaller bandage for a while. (Nobody told me, but I found a similar amount of time for the Band-Aid on my ring finger appropriate.)
I would then go to a table with bags of miniature cookies and pretzels, near a fridge full of bottled water and canned juices. Sometimes there'd be something extra, such as a T-shirt, an umbrella, or a pair of sandals. If I didn't want the prize myself, I'd take it for someone in need. It was in this area that I reconvened with my dad. (The one who got called up first wasn't always the first to finish, especially when one was giving platelets, in which case the first to finish typically left to find lunch.) In a few minutes, we'd be out the door. On lucky days, we were in and out in less than an hour.
Some further tips: If you don't normally drink plenty of water as I do, do so before you show up and have a bottle ready by the time you're in the chair. (I've never seen anyone bring their own drink from home; that might not be permitted.) If the weather demands long sleeves, wear the kind that are easy to roll up. And be patient.
Maybe that honest testimony just reinforces your dread, but I like to think it makes the scenario less alien to newcomers. It should help prepare you.
And if you need one more incentive, it was the pet cause of Robert Heinlein.
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