Wednesday, January 14, 2004
draining
Usually it's not so bad. But there are some days while donating plasma, that I sit down and I can sense it -- I gotta go. See, this all stems from that day when I came dehydrated, so now I drink a glass of OJ and a big ol' cup of water before leaving in the morning. Then I get there, I get through the usual tests, relieve myself before entering the waiting room outside the donation room.
But those days where I've sat down . . . not completely drained, over-hydrated . . . sheesh. Donation takes about 70 - 75 minutes, so I sit there for the first 15 gauging if I can make it. One time I couldn't. And I knew it right away. Today, I made it. After the first 20 minutes, I thought I was screwed, and then I'd have to ask someone to unstick me, everybody'd get a good laugh at me, but all would be well. But I blanked it out, thanks to the poetry of Theodore Roethke.
So after I collected my cash from the machine, I hurried to the restroom, enjoyed that cool, emptying pleasure we all feel after holding it for too long, and went to wash my hands. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw a sweat stain on my jacket arm. Of course it wasn't sweat.
I didn't want to make a scene, so I drove home, my arm now unmistakably wet . . . but sticky-wet. For whatever reason, I hadn't clotted yet. I pulled off my shirt to see the bandage lying open, and the thick, rhythmic pump of blood drool down my arm, matching the beat in my chest.
It was so innocuous, to watch oneself drain out, like a leak in a gutter, but I could not stop watching, even after I held my arm under a warm faucet, the water washing away the blood, exposing the needle hole, mixing with the pulse still exiting, sliding down my arm.
I've got to get a job.
But those days where I've sat down . . . not completely drained, over-hydrated . . . sheesh. Donation takes about 70 - 75 minutes, so I sit there for the first 15 gauging if I can make it. One time I couldn't. And I knew it right away. Today, I made it. After the first 20 minutes, I thought I was screwed, and then I'd have to ask someone to unstick me, everybody'd get a good laugh at me, but all would be well. But I blanked it out, thanks to the poetry of Theodore Roethke.
So after I collected my cash from the machine, I hurried to the restroom, enjoyed that cool, emptying pleasure we all feel after holding it for too long, and went to wash my hands. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw a sweat stain on my jacket arm. Of course it wasn't sweat.
I didn't want to make a scene, so I drove home, my arm now unmistakably wet . . . but sticky-wet. For whatever reason, I hadn't clotted yet. I pulled off my shirt to see the bandage lying open, and the thick, rhythmic pump of blood drool down my arm, matching the beat in my chest.
It was so innocuous, to watch oneself drain out, like a leak in a gutter, but I could not stop watching, even after I held my arm under a warm faucet, the water washing away the blood, exposing the needle hole, mixing with the pulse still exiting, sliding down my arm.
I've got to get a job.
