Observed Something In Passing (Out)

, , , | | Romantic | May 18, 2018

(In high school, I go with my girlfriend when she donates blood. I recently got a piercing, so I can’t donate. After, in the recovery room, she keeps bending over to look under the table. The first few times I look, too, but I don’t see anything interesting.)

Me: “What do you keep looking at?”

Girlfriend: “What?”

Me: “You keep looking at something under the table!”

Girlfriend: “Oh! I’m not looking at anything; I’m passing out.”

(I went and grabbed a nurse. Kind of put me off donating blood!)

Addressing The Addressing Issue

, , , , | Right | May 11, 2018

(In order to donate at the plasma center where I work, you have to have a permanent address within a certain number of miles of our center. Every donor that comes in is required to provide proof of address. The most common way to do this is with a piece of mail addressed to the donor. In order for a piece of mail to be acceptable, all of the information on the mail has to EXACTLY match the information provided by the donor, and it HAS TO be postmarked in the last thirty days. A donor can’t donate plasma until we get acceptable mail, NO MATTER WHAT. Since I work the from desk most of the time, it usually falls to me to take approve people’s mail. It’s not uncommon for people to have a hard time bringing in acceptable mail, but this lady takes the cake. Monday:)

Me: *handing donor her payment card after her first donation* “Okay, [Donor], here’s your card. Your payment should be on there within about twenty minutes. You can come back as soon as Wednesday. Don’t forget, you’ll need your proof of address next time. Do you need me to go over the requirements again?

(The donor ignores me, puts in headphones, and leaves. Wednesday:)

Me: “Hey, [Donor], welcome back. Do you have your proof of address?”

Donor: “Oh, I forgot.”

Me: “Oh, dang. I’m really sorry, but we need that before you can donate.”

(The donor stares at me for a while and then leaves. On Thursday, the donor comes in, walks up to counter, and hands me a dirty letter.)

Me: “Sorry, [Donor], we can’t take this. This is from January.”

(It’s June.)

Donor: “I thought it just had to be mail. That’s my address.”

(I go over the requirements again, and the donor says she understands. On Friday, the donor comes in and gives me another letter.)

Me: “No can do. Your name and the street name are spelled wrong in this one”

(On Saturday, the donor comes back with yet another letter.)

Me: “Ma’am, this has a man’s name on it. I don’t see your name anywhere.”

Donor: “That’s my ex-boyfriend; he lives with me.”

Me: *getting annoyed at this point* “That won’t work. The requirements are…”

(On Monday, according to my manager, she comes in again with another unacceptable letter. My manager makes triple sure she knows the requirements. She says she understands. She also goes on a rant about how, “It’s so stupid that we’re making this so hard,” and, “I live really far away,” and, “I have KIDS,” before she finally leaves. Tuesday, the donor comes in with an older man.)

Me: “Morning, [Donor], did you bring your mail?”

Donor: “No, I brought my dad.”

Me: “Cool, does he want to donate with us, as well?”

Dad: “No, but she lives with me.”

Me: *confused* “Okay.”

Donor: “There. I live with him and he verified it. Can I donate now?”

Me: “What?”

Donor: “He said I live with him. That counts, right?”

Me: *beyond done with this lady at this point* “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. My manager and I have both been over the requirements with you, and bringing in a witness doesn’t count.”

Dad: “But she lives with me! I don’t understand this! WHY NOT?!”

Me: “Hey, [Nearest Coworker]!”

Coworker: “Yeah?”

Me: “Do I live at the White House?”

Coworker: “Yeah, of course.”

Me: “That’s why.”

(The donor and her dad just stared at me for a solid thirty seconds. Then, they walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.)

There Will Not Be Blood

, , | Healthy | May 2, 2018

(Due to having a serious illness as a kid, I’ve had countless numbers of blood tests. When I am old enough to donate blood, I do so willingly, but knowing that my veins are now difficult to find, I always request an experienced technician. This is on all my paperwork, for their benefit as well as mine. This is my fourth or fifth donation, so I know the drill fairly well. It usually takes 15 to 20 minutes.)

Head Technician: “So, I understand that you’ve got difficult veins! That’s not a problem, but I was wondering if you would mind if we get one of our senior technicians to have a practice with you? He’s requested some further experience on veins like yours. I’ll be watching him and with him the whole time.”

Me: “That sounds fine.”

(The head technician brings over a young man, and they prep everything accordingly. Then, at the point where he has to place the needle in, the head technician walks away!)

Young Tech: “Oops! Let me try again.”

(To my mildly-suppressed horror, he tries to find a vein five times!)

Me: “Um, is everything going okay?”

Young Tech: “Sorry, this won’t take too long. I’m just a bit nervous! Are you still okay?”

Me: “Um, yup, just do what you have to!”

(Trying to be helpful, I endure another ten minutes of him attempting to find the vein in my right arm, and missing every time.)

Young Tech: “It looks like this arm is useless, so I’m going to try your left arm!”

Me: “Um, okay?”

(The head technician wanders past and nods approvingly. The young tech gets my left arm set up. At this stage I’m not really into it, but feel like I’m committed, and I’m beginning to feel a little faint.)

Young Tech: “Here we go!”

(Here we do not go. After another twenty minutes of being used as a pin cushion, the young tech calls the head technician over.)

Head Technician: “Oh, well, it looks like we’ve exhausted both arms today! How much blood did we get?”

Young Tech & Me: “None.”

Head Technician: “Oh. Well, we can try again tomorrow!”

(As I am leaving, one of the nurses passes by and asked how things went. I explain, and she is aghast.)

Nurse: “It’s his first day!”

(I marched back to the head technician, who brushed off my concerns, even though all my paperwork said I had tricky veins and needed an experienced technician. The next day, I had deep blue bruises on both my arms from my mid-forearm to almost my armpit, which lead me to being spoken to by my managers about drug use. I didn’t go to give blood the next day!)

A Lack Of Blood To The Brain

, , , , , | Romantic | January 24, 2018

(I volunteer at the Red Cross reception desk one morning each week. The job’s not very difficult; mostly I just answer the phone and direct prospective donors to the blood services section elsewhere in the building. One morning a tall, beefy guy comes loping down the hall and stops in front of my desk.)

Guy: “Well, I’m done donating blood!”

Me: “You’re a great American. Hey, do you have any money?”

Guy: “Nope, sorry.

Me: *making my voice mock-whiny* “Not even five bucks? I want to take myself out to lunch after my shift ends!”

Guy: “You’re out of luck.” *jokingly* “You’ll have to settle for a kiss.”

(He leans over the counter and kisses me on the forehead. I hear a sharp intake of breath, turn around, and see our volunteer coordinator standing behind me with a horrified expression on her face.)

Me: “Oops. [Volunteer Coordinator], I don’t think you’ve ever met my husband.”

There Will Be Blood

, | Healthy | January 5, 2018

(I’m donating blood, and the donor phlebotomist is an absolute klutz. We’re in a donor bus (like a camper that they park at places to have mobile donor drives) and she keeps on knocking into other phlebotomists, dropping things. She has just finished freaking out that she started another donor at just the wrong time, and she’ll have to start his and stop mine at the same time. She comes over to take out my needle, bumbles for a bit, and then pulls it out, leaving a trail of blood down my arm. I’m trained in phlebotomy, so I know that she just has angled the needle down and it’s dripping, and I’m not freaked out by it. But this is her response.)

Phlebotomist: “Oh, whoopsie!” *yells* “CLEAN UP ON AISLE FOUR!”

(She then wiped it up, and continued to bumble around like nothing happened, while the rest of the bus stared at us.)

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