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EXCERPT FROM THE
BOOK:
VINCE'S GYM
CHAPTER FIFTY
Blood Money
Harry’s new lady picked up a job at one of the blood centers.
Everyone knew I was hurting for money and worried about my
ability to keep myself fed. She told me I could make money by
selling my plasma. Since I was falling into destitution, I fell
into the habit of exchanging my blood for food money. I sold my
plasma four to six times a month, as often as they would let me.
All I had to do was to go in and just lie on the table and read
a book as the phlebotomist would penetrate the hollow of my arms
with a thick gauge needle so that they could drain the plasma
and blood.
The phlebotomist drained me of my blood they took it away to be
separated. Separating is when they would put the whole blood in
a type of centrifuge. The spinning would place the heavier
plasma at the bottom while the rest of the blood would float on
top. The stuff on the bottom I thought looked as if it had a
yellowish evil hue and the stuff on top looked red and watery.
Once they had the blood separated from the plasma, then they
would put the blood back into my body. It would seem to take the
phlebotomist a very long time to get my blood separated and back
to me. I thought that perhaps it was because they had to attend
too many of us – societies castaways -- people lined up and
lying back on our gurneys with the IV’s plastic tubes and bags
running from our arms and dangling above us. We all looked like
we were part of an assembly line in a gruesome science fiction
movie. Anyway, I think the length of our wait was because behind
the scenes our blood bags in piles marked with information and
codes scrawled on labels as each bag waited their turn to be
spun like an astronaut and to endure incredible G-forces.
The staff at this blood-letting factory had to be careful about
giving each person the right blood back to them. Otherwise if
the blood type differed it could kill the donor, or if the blood
type was the same, that could be bad too.
Even though they ‘supposedly screened the people who gave…I mean
sold…their blood for blood borne diseases, I was not confident
of the safety of my fellow castaways.
Many of the people that lay on the line of gurneys to the left
and right of me were homeless and the others that were not
homeless were like me courting homelessness. I may have been
courting homelessness again, but my body was not suffering from
malnutrition or chronic substance abuse like many of the people
that were in the assembly line selling their blood. Some of
these people told me that they were alcoholics and drug addicts.
It was disturbing to see a lot of the people come into this
blood donation center reeking of street smells, soiled clothes,
splotching grey skin riffed with suspicious skin eruptions and
criminal neglect.
It disturbed me that beyond forms and questionnaires and
supposedly a basic blood test, no other form or method of
medical exams were given to us. It was mostly done on the honor
system. I often heard many of the riff-raff snickering like evil
trolls about all the lies they wrote on the questionnaires just
so they would qualify to sell blood.
By the time the blood was put back in it felt pretty icy. I
would lay back on my gurney, drink the orange juice and
fantasize that I was laying on the beach the Bahamas. Sometimes
the blood felt so icy I would start to shiver and then of course
the staff was considerate enough to bring me a blanket. Looking
at the people around me I couldn’t help but hope that the
blanket they gave me, had not been previously used by my fellow
dregs of society.
It
often felt like fleas or ticks were jumping off of them and on
to me.
During the Oregon Depression of the early 1980’s, there were
several factions made up from a large collection of castoff’s
and street people. They would come in sell their blood, collect
their money and then they would often pool their resources for
beer, wine and drugs. Many of them would gather together like
excited school kids and yell, “Ye ha, money to parrteee!
I had sold my plasma so often that I remember on two occasions,
as the Phlebotomist was putting in the needle it would stall or
stop because the needle had hit some of the gristly scar tissue.
The crunching sound that the needle made as the phlebotomist was
jammed it through the scar tissue made my toes curl. I think it
sounded like “Scheekkk!” I imagined that is often
the sound that heroin addicts hear as they plunge their dirty
hypodermics into their abused gristle.
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