And of course I mean that in the nicest way. This is Merrie, the phlebotomist who inspired my title for this diary:
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"It's a gallon. Think of a gallon of milk, only it's a gallon of blood. Isn't that cool?"
For the past couple years I've been donating blood to the Puget Sound Blood Center. This nonprofit group processes most of the blood transfused in western Washington and no doubt saves thousands of lives, but really I only donate because I'm bored and have too much time on my hands.
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This is Laurie, the volunteer who greets me when I arrive. Since you wait just as long whether you have an appointment or not, I usually try to avoid making one. Appointments exist strictly to improve the odds of getting you to show up, but they give no advantages to the donor.
Laurie helps start the donor screening process, which is now done on tablet computers. This probably means I'll never again have to explain why I accidentally filled in answers to questions marked "for female donors only."
After answering the questions, I wait for a staff member to deal with me. Lately that's been Merrie, who we met above. She checks the answers I've given, checks my temperature, pulse rate, blood pressure, and hemoglobin level. I've never been rejected at this point, but a couple of my friends have been turned away because of low iron levels. One time I was close to the blood pressure cutoff. "You have surprisingly high blood pressure," she said.
"I'm a substitute teacher," I said.
"In that case, you have surprisingly low blood pressure."
After the screening we go out to the floor:
![Image Hosted by ImageShack.us](http://img24.imageshack.us/img24/11/dscn1598e.jpg)
Comfy chairs! And televisions. There's probably something nonstressful to watch, but then again you might not feel like watching a cooking show at this point.
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Here's the censored version. Yes, my arms are that hairy. Now that it's too late to do anything, I like to think about whether I drank enough fluids before I came in, because empty, shrunken veins at this point are not an advantage.
![Image Hosted by ImageShack.us](http://img685.imageshack.us/img685/885/dscn1596y.jpg)
Usually the process isn't terribly unpleasant. Sometimes it... um, it hurts. Once Merrie missed my vein with her first jab, which I didn't enjoy. But then I didn't even feel her second stick. True story.
![Image Hosted by ImageShack.us](http://img534.imageshack.us/img534/4705/dscn1600j.jpg)
After they're done sucking the blood out of my body, they slap on a bandage and they lead me to the recovery area. There's a volunteer here pushing juice and cookies*, and making sure I don't pass out. For some reason they always ask me if I'm sure I'm feeling OK before they let me leave. I don't know why I'm the one they always feel the need to check on.
*Unless you want a peanut butter cookie, in which case you're out of luck.