Ow.

When Ivy was born, I got over my fear of needles. I had my blood drawn so many times that it got boring. There were so many bruises in the normal blood-drawing places that they had to get creative, and if felt like needles had poked me pretty much everywhere

Ever since then, I have thought about going to "donate" plasma. You know those centers where they suck out a bunch of blood, pull out the plasma, put the rest of your blood back, and then give you thirty bucks. Yesterday I took the plunge and went in.

You know you live in a college town when the plasma center is booked two weeks in advance. I got to stew about having huge needles in my arm for a whole two weeks before actually going and having it done. Then I got to wait another two and a half hours at the center. I was asked the same questions by three different people--does anyone change their answers on the third time? After two hours, do some people go, "Oh, you know what? I did take illegal drugs intravenously last week. I'd plum forgot."

Finally they got me into a donation chair, where they completely discounted my right arm as a possibility for insertion of their huge needle. My left arm was all right, but the vein is deep. First they told me that insertion may not go well, and then they handed me over to a newbie for the procedure. It didn't go well.

The blood left my arm just fine. I sat there for five minutes, ignoring the Simpsons marathon on the TV and reading my book. Then the blood started returning to my arm, and it started to hurt. I flagged someone down, and she dug the needle deeper into my arm, then left. By then the senior person on the floor had noticed that something wasn't going right, and came over. The way the needle was inserted, the blood couldn't get back into my arm. She couldn't pull out and re-insert the needle, and she couldn't adjust it without taking it out. She called over her co-senior person on the floor, and they spent five minutes apologizing to me and discussing what they were going to do.

In plasma donation, the blood is supposed to be returned to you. This is why you can donate twice a week. If they didn't return to blood to me, I wouldn't be able to donate for another eight weeks. They acted like this was a big deal, though at this point I wasn't sure I really cared. They decided that my other arm had a big enough vein for the slightly-smaller-than-huge needle that they could use just to return my blood to me, so they switched to that arm. They couldn't use that nice big vein where people usually draw blood, but had to use that smaller one on the inside of the arm--the one that hurts. I remember that well from my hospital stay and the creative phlebotomy that occurred there. So they unhooked me, and then re-attached a bunch of tubes, and then put a needle in my other arm, and turned on the machine that gave me back my blood. I noticed that they didn't leave me alone at all this time; whether to check that I was all right, or to keep up friendly conversation so that I wouldn't feel inclined to sue, I am not sure.

Once my fluids were back where they belonged, the very nice employee who was keeping an eye on me strapped ice packs to my arms, and got me a bottle of water and a granola bar (special treatment!). I could not, of course eat the granola bar, as I had ice packs strapped to the inside of my elbows, but the gesture was nice. I then had an escort to the cash machine and then the door, and was told that next time I should be sure to ask for one of the trainers, and things would go much more smoothly.

As I sit here and type with sore arms, do I think I'll go again? I spent three hours reading, in a place where no one called me Mom, and people brought me food and drinks, and I left with thirty bucks. You bet I will go again. The soreness is nearly gone, there is no bruising, and a normal donation will be a piece of cake after this one. As an added bonus; the more of this stuff I run into, the more sure I am that I want to pursue this medical career track I've switched to. I can totally handle it.

Update: there is bruising. Rather a lot of it, actually. But seeing as I had to remove the band-aids before I knew it was there, I'm still going to say that it's not so bad.

Halloween

I have found another thing to like about living in Orem. This neighborhood loves Halloween, and trick or treating was a lot of fun for the girls.My little hula girl and my little witch. Not a scary witch. A nice one. Who spent most of the night without her hat because it kept falling off.Kezie got to wear her costume to school, and spent the day eating treats and playing games. Those were the days

Almost every house on the street had decorations beyond the traditional jack-o-lanterns. There were fog machines and creepy noises everywhere. One house had set up tables and chairs and was serving nachos, hot dogs, and cider. The three houses across the street had become elaborate cemeteries, complete with lit torches, a coffin that opened and closed, and this impressive display:
The pictures don't do the ghost in the window justice. It glowed and floated around the room. I have no idea how they did that.

The night was sometimes a little bit too spooky for Ivy, who sometimes wouldn't go up to the creepier houses without me at her side. She loved saying, "Trick or treat!" and decided that it was worth it. Kezie did just fine, and seemed to enjoy the scary--but not too scary--atmosphere.



Trick or treating was one of my favorite things as a kid, and I am so glad that my girls get to have the experience.