Rolling, Rolling, Rolling.

Yesterday I had my second wheelchair ride of the year. Number one, as you may remember, was after I injured my coccyx ice skating. Number two happened yesterday after I donated blood.

Yes, I know I was supposed to have donated my precious O-negative blood last Thursday, but I chickened out. Okay? Sue me. I worked out my fears, mostly, and made it in to the blood center yesterday afternoon for a 5:40 PM appointment. I got there early, filled out all of the paperwork -- No, I have not shared needles recently. No, I am not a man who has had sex with another man in the past thirty years. No, I have not spent an extended amount of time in Nigeria. -- and the party started.

Let me start by saying that during this entire episode (starting with getting on the train to travel to the blood center) I was sweating profusely and could not stop my hands from shaking.

So, for those of you who have never been through a blood donation process, here's how it goes.

Step one. Paperwork. Here you fill out an extensive sheet of questions to prove that you are neither a intravenous drug user nor a sexual deviant. You also have to promise that you're not donating blood just to get an HIV test. I think I had to promise that about three times. "Question 1. Are you donating blood today to have an HIV test?" No. "Question 8. Is this donation of blood in order for you to find out your HIV status?" No. "Question 24. Are you concerned about having HIV and using this test to find out?" No. "Question 30. Do you have syphilis or gonorrhea?" No. "Question 52. Are you donating blood to make sure you don't have syphilis or gonorrhea?" Jesus Christ. Step two. The initial assault. After you fill out the paperwork, you take it into a little room where you hand it over to a nurse. "Okay. I see that you have answered no to questions 1, 8, 24, 30 and 52. Are you aware that blood donation is not a method for being tested for sexually transmitted diseases?" Arrgh. Yes lady. Can we please get on with this? "Great. Gimme your finger." This is when Nurse Rita prepares a little bed of alcohol swabs and gauze and then takes one of those plastic frames they use at TGIFriday's to advertise the Mug-o-rita flavor of the day on the tables to use as a shield from any blood splatter that may occur. She grabs my middle finger and slashes it with a tiny razor and sucks the blood into a little glass shard that she puts into a machine. Handing me the form again, Nurse Rita says, "Here you go, honey. Go on over to the second hall on the left."Step three. The second hall on the left. When you turn into this hallway you are faced with row after row of what appear to be dentist chairs with little TV's hanging over each one. Here I'm strapped into a chair by chatty Nurse Linda. Nurse Linda is in school studying English and doesn't like to spend a lot of money on her clothes. She feels that two pairs of jeans are sufficient and only wears about three of the 20 or so uniform tops she owns. She liked the book "1984" but feels that poetry is kinda crappy. Except for Walt Whitman who wrote about crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. She can relate to that. She had a long day yesterday and was considering paying the $80 cab fare to get home to New Jersey. She doesn't understand why when she was younger she was able to write a ten page essay in one sitting but now is having problems completing a three-page assignment. But she's paid for $1000 for this English class and by god she is going to pass it. Although, she'd like an A she'd settle for a B right about now. The entire time Nurse Linda is chatting, she is tying up my arm, smacking my veins to get them to pop up, shoving the world's largest needle in my arm (the picture above is not my arm. I couldn't handle watching my own blood come out.) and collecting little vials of my blood. I heard everything she said, but with a background track of my own voice, "Dear Smoking Baby, do not let me pass out. Am I pale? I feel like I'm going to faint. Why won't she just shut up? I don't want to have to pay attention to her because she's over there with my punctured arm and the river of blood coursing through the tubes into the seemingly enormous bag and it's totally freaking me out. Jesus, please shut up. Stop talking to me. God I hope I don't throw up. Don't people understand how traumatic this is?" Sweat, sweat, sweat, shake, shake, shake. "Please god don't let me vomit."

"Honey," Nurse Linda says holding the collection bag up to my face, "do you think you could squeeze a little more? You should be finished by now, and we need to fill this bag up." Groan.

Finally we're done and she asks if I'm okay. Anxious to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, I say yes and head off to apple juice and Oreo cookies. As soon as I reach the snack table another nurse appears and asks if I'm okay. "No. I don't think so."

Next thing I know I'm surrounded and people are shoving my head between my legs and instructing me to cough.

"Cough."
"Honey. You've gotta cough harder than that."
"COUGH. (God. I'm going to throw up.)"
"There you go. Now, why did you say you were okay? Do you think you can walk really fast?"
"No," I mumble from between my knees."
"Alright then. Sit over here." And it's the wheelchair. Back to the second hall on the left.I sat and waited for my blood pressure to come back for almost an hour. As I left Nurse Linda says, "Okay honey. See you in November!"