Stories From My Past: The Wired Blood Donor

Yesterday I was talking to a co-worker about my long and tumultuous history with caffeine. It brought this story to mind. Since I have nothing else to talk about this week, I'll tell you a story about one of the many times I was an idiot.

It is no exaggeration to say that in college, I would drink anywhere from 4-6 soda pops each day. I would also drink a pot or so of coffee per day. I would get caffeine withdrawal headaches after 4 or 5 hours without the stuff. Looking back on it, I'm surprised my heart didn't explode.

I heard about the Stillwater Plasma Center. This was a place where you could donate blood plasma, and they would pay you. College campuses always spring up around places like this. I decided to go give it a try. But there was a catch... before donating, they recommended that you not have any caffeine for 24 hours.

This didn't sound possible. How would I exist? The human body wasn't made to function without the influence of the mighty bean. I decided that this just wasn't going to work. I would compromise. I would only have coffee that morning, and I would donate in the afternoon. Sounded workable.

Here's the good part. I forgot that soda pops have caffeine in them.

At the Plasma Center, the lady must have jabbed my arm 3 times, with absolutely no luck at getting the needle into a vein. I don't do well with needles, by the way. I'm always amazed that I voluntarily did this.

She asked me if I'd had any caffeine. "I had a little coffee this morning," I admitted. I left out that this was a relative term... "a little" for me meant that I didn't drink the whole pot. "Anything else?", she demanded. "No, no coffee since then. Just water and pop."

To her credit, she didn't actually verbally *say* the word "idiot". Then again, she didn't really have to. She took her revenge by going ahead with the procedure anyway. When I complained about the needle burning and hurting and such, she took great joy in explaining exactly how much my veins were constricted. This meant that the needle didn't fit in the vein. Her graphic description nearly made me pass out.

Amazingly, I went back. More than once! But not very many times. I like getting paid for doing basically nothing, but I really don't like needles. There's another story to be told regarding that, but I'll save it for another time.