Blood Money

It’s 5 AM, and my alarms going off. I pop out of bed and head to the kitchen, where I gobble down a granola bar and drink a glass of water. Now that I’m hydrated and have eaten, I can start driving to my appointment. It’s time for my first of two weekly plasma donations.

My friend put me onto this. He called me one day and told me about this place that pays you to donate blood. Apparently, this corporation uses your plasma to make medicine and pays you a small fee for your donation (he mentioned he makes $100-$200 a week donating). Since I was dead broke and jobless, I went to take my physical and get started. It seemed like a good side hustle until I got back on my feet.

The donation center’s 15 minutes away from my house. I hate to admit it, but I go early, hoping I don’t run into anyone I know. I also put on my prescription glasses, which I don’t usually wear, so nobody recognizes me. Being seen donating plasma does not exude success.

When I arrive at the facility, I go to a terminal and fill out a brief questionnaire. Every time I come to donate, I have to do this. The company wants to ensure I’m still healthy, don’t have any STDs, and am aware of the risks associated with donating plasma. I answer all the questions honestly, but it’s hard to imagine people admitting something that will prevent them from making their donation. They test your blood every time, so they’d find out anyway, but it’s kinda obvious how you need to answer to move to the next step.

After I finish my questions, I take a seat in the lobby and wait to be called. A few minutes pass, and a lady yells “Daniel” across the room. I walk up to the counter, where a nurse greets me and starts my pre-screening tests (there are two of them, and I have to pass both to donate).

The first thing the nurse does is check my protein levels. She pokes my finger with a device, squeezes the blood into a tube, and feeds it into a machine that analyzes it.

While she waits for my results, she takes my blood pressure. I always dread this test because it occasionally comes back high. If it’s not in an acceptable range, they make you wait 15 minutes and retake it. If it’s still high, they send you home and make you come back another day. It ends up being a huge waste of time, and you leave without the money you desperately need.

I try to stay calm while the nurse wraps the cuff around my arm. She tells me to relax and breathe in. Less than a minute later, the cuff releases, and she tells me to head to the back. I passed both tests. Thank God.

I stroll over to the donation floor, which is filled with rows of chairs. Before getting seated, I glance at everyone mid-donation. I see a bunch of minorities who look homeless or close to it. There’s a mix of young and old people in the room. To my surprise, almost as many women as men are donating. It’s a sad sight, but poverty doesn’t discriminate against genders.

A nurse asks what arm I’d like to use for my donation. I always choose my left arm because the vein on my right arm is too small to extract blood from. One time, they tried to use it, and the process took longer than usual, leaving a gigantic bruise on my arm. It was a nightmare experience, and I never used my right arm again.

The nurse applies disinfectant to my vein. While rubbing it in, she gives me a big smile and asks how I’m doing. I respond, “Fine,” even though I’m so broke that I’m donating my blood for some chump change. It’s ironic that the employees are over-the-top cheery when what’s happening is so dark.

After cleaning my vein, the nurse pulls the lid off a sterile needle and sticks me. Most of the time, my blood flows into the plasma machine right away. Every now and then, though, nothing comes out, and they have to wiggle the needle around until they find a solid connection to my vein. Some staff members never stick me in the right location, so I always request proven nurses when they’re available.

Once I’m up and running, the waiting game begins. I make a squeezing gesture with my hand to help my blood flow faster and speed up the process. If you disconnect early for any reason, you won’t receive your full pay. While I’m waiting for my donation to finish, I watch YouTube videos or listen to music. The process is painless and requires no effort on my end.

When the machine hits 100%, the final stage of donation begins. The device returns your red blood cells and keeps your plasma in a separate bag. This part makes you feel chilly, but it’s over quickly. The nurse removes the needle from your vein, wraps a bandage around your arm, and sends you on your way. Even though I know my donation will help save someone’s life, a piece of my dignity has been lost.

I just pimped myself out and gave this billion-dollar corporation a pint of my blood for a $40 gift card.

The donation also leaves a bruise on my vein. It kinda looks like I was using heroin. I used to be a drug addict, so I hate going around with this suspicious-looking mark on my arm. Especially since I always brag about being clean. Nobody’s ever questioned me about it, but it does make me self-conscious. Having a needle mark on your vein is never a good look.

The donation center can only use your plasma if you make two donations in a week, so I’ll need to return in a few days. They give you more money for your second donation, but in reality, they’re paying you pennies for your blood and selling it for a hefty profit.

When you’re a beggar, you can’t be a chooser, so for now I have to accept what they give me. I gotta get out of this position soon, though. I don’t want to be doing this forever. Some people here look like they’ve been doing this for years and will probably donate their Plasma until they die. This place reeks of poverty and exploitation. Once I’m back working…

I’m not ever trading my blood for money again.