I work for the medical research branch of a university. Employees of the U. are automatically placed on an email subscription for research subject announcements. Over the years, I have applied for several studies. There are many reasons to participate: it’s a good way to make some extra money. As a researcher that uses animal models, I feel that volunteering for studies as one way to balance things with lives I manipulate and I have learned a lot from each study I’ve participated in. (One lesson: Sometimes my life feels like something Tennessee Williams may have written after drinking a whole bottle of absinthe and watching a Jerry Springer Show marathon. However, physiologically, I’m quite mundane – I’ve been an control subject for the three studies I’ve participated it)
Currently, I’m part of a study on gestational diabetes. Part of the study requires a glucose tolerance test, which I had today. First, the researcher got a baseline metabolic rate. I laid on a bed with what looked like an astronaut’s helmet over my head. It was an hour of me thinking “Please don’t sneeze, Mouse. Please don’t sneeze.”
Next, I had a fasting blood draw. The nurse asked when I ate last. “Midnight,” I replied.
“What were you doing up at that hour?”
“My husband knew that I had to fast for this test and that the appointment was at 8:30. He woke me up so I could eat something.”
“Awww. How sweet of him.”
I felt like a first-class jerk since I fought getting up and whined about it later that morning. :smack:
After the blood was taken, I was given a glucose beverage. I assume its orange color was supposed to indicate the flavor, but whoever made this had never tasted an orange of any derivation. The following phase was the most tedious: having blood drawn every hour for the next three hours.
Between blood draws, I could leave the clinic. Since I felt dizzy and nauseated, I stayed in an exam room. The clinic was in the Old U* hospital and in the process of moving to the new campus – where I work. There were open drawers and cabinets, chairs pushed into corners, even exposed wires. The exam room looked more like a place for an illicit kidney transplant than a functioning medical facility. Staying there gave me a rare opportunity to talk with clinical research staff. We’re on opposite ends of the process of discovery and rarely interact. The staff was very friendly and just as curious about me as I was about them. The fact that I bleed mice and the results eventually lead to them drawing blood from test subjects like me amused the clinicians.
After the final draw, a nurse was kind enough to have a tray of food brought to me from the cafeteria. I was very grateful for it.
The next time I read about the results of a study, I will think of the kind, patient nurses and research assistants that looked after me today.
*The Old U hospital is a few blocks away from the Hospital where Andrew Speaker, the TB guy, is kept. I was worried that the traffic would as horrible as it was when he first arrived. The drive was normal; I guess the news hounds have moved on.
Currently, I feel like everybody in the whole damned county has had their mits on me. Much to Mouse_Spouse’s horror, when a woman asked me if she could touch my belly, I asked if I could grope her tits. *Yes, I’m pregnant. That doesn’t negate my right to personal space. *