They used to think my platelets were sexy. I started donating for one of my wife’s coworkers. There was just something about my platelets they liked. After the lady finshed her treatments, they continued calling for other patients, mostly children. They told me I was CMV (?) negative, which made me suitable for young chemo patients. They called about once a month and asked me to come down for abot a year.
But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I was (and still am) struggling with hypertension and hyperlipidity. They turned me away several times because my BP was too high. “But, stick a needle in me an relieve some pressure,” I offered, eager to experience the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of the lowered body temperature, the tingly purple lips.
“No, that spoils the mood,” they replied. Once or twice, I was able to go out to the lobby and meditate (i.e. take a quick nap) and get my pressure down below the limit. They relented and then I got my fix.
But, like any furtive affair, all good things must come to an end. One afternoon, they called and I tooled on down to the center. My BP was under the limit, just barely. They tied off the tourniquette and inserted the needles and started the centrifuge. I settle back into the lounger to get lost in the bliss. The phlebotmist returns in a few minutes to check on me and starts cursing, much like a lover who has waited for weeks, only to have her man spoil the moment with a premature ejaculation.
He turns off the centrifuge and lifts up the collection bags. The tubes are full of milky white serum. My blood was so full of lipids (high density, low density, triglycerides, I don’t know) that the platelets wouldn’t spin out in the centrifuge.
“I hope you realize we have to throw this pack away,” he snarled. “These things cost over sixty dollars.” He withdraws the needles in a sullen silence.
I left, feeling rejected and unwanted. They never called again.
