![]() ![]() Such risks are higher overall for whole blood too. Hospitals, Red Cross units, and nonprofit agencies relying on voluntary donations reject the plasma-center model because cash incentives for whole blood may give donors an incentive to lie, heightening risks of a tainted supply. Plasma centers have historically worn the scarlet letter in the blood-collection universe. The industry burgeoned in the 1950s thanks to a boom in new drugs for hemophiliacs. Proteins in the plasma collected at places like Biotest are necessary for the manufacture of a wide range of pharmaceuticals produced by for-profit corporations. The United States is conversationally known in the industry as “the OPEC of plasma collections.” donors makes up about 70 percent of worldwide collections. These are some of the funny corporate names that dot my state, New Mexico, and maybe yours. And my research began.īiotest, CSL Plasma, Yale Plasma. What had happened? I had received my welcome to the subtle physical changes, possibly exacerbated by work and poverty, which may be the upshot of plassing. But because I substitute teach as well as freelance write, I woke up wondering: What would I do if that happened at my day job? I barely reached the couch before I passed out for five hours straight. I suddenly felt so weirdly fatigued that I couldn’t stand on my feet. This was something more than “mild faintness” and particularly disturbing because of the aspect of a random attack. Unexpectedly, with no apparent cause or logical relationship to physical exertion, I felt my legs go rubbery. It happened at about five o’clock the next day. centers ubiquitously states that “donating plasma is safe.” Its side effects are limited to “mild faintness and bruising.” (My brochure also added, “Other possible side effects will be explained by our medical staff,” though I can’t say any such explanation stayed with me.) But the following day my body received an impromptu schooling in the price tag of the world I had entered. I left with a ray of hope that I could “plass” next month’s rent money. You’ll pass” attitude may have expressed condescension, unprofessionalism, or benevolence. Did he know how desperate I was? His “Don’t worry. Curiously, while my examiner hurried me through the screening, he did patiently lay out the payment scheme. Plassers receive payments on a special debit card that extracts a surcharge whenever they use it. I spotted a sign: NO PAYMENT UNLESS DONATION IS COMPLETED. But I questioned its efficiency given that my examiner ran through scores of questions so fast I had to ask him to repeat himself. After the clinicians tested a blood sample for protein levels, I underwent a bare-bones medical checkup. Three times I was asked if I had lied and “really” had tattoos. I was not surprised by the many questions about my sexual behavior, but I was taken aback by repeated questions regarding tattoos. All were like me-hopeful, needy, and impatient to get paid. ![]() Easily 50 to 60 “plassers” were present at any given moment, the crowd continually ebbing and flowing. There were first-timers waiting to complete the initial medical exam, and regulars hurrying to check in at automatic computer terminals. The facility I entered buzzed like a school lunchroom. ![]() Regulars call it “plassing.” The ad I’d seen featuring smiling attendants suggested an experience similar to one at a sedate hospital. That was when I saw an ad offering $50 per plasma donation: blood money, or more specifically, payment for my time and any small pain involved in the process of having protein-rich plasma extracted from the blood. I was 48 years old, a journalist running short on cash from writing assignments and odd jobs. A clinician instructed us both to pump and relax our fists, like cows milking our own udders.īefore leaving I received a calendar that mapped out my pay, if I maintained a twice-weekly schedule for subsequent donations. ![]() “My house is so noisy with four kids so I come here for my relaxation,” said a middle-aged, haggard-looking woman on the next couch, the plasmapheresis machine at her side whirring. He separated my plasma from my whole blood into a large bottle, and returned my protein-depleted blood, which flowed back into my arm to rebuild my nutrient supply. A white-coated attendant (workers aren’t required to have medical or nursing degrees) pricked my arm. That was how I found myself laying in a plasma “donation” room filled with about 40 couches, each equipped with a blood pressure cuff and a centrifuge. ![]()
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