Before moving, I worked with the one and only guy I've ever shared an office with here at the cancer hospital. Yeah, he's the one who said "goodnight girls" every night to me and my coworker and it went up my all-women's-college-educated ASS every time, but at the end of the day, I think is a nice person and would probably do anything for any of us, even though he has come across a little bit sexist, lol. He's a sucker for the damsel-in-distress act and is more than willing to move heavy equipment or set up computers for us females, or do other manly things such as fixing the printer (not that I can't do it, I am simply lazy). He even offered to show me the medical software he is piloting when I was bitching about our electronic medical records system and its general suckitude. Very sweet.
Yesterday I saw him in the kitchen - you would think this would not be a big deal, but since my move diagonally across the second floor, I rarely see him. "Hey stranger!" he shouted. Casual conversation ensued, in which he explained to me his penchant for stealing food and beverages from recently abandoned conference rooms. "I got a whole drawer of soda in the office!" he proclaimed excitedly. Seeing my opportunity, I mentioned donating platelets. "If you like free stuff, you should totally give it a try. There's the food, then there's all the other stuff I've ever received, shirts, towels, bags, cafeteria gift cards, free ice cream cards, raffle tickets for Red Sox tickets, etc, it's great, plus you get free parking, which is unheard of around here." I thought this would be an easy sell. He leaned in close to me "well I really would....but....." he leans back, as if to flex his muscles, "I hit the gym every morning six days a week. I'd have to skip a morning if I donated platelets...and uh....*sigh* *flex* I just can't give that up. It's a sacrifice I'm not willing to make."
uh. ok.
I said "Oh you're big and manly, surely you'd bounce right back." *pause for dramatic effect* "besides, I donate every other week and head home and go for a run." He did not seem convinced, no doubt due to the inferiority of "girl running" as opposed to "boy running." ha. At least I have this one consolation - should he ever donate, my platelet count probably kicks his platelet count's ass, since today mine was 436 (K), which I might add, was more than the sum of the counts two women donating next to me. Hoooolay hoooooo.
Also - did I mention the platelet donating disaster? I think not. Don't worry, it was nothing like this mofo, the granddaddy of all platelet-donating-related injuries:
Briefly, a few weeks ago I went to donate and got a guy who routinely seems nervous around me. I don't know if it's me, if he's just a nervous guy, or what, but as we went to stick the needle in my vein, I notice he's shaking. "WTF" is all I can think, but I try to stay calm around him, so he in turn calms down. He sticks the needle in and blood flies everywhere - on me, on the chair, on my blanket (miraculously not on my clothes), on the blood pressure cuff, on his glasses. Gah, it was nightmarish. Then the vein collapsed and my blood clotted in the pheresis machine. There was a lot of pulling the needle out and pushing it back in, lots of jiggling, before the guy's supervisor was like "Stop and switch arms!" Of course that didn't work because he proceeded to eff up the other arm. I actually felt bad for the poor guy, but my coworker Laura was like 'uh no, he should be fired!!' I figured it was a fluke.
Today I watched him stab someone else, as I was privileged to have the guy who is the BEST needle-sticker-inner ever. She yelped at one point. Luckily her head was turned away, so I didn't see what she did, which was blood pooling around her access site and dribbling down her arm, collecting between her forearm and the armrest. Ick. I was also glad to be a fast donate-r because I bounced out of there before she was finished and had a chance to survey the mess.
Speaking of mess, I got blood on my pants, because my finger stick bled like....I dunno, like I don't have a 436 platelet count, that's for damn sure:
But my pressure bandage matches my nail polish. Delight in the small things, folks:
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