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The world’s supply of many life-saving medications depends on people in the United States deciding to sell their blood plasma. Without them, there would be a global shortage of critical medications and a public health crisis.
But what does it take to be a supplier of this indispensable resource?
I decided to roll up my sleeve and see first-hand what it’s like to be a compensated plasma donor.
Bright fluorescent lights, rows of plastic chairs, and a line of people waiting: the lobby of a blood plasma center is a cross between a medical clinic and a fast-food restaurant.
And I’m on the menu.
On this day I’m here to sell my plasma.
The plasma center is full of willing, compensated donors. Many are clutching blankets, water bottles and earphones — items that make the process more comfortable.
It’s clear, for them this is a familiar routine.
But before you can donate for the first time, you have to pass an extensive health screening.
Plasma is turned into pharmaceutical treatments for people with serious conditions like immune and bleeding disorders.
If a donor has certain infections or health issues, those can be passed on through plasma products.
So, centers use questionnaires, vitals, and lab tests to catch things like HIV and hepatitis.
U.S. regulations literally say centers must not collect blood or plasma until they’ve determined the donor is “in good health and free from transfusion-transmitted infections.”
After I speak with the receptionist and verify that I have a Social Security number and a permanent address, I’m told to watch a video that explains the process.
Then I’m sent to a nurse, and the questions dig deeper about my health and personal history, travel history, medications, surgeries, tattoos, sex, drugs. They ask if I have had sex for money or had sex with someone who had sex for money. They ask if I ever had hepatitis. Have I ever injected drugs? Have I been in jail? Have I felt sick this week?
The interrogation is intimate, and impersonal at the same time.
And I pass.
Now the nurse takes a drop of my blood from a finger prick to check it for protein level, and hematocrit — how many red blood cells I have.
Then it’s off to the main donor room.
There are eight rows of 10 reclining lounge-like seats. It’s almost completely occupied.
People have tubes running from veins in their arms into whirring plasmapheresis machines.
Many are reclining with blankets over their legs with an arm extended. Most shake their legs occasionally while they scroll on their phones or listen to music.
The phlebotomists, the workers who collect the plasma, wear white lab coats and talk to the donors. Many are regulars and they know them by name.
One older donor calls the phlebotomist over and hands her his headphones. He wants her to hear the music he’s jamming to. It’s the '80s band Simply Red and the song is “Money too Tight to Mention.”
Next, I get hooked up. The needle is thick, but it goes in smoothly. It's not painful, but there is a dull feeling of ache and pressure.
The clear tubing fills with dark red blood, pumping into a machine at my side. Inside, a centrifuge spins the blood, separating out the plasma — a yellow fluid — and then sends my red blood cells back into my body along with a de-clotting solution.
I’m told to squeeze my fist every few seconds to keep the blood flowing. If I want a rubber ball to squeeze, that will cost a dollar.
An hour later the machine beeps, an indication that I’m done.
I’m unhooked, and a purple bandage is wrapped around my arm.
I’m thanked and sent on my way.
The debit card I'm given is now loaded with my payment.
I received $100 — for being a first-time donor.
