The Infamous Syphilis Debacle

Oh you greedy blog readers...a cross country road trip, a wedding, a NEW CAR, and a bridesmaid-gone-roller-derby was not enough for you in one week...Well, all right...it is Friday and you need something to help you through your day...

When I was a poor college student (as opposed to a poor Pastor's wife) during my very first month of school, I heard about a great little money-making venture . All you had to do was find a dingy building in Scranton, be ushered into a moderately creepy room of what looked like dentist chairs, sign a waiver that you wouldn't sue in the event of a problem, and get hooked up to a machine that sucked out your blood, spun it madly to remove the red blood cells which were then squirted back into you, leaving behind a bag of pinkish liquid which you were then paid 20 dollars for. Selling your plasma is money in the bank, Gang!

So me, being the motivated little seller that I am, made a couple of trips with various groups of people I barely knew to earn the money I needed to make the Dominoes Delivery Man arrive at my dorm with the regularity I craved.

On my last trip to the Plasma Market, however, I signed in and waited for my moderately creepy dentist chair. And then my name was called. A nurse (or someone similarly disguised as one) asked me to step into "this little room." Confused, I stepped inside with the nurse.

She then proceeded to explain that in their routine battery of tests, my plasma had tripped the test for syphilis.

I barely knew what syphilis was, but I was dead-on about how you got it. Getting a disease you barely knew about ranked pretty high on my list of reasons I had never done THAT. In that awkward moment, I felt 10 percent amused, 35 percent misunderstood, and 55 percent down-right-bummed that I wasn't going to get paid.

In the next moment, the nurse was kind enough to explain that I would need to see a doctor and get a note before I could give plasma again. Since that was long before I learned the principle that you have to spend money (ie....see a doctor) to make money, I just walked away in disgust. And also, I had the distinct impression it was incurable anyway. Why else would all those Romantic Poets have died from it? Anyway, I knew I didn't have IT and wasn't too worried about what was wrong with me since I felt fine.

The next week, two things happened: my wisdom tooth erupted into a full-blown, nasty infection and, my Grandma sent me a card with 20 dollars and the note, "Please don't sell your plasma anymore."

OK, Gram, I won't.