Prolegomena (a): Blood Tests

Before they wanted anything else, they wanted blood. The idea being that if I had AIDS or blood flukes, they could sniff it out before I subject myself to their doodads and chemicals, garner unfortunate complications, and sue the US government for turning my liver into another spleen.

So they had me drive out to a shopping center in that part of Fredericksburg comprised primarily of crab shacks and strip malls. The blood testing center was this little unassuming building nuzzled between a Dunkin Donuts and an IHOP, which is not a good location for a clientele that is undoubtedly diabetic by a healthy plurality. Inside, I am the only one there: I fill out papers and explain that NASA sent me and would fax instructions. Initially, this did not go over well. Pro-tip: before explaining to anyone that NASA sent you, bathe before the encounter and wear something with sleeves.


Eventually, someone had the epiphany to look through the fax log and, yes, Johnson Space Center had indeed faxed instructions. Fabulous. Only one hour later (with still no one else arriving), they led me into the back room where I was given an option: do you first urinate into a cup or have blood drawn? Living dangerously, I chose to pee. There is something beautiful about peeing into a cup. It’s almost like a dance between you and the cup; a dance so intricate that one false move could send data all over the wall. I truly have no idea how the ladies do it. Do they give you a special chair? Or at least a funnel? {UPDATE: No, they do not. They are just good at everything and that area is a thing of cosmic beauty, gateway of life, etc.}

And now the blood. When I came back, the lady (without gloves) took the cup from me and placed it on the table, remarking that it was as warm as good coffee. How Nice. Now I am at ease. Thankfully, she did put on gloves before she put a tourniquet on me and placed a strange green contraption in the nook of my elbow. The device looked like a spigot with a needle on one end. Then she proceeded to clip a vial to the spigot, fill it with blood, then she would CLICK, unscrew and repeat, seven or eight times. They must have pulled half a pint out of me, giving me my own row on the blood spice-rack she kept on the desk. I asked what kind of tests needed so much of me.

“Blood tests,” she replied.



And they sent me on my way.

Later I asked Mr. Google to inquire about the Blood Center. Turns out all of the labwork actually takes place in India. This felt a little strange, knowing that a decent volume of my flotsam was bobbing around in another continent. Think if you saw your dead mother’s finger on German ebay—it’s kind of like that.

So. My heart-gravy is in a biohazard bag on the Indian subcontinent, my DNA is owned by the government, and I’ve officially been given the DOES NOT HAVE AIDS Uncle Sam, seal of approval. This course of events pleases me, especially the latter, because I have heard AIDS is inconvenient even at the best of times. My wife, especially, gave a sigh of relief. Because, man, does she ever know about the escapades.