Andy Nelson has never had sex with a man, and certainly not before 1975 - he was born in 1986. He doesn't have "bloodborne pathogens." He doesn't even know what those are. He hasn't been 110 pounds since he was 14, and he has always been a U.S. citizen. And he doesn't have a tattoo. But the studio art senior addresses these issues every time he goes to Talecris Biotherapeutics on Florida Boulevard - a plasma donation center. He's not a lab technician, but Nelson, nonetheless, has what amounts to a part-time job at the center. He's a plasma donor, and he makes 300 tax-free dollars a month - just enough to supplement his social life. For the past two years, he took trips to the plasma donation center twice a week. Nelson has TOPS. School's paid for. He lives on campus, has a meal plan and doesn't own a car. He gets around by catching rides from friends, so his expenses are limited to funding his addictions to cigarettes and live music. He also works a few hours a week at CC's Community Coffee in Middleton Library, where he generally makes less money than he does from donating plasma. Donating plasma is relatively quick, painless and convenient for a college student short on cash. Many plasma donation centers target students and other people who are in need of easy money. And at four hours a week and about $19 an hour, he says he has found a job that is tailored to college students. 'SAVING SOMEBODY'S LIFE' On Wednesday afternoon, the line was short: only three people ahead of him. "It's usually a much longer wait," Nelson said. He signed in. The technicians called his name and took his weight. Then a technician asked him probing questions meant to determine whether Nelson is what he jokingly refers to as a "sexual psycho." Soon after he was led to the back room filled with the whir of machines taking plasma from other donors. He sat in a curved chair and waited. Nelson said if he breathes deeply, he can barely feel the needle. When plasma is drawn from Nelson - a process called plasmapheresis - blood is taken from the body and separated by centrifuge into plasma and red blood cells. Plasma is a clear, yellowish part of the blood that suspends the blood cells and contains nutrients and proteins. Then the red blood cells are returned to the body along with a saline solution that hydrates the donor. Kathy Saichuck, Wellness Education Center coordinator, said donating plasma is safe as long as the facility is clean. "Make sure when they open the needle kit, it's a new needle kit," Saichuck said. "Make sure the tech is wearing gloves. And of course, the big hope is that you're getting a very qualified tech sticking that needle into your veins." Plasma donations are used in vaccinations and treatments for hepatitis, rabies, tetanus, hemophilia and other genetic blood disorders. "It's important that everybody knows that every donation that is made is saving somebody's life," said Steven Goldsmith Talecris spokesman.
WORTH THE RISK Mass communication sophomore Billy Daniel was a patron at another center, ZLB Plasma on Nicholson Drive. Then his vein collapsed. "[The machine] started making a weird noise and my arm started hurting … It was about two and a half weeks ago, but I'm still a little bit bruised," Daniel said, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal the fading purple spot. Daniel has not been back, but he said he plans to return. "It doesn't take that long, and it's helping someone out," Daniel said. "And it's an easy way to make some quick money." But Nelson, who also suffered bruising when a technician missed his vein, said he's only doing it for the money. "[Saving lives] is a nice afterthought for sure," he said. "But if I get into a position to where, say, I'm a famous artist selling my paintings, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. Because I know those people are going to be there."
TARGETING STUDENTS Students are not the only ones making money from donations - the centers themselves earn a huge profit and take advantage of needy college kids in search of a quick buck. Many plasma centers are backed by pharmaceutical companies who use the plasma for medicine and research. "So the pharmaceutical company or the company paying for the plasma is turning around and selling the plasma for a much higher price - a ridiculously higher price," Saichuck said. "Bottom line is: it's about money. Plasma donations are about money." But Talecris, Goldsmith said, does not sell to a pharmaceutical company and uses plasma for its own research. Amber Vu, center manager for Talecris on Florida Boulevard, said the center targets students by advertising directly to college campuses. Louisiana has 11 plasma centers that are not connected to hospitals or non-profit agencies. Of those facilities, 10 are located less than 5 miles from a college or university. The 11th is located less than 7 miles from a school. "We have a lot of students who come here," Vu said. "It's a great way for them to makes some extra spending money." 'IS THIS WHAT MY LIFE IS?' Nelson said his grandparents are concerned about his part-time job. "They give me a hard time about it," he said. "They're like, 'If you really need the money, just call us.'" He said plasma centers are stigmatized for attracting a poorer clientele. "They always tend to be in the slums, right? It's almost like a social studies lesson every time you go in," Nelson said. Saichuck said the centers tend to attract people in need of fast money. "I would imagine there are those cases that someone's living on the street or desperate for money, whether it be for food or drugs or anything," Saichuck said. Nine of Louisiana's 11 plasma facilities are located in areas with median household incomes less than that of the parish median. Four were in considerably impoverished neighborhoods, located in areas with less than half the median household income of the parish. And all 11 fell below the average income level for the state. "There are definitely those types," Nelson said. "Sometimes, you really catch yourself sitting in there with everybody, and you really wonder, 'Is this what my life is?' But at the same time, I know who I am. And I know who I'm not. And I know I'm going to college and eventually, hopefully, I won't have to do this." 'NOT A JOB' Donating took about an hour and a half of Nelson's time Wednesday, which is a little longer than usual, he said. "They said I was dehydrated," he said. "I had a few drinks last night." Nelson's resume is eclectic. He's assisted a carpenter, made pizzas, done quality control for Proctor and Gamble, washed dishes, been a fry cook at Louie's and worked as a camp counselor in New York watching "privileged 5- and 6-year-olds." But he said donating plasma is the job for him. And it is something he might consider doing even if he had a steadier flow of income. "If I had a car, I'd have more options to get a better job and not have to do that," he said. "But at the same time even if I had a better job I could still go to the plasma center and still make that much more money because it's still convenient and painless really. "The thing is, it's not a job because I'm not going to get in trouble if I don't go. I just have that cash. That's what's so great about it too. I don't owe anybody anything. It's just nice to have that extra $75."
---- Contact Rebekah Allen at rallen@lsureveille.com
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