was sitting in the bright sun watching a college football game next to my dad last fall, talking with him about the
By the roughest guess, working backward from the number of plasma units collected in a single year, you could surmise that up to 20 million people in the US donate or sell their blood plasma, the yellowish liquid protein component of blood, in a year. Millions of plasma donors represent a substantial portion of the US population, and yet we hear little about it as a segment of the American gig economy. There are scattered news stories here or there, of course, about plasma as staple of hard-luck life. There are the usual anecdotes of teachers selling their plasma during a strike or to make ends meet. We read that inflation might beto plasma centers around the country.
‘Friends, their children, colleagues and acquaintances have confessed to me, often in jokes and lowered voices, that they sold plasma to get through rough financial patches.’Over a photo of a spritely young woman with a great haircut, the stadium bathroom stall ad urged college students to go to the Biolife plasma extraction center across town and earn money for their blood. It’s easier and better than a part-time job, the ad told them.
He’s wrong. Over the course of three years, I interviewed more than 100 people who have sold their blood proteins, from Idaho to Texas to Michigan and all over in between. They told me stories of using the money to buy groceries, gas, pay off student debt and even for small fun things like vacations.
In truth, there isn’t a large body of scientific research about what long-term plasma donation at a high pace – the industry allows up to 104 donations per person per year – might do to a person’s health. The practice is sold as safe, but a lot of donors do worry, especially when they are left fatigued by one donation.