How Helping My Mom Die Allowed Me to Start Living

When I was 19 years old, I went to a clinic in Tucson to donate plasma — not because I’m such a kind-hearted person who felt a strong desire to give back.

But because I was flat BROKE.

(Okay, I do consider myself to be kind-hearted…but, in an effort to be 100% honest, I can’t attribute my decision to donate plasma to being kind-hearted.)

I needed that $40, or whatever the minimal amount they paid you to donate plasma was at the time, REALLY BADLY.

So, I walked my broke little butt (okay, broke big butt) into the clinic that day with very few cares in the world…

…I donated my plasma…

…and I walked out feeling moderately pleased that I had a little bit of cold, hard cash in my hands.

Seemed simple enough, right?

Wrong.

Little did I know that my plasma/blood would soon be deemed ‘unusable’ and that I would receive a call informing me that I had Hepatitis C.

Huh? Hepatitis C?

I literally had to Google ‘what is Hepatitis C?’ (from an actual computer, mind you, because smartphones weren’t a thing back then, just to give you an idea of how long ago this was).