Participating in Clinical Trials

Since there are several nationally known medical facilities and universities in my area, I often see ads asking for participants for clinical trials. Most are geared toward a specific way to treat or prevent a particular disease or condition, and most reimburse for travel, medication, testing, and also offer a small stipend.

I've always wanted to participate in one, just to get an insider's view, but I never saw a clinical trial offered for seasonal allergies, which is the only condition I suffer from right now (I know how blessed I am). Then, I hit the jackpot. Not one, but two entities were looking for healthy participants that fit certain criteria.

The first was looking for healthy volunteers to participate in research studies of nerve damage; they wanted to apply electric shocks to various nerves, and thus establish a sort of library of normal baseline readings, with which to compare patients' reactions who might actually be suffering from nerve damage.

"You're going to volunteer to be shocked for no reason?" asked my husband. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Well, it's for a good cause; and they're paying me $25," I replied.

"I'll give you $50 to stay home," he said dryly. "Have you given any thought as to what happens if something goes wrong?"

Actually, I hadn't. I suppose I have far too much faith in the medical community for my own good. But, being stubborn, I was set to go through with it. I showed up at the appointed time, having showered with non-deodorant soap and sans lotions or powders of any kind. I had even done them the courtesy of shaving my legs. I was given a clipboard, which had ten pages of family history questions to fill out, followed by a three page consent form detailing the specific guidelines of the research study, as well as a detailed list of everything which could possibly go wrong. (Nerve damage! Paralysis! Heart attack! Everything except sterility, which would be a boon.) Then I was escorted to a room, where I sat eying a scary looking machine for some time.

The actual test was not too bad. A sort of pen attached to the machine was applied at various points along my arms and legs; the first touch felt like a sort of hum, the next two or three produced a tingle and a twitch, unpleasant but tolerable; it was only the last shock in the series (one to each arm and leg) which was startling and rather painful. At this point, I was starting to sweat and feel like a victim under interrogation. ("You substitute turkey sausage for the real thing, don't you?" Zap! "You secretly feel that all men are spoiled children, isn't that so?" Zap! "Tell the truth!" Zap! Zap!)

I couldn't wait to get out of there; and I made sure that I spent my $25 on myself.

Now why, you ask, did I sign up for another clinical trial two months later? Simple. I have short term memory loss. Plus, they were offering a full medical work up, state-of-the-art analysis of body composition and $100. They were doing a study of possible genetic components contributing to obesity, and they were looking for slender people who had never dieted nor exercised on a regular basis. All they needed from me was a full family medical history, a 20-minute physical and a blood sample.

I thought it would be the easiest $100 I ever made. I told my Mom.

"Honey, aren't you still afraid of needles?"

Yes, I'm a lifelong needlephobe. Fortunately, because I've always had low cholesterol and I'm pretty healthy, I seldom get blood draws at my annual physicals. But for that much cash, I was willing to give a little blood.

They took six tubes.

I sat, clenching my jaws and fighting the impulse to scream, yank that needle out, and run far, far away. It seemed to go on forever, and I had the insane feeling that the nurse, calmly chewing her gum, was prolonging things out of sheer cussedness.

Fortunately, my husband had driven me there, because I promptly threw up and nearly fainted on my way out of the room.

Thus ended my participation in clinical studies. I hope that I contributed something useful to someone, somewhere, and that I've played a small role in helping to alleviate someone else's suffering. I do know one thing; I'm not a good candidate for blood donor!