This little (guinea) piggy…

Mid-August, in the spirit of helping my fellow woman – and lured by a significant monetary bonus – I enlisted in a clinical trial for a new contraceptive pill (to test its side effects, not its contraceptive function!).

So over the past month and a half I’ve dutifully dosed myself each morning – ten minutes after breakfast – noting the time in my medical diary; I’ve attended half a dozen outpatient visits, waking up at an ungodly hour to get myself to the clinic before a 7am roll call… and patiently waiting as a rather incompetent medical staff band the other ladies and I together for our regulatory Q &A – How are you feeling today? Have you drunk any alcohol since your last visit? Have you experienced any extreme exposure to sunlight? (I wish!) And last week, I even packed my overnight bag to spend a weekend on the ward to be bled dry over the course of a rather rainy Saturday.

On Friday evening, eighteen ‘healthy’ women (myself included) ranging from twenty to thirty-nine years, handed over our contraband mobile phones and midnight snacks and took our place behind the curtains of a certain university hospital just south of London Victoria. After a tasteless dinner of chicken, rice and water-sodden green beans we prepared for an undoubtedly restless sleep. On Saturday we were woken early, pricked and prodded and fitted with a cannula (a small tube inserted into the vein to aid frequent removal of blood), fed a ‘standard’ breakfast (four slices of white bread and two pieces of cheese), dosed, and then bled every half hour until lunchtime and then every hour after that, to test our body’s reaction to drug. Lovely.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such an unpleasant experience if I didn’t suffer from ‘dainty and feminine veins’. Quite literally the only thing ‘dainty’ about me, and it has to be my poor old veins! Not sturdy enough to handle the massive needle that has to be inserted in order to place the cannula, the doctor was forced to make a beeline for my left wrist. With the cannula chafing my wrist bone, what followed was a solid twelve hours of severe pain. Each time a blood sample had to be taken my wrist was pulled and the cannula tugged. It seemed that while this vein may have been chunkier than its counterparts, it was just as reticent about letting go of its goods. By eight o’clock that night I was begging for the cannula’s removal. So the last sample for Saturday was taken by syringe, as were the remaining four vials on Sunday morning.


When I first thought about signing up for medical research I have to say I focussed wholeheartedly on the money – three months of pill-taking for £1,860 – the nitty-gritty details of not being able to drink alcohol or take vitamins or medication when sick really didn’t bother me. Even the numerous outpatient visits and overnight stays didn’t sway my resolve. But while interned in the clinic this past weekend, I realised that this is just as much a social experiment as it is a medical one.

Cooping up a bunch of women – otherwise unknown to each other – for 36 hours, allows insight into the human psyche. Who group together to moan about the food? Which ones whinge about their curtains being drawn at 11pm for lights out and 7.30am for their wake-up call? And just how many girls will utter the words, “Just who do they think they are?” when referring to the doctors and nurses that are aiding their earning of nearly £1,900! I thought I complained, but some of those girls needed muzzles.

I can handle the vein-pain and for our next (and final) overnight stay I’ll even fain enjoyment of the bland, carb-filled meals… but next time I won’t be rushing to chat to my fellow inmates. It’ll be all about watching DVDs on my laptop, soaking up some ‘me’ time and keeping my eye on the prize.