Transfusion Day: Before

In the lead up to Transfusion Day, things get a little tetchy around these parts. People might cry if they don’t get their hot chocolate in their favourite Bunnykins cup, or if the hot chocolate is too hot, too cold, too milky, too chocolatey, stirred too much, not stirred enough, or it is served without a spoon (Bunnykins of course). I can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if it was revealed that it was made with Oat Milk. So the adults do the best we can to make things smooth and easy and not get cross with her for feeling overwhelmed, because we know that she is exhausted.

As are we.

In the lead up to Transfusion Day, I get a little tetchy too. I don’t care much for frivolous conversations, and unless I’m at work, my mind finds a way to wander up and down the long white clickety-click lino corridors of the Children’s Ward, hovering over the stifling walls of the treatment room, where the child who will always be my baby will soon have her golden skin pierced and pierced and pierced until the cool smooth of the needle can slide along the length of a vein.

And so we wait.

We wait until we can avoid it no longer, and we book in for Transfusion Day.

And then something strange happens.

The child who might burst into tears, crying, “Why did Daddy put the salt so far away?” even when it’s directly in front of her, becomes a child transformed. She gives up a sample of blood for crossmatching, and it’s as if we are in Medieval times, and the blood-letting creates a space in her circulation to be filled with vitality. The child who would whimper if she was asked to pick up her socks, will put socks on her hands, in an attempt to do a no-hands cartwheel. She will run and play and laugh and craft. The bursts of energy are short-lived, and her chest will rise and fall in a way that my Motherduck instincts will watch like LASER, but at least there are bursts. She is preparing for her Coco-ness to return.

Transfusion Day: After

And so we wait.

We wait with a nervous energy that tries to escape and bubble out of our pores.

She is nervous about getting the canula in, and yet equally excited to open the Glitzy Globes I’ve bought her to play with to pass the long long day, I am nervous about a million different things that will never eventuate, and yet equally excited to have essence of my daughter back, with all of the potential and promise of an eight year old.

So there is a balance.

As always there is at times of transformation.

In the lead up to Transformation Day we are jangly and raw and open, with our hearts exposed to the elements. And yet somehow we are closer to something within us, than we are at any other time: our truth or our life force, or some invisible element that makes us human. I don’t know what it is, but it allows me to look at the world through eyes that have been scrubbed clean of filament, and I can see in razor focus.

It’s a Transformation.

If you read these words and think you might like to share a transformation with a kid like Coco,

call the Blood Bank on 13 14 95 to book a spot. You can be a hero.

…From The Ashers

Goodmorning to you.

Just some housekeeping for you: In about seven hours, twenty-six minutes, The Ashers will be leaving town. Yes, in a shocking turn of events, I will be crossing the bridge and completely leaving the shire for a few weeks. Leaving my balcony, my beach, and my wifi network. The compound will echo with the silence of a family gone AWOL. There will be no-one here to curse at the 4.30am “doo-do do do” bird, no one to watch the sun pop up over the horizon, no one to listen to the waves late at night and decide whether or not it will be pumping tomorrow, no one to stare at the glistening flashes of light dancing on the pool and imagine the mer-people flicking their tails below.

I am excited to visit my overseas family, but of course I am sad to leave my haven. I love my little part of the world so much, that my heart breaks a tiny bit thinking of all the laughs that won’t be shared inside these walls this Christmas. Something new awaits us, just over there a bit. And I don’t usually go over there.

I won’t be taking this computer and  I’ll be blogging to you from an iPad, so you will understand that things might go a little strange. Couple that with the duty free beverages that could be on offer, and who knows where this could all end up?

So bear with me… If I blog sporadically, or with mountains of typos when I do actually blog, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you. I’ll just be blogging from a  piece of virtual real estate where my neighbours aren’t “Creative Lighting Concepts” “Bigpond56374674” or “Pretty fly for a wifi”.  I’ll miss pretty fly. And no doubt I’ll miss this little routine I have going on with you here.

But hopefully I’ll be able to bring you epic tales of adventure from afar. Or at least a nice pic of eggnog (not in a jar).

So whilst you are rubbing your eyes free of Santa’s magical sleep dust, I shall be chasing him through timezones, peering out my tiny window trying to get a glimpse of the warm glow of Rudolph’s nose.

Merry Christmas to all.

See you on the other side.

I’m all nostalgic and #shitcat couldn’t give a toss.

…From The Ashers

I haven’t really got a blog for you today… I spent all day yesterday in a cleaning frenzy, emptying every.single.cupboard in this house and scrubbing it clean. I found things I haven’t seen in years. Glassware that hasn’t seen a drink since my 21st. Platters that we got for our wedding eleven years ago. Clothes that were at hit in the late 90s. A cam-corder that the kids said “Whoa, old school” to, that  we don’t even know how you would watch those snippets on any more. Oh, and some cockroach poo. So foul.

I am aching all over, and I think I have a minor cut that I will whinge about most of the day, yet I feel refreshed. Like I really got something done. I wish I could leave all the cupboards bare. It feels liberating, like I can be anything, do anything, go anywhere. The challenge is going to be to see if I can throw out even more of those clothes. I hope I can do it.

I know, it’s bad. But I’m soldiering on. I’m good like that.

In the midst of this whirlwind of cleaning, I decided it would be nice to start a new blog. My intention is to publish in the evenings. I will try to do it most nights. I have done it as an antidote to some of the horrible, skewed reporting we see in some of the papers and on the television.

It’s called Proof of Good and I hope to show some of the wonderful examples of the inherent striving of humans to do good for one another. By all means go over and check it out, but more importantly, share some of your stories, the things you have found that proves that humans are good. I think the comments section is where a blog like PoG will really come alive, don’t you? It can be our little happy part of the interwebs. I’m thinking it will be like at primary school when something gross happened, and we all crossed our fingers and yelled, “Proof!” loud enough to scare those germs right away. I imagine the isolated horrors of the world trying to get into our brains, and us screaming “Proof” right back at them. Maybe if we expand our force-field of ‘proof’ big enough, fill it with enough light and love and compassion to make events like some of those ones last week just stop. Stop.

I hope you’ll be part of Proof.

May your Monday be Marvellous, and remember to stop and breathe and ‘proof’ yourself before you go out there today… Or simply be like Nathan, my slightly deranged husband. He’s the guy you’ll hear whistling Life’s a Happy Song whilst he waits patiently in queues, gets his trolley rammed by shopping ninjas, or gets told by the manchild at Bunnings (a shop he goes to at least twice a week) he can only take “two boxes per customer mate, it’s a store policy.”

Play those Muppets up super loud RIGHT NOW.

Be happy.

…From The Ashers

Last week Coco received what truly is the gift of life.

If you could see the difference in her before and after a transfusion you would be like me, urging people to give blood, give blood, give blood whenever they can. Before, she is fractious and intolerant, prickly and itchy. She might cry if she drops a pencil, or doesn’t like the colour of her cup, her skin a pallid yellow. After, she is full of energy and cheeky fun. Our house zings with the sound of her deep belly laughs, and she is literally, in the pink of health.

Yesterday I went and gave some of my blood, and as always, my heart warmed, to see the number of people who, at this crazybusy time of year are willing to slow down in the sanctuary of the blood bank for an hour or so, and offer up their veins to share that bright red fluid that makes us all tick. And keep on ticking.

At the blood bank we smile at each other, little nods as we unite in our goal of saving anonymous lives. We sit in the cool, calm confines of that haven of life, protected from the jostling activity that seems to get everyone jangling at this time of year, and take some time out to reflect on how lucky we are. Lucky that, this day, we aren’t the ones needing blood, and in fact, we are healthy enough to have a surplus to share around. The efficient blood angels will drain about half a litre from our bodies, and our clever marrows will slmply pump out some more, with barely a blip. We reflect on the magnificence of the body.

Once when Liam was small he asked me how rainbows are made, and I gave him a long and fanciful answer involving paint and fairies. He didn’t believe it for a moment, and when I told him what it really was, describing white light and the dispersion effect of the light being seperated into its different wavelengths, he listened in rapt silence. He then asked me why I would make up a ‘weird story’ when the reality was so much more magical. I think of that often. I think of the wonderous abilities of nature, and clevernesss that resides within every single one of us. The way that yesterday, without any conscious effort from me, I was able to accomodate and create another half litre of those beautiful little biconcave discs that carry around our breath.

As I looked around the busy room at he blood bank, I was humbled at the number of lovely people who will stand up (lie down?!) to give Coco a gift so special, without even knowing her. A gift better than any trinket or shiny bauble, and one that allows the walls of our home to swell with fun and vitality and joy.

The true gift of Christmas.

If you would like to give blood, call the blood bank on 13 14 95 to book a bed. You won’t regret it.

…From The Ashers

A terrible thing has happened, but that does not mean it was an act of terrorism. There is a difference.

I write this blog in English, but not in Christian. There is a difference.

As we often see in moments of horror, some beauty has arisen, coming to the surface like so much thick cream, full of goodness, putting itself at the very top, perhaps shielding the parts below.

Humans are coming together to support other humans. To look after each other. To make sure everyone is okay. Or as okay as they can be, in times of anguish.

We can choose what we focus on. What we listen to. What we then talk about. What we make events be about. We can make them be about strength and compassion, or blame and fear.

We can make a difference.

It is of our own choosing.

…From The Ashers

There’s a funny old buzz going on isn’t there? A kind of frenetic energy, that can put you on edge and make you feel like you are perched right up on the brink of something, and you are gripping on with the knuckles of your toes, hoping against hope that you don’t slip. So you breathe shallow gasps, hoping you don’t flare your nostrils too much, upsetting the fragile balance you’ve created, and causing you to plummet to… something.

Except the dreaded abyss is something lovely and enjoyable and very safe.

And the security that you are so afraid of letting go of is just this day, mixed with the fear that you might have forgotten something.

I forgot two things yesterday.

They both involved spending time with other people. They were both things that I had said that I would only “pop in” to later on, as I had a house full of kids and Nath was working, but still. I actually forgot. Long after the children were all scooped up by their parents and Nath was home and hosed, we settled down to a late afternoon cuppa and I remembered the things I had forgotten.

Of course I will apologise and I’m sure they didn’t even miss me, but still. I’m sad to have missed out, and I’m annoyed that I didn’t even check the calendar to see where I was supposed to be.

So the feeling of “what else have I forgotten?” just won’t leave me today. Like Santa, I have been making a list and checking it (more than) twice, hoping that I will remember to do ALL OF THE THINGS. Of which there aren’t many- it is for this very reason that I get everything sorted early- my memory just can’t be relied upon when it comes to school holidays. It seems that with the shedding of the routine and the uniforms, comes a shedding of my short term memory, and all I can deal with is the stuff right in front of me.

So if you are feeling a bit like me, take heart, and see all of the things I have forgotten this last week: a 40th birthday, a coffee with a friend, a present for one of our kids, an accommodation booking in a very busy place over Xmas, Santa photos, three things from the food shopping list, another present from a shop on order, a visit to Optus to change for OS, a patient call, turning the dishwasher on overnight (stinky), that Howard’s Storage World isn’t even at the shopping centre any more (I went there anyway and come home with, er, other stuff), to book the kids into care for one day, a Christmas party and to change my blood donation appointment (fixed that)… I’m sure there’s more, but, um, I’ve forgotten them so far.

So today I’m going to: breathe deeply, forgive myself, and jump off that ledge instead of gripping on so tightly.

Who knows? I might fly.

…From The Ashers