A brave kid in her Brave shirt

Some people measure time by the seasons, others by the phases of the moon. Some tick off numbered squares on a glossy calendar from The Courier Mail, or on the flick of an iPhone screen. I measure it by the cycle of the anaemic vampire child.

The new blood brings a thrilling energy of high-pitched hysterical laughter and cartwheels into somersaults into squealing Whip Nae Nae dance-offs. Those fresh red cells stretch the length of our days, where I can ignore the trauma of the tick tick tick, and we can listen to the rhythm of our bodies of when we wish to eat, sleep or sing, rather than clock watching to avoid fun stepping off its narrow tightrope into the abyss of hyper-fatigue.

The middle blood is just that. It’s the average that most people take for granted and that I sometimes crave like chocolate. It’s the time when the kid is like all the other kids, in the ups and downs of life and living. It’s made up of moments that are mundane and magical, boring and beautiful, and nothing means any more or any less than what it is in the moment. If she scrapes her knee skateboarding, I don’t rush to stop the bleeding like a loon, imagining that each lost drop is dragging us, minute by minute, closer to a transfusion. If she cries over an overcooked egg that just isn’t dippy enough, I know it’s because she is being bratty, not that she just can’t cope with one.more.thing.

Then the middle makes way for the end, and the weights start to settle on my shoulders. I study changes in the cadence of her breath like a crow at the beach-bins waiting for a stray prawn shell. I stare at the whites of her eyes being stained yellow with the bilirubin, drop by drop. I look for the underlying pallor in her cheeks, as gold replaces pink. I pull down her eyelids and watch, as the red fades like Nan’s curtains, whilst the oxygen skitters away to more important parts of her body.

The end part knows his stay is brief but impactful, so he makes his mark on the furrow of my brow, the skin of my face, the shadows in my collarbones and the pigment of my hair. He sucks away my vivacity as I try to wrest it back, night by night by night. He tries to leave as big an imprint as he can, perhaps to provide balance or understanding or compassion or expansion (which is what I say on my lighter days), or perhaps he’s just a prick.

Eventually the eventual happens and we start the process of transfusing. I make calls and wait for replies. We get blood taken to be tested and matched and mixed for her veins. We wait for a bed and then we wait for a successful puncture and we wait for the delivery of the donated ruby red cells. Then we watch and watch and watch like the 2am bourbon-fuelled blokes at the Rolling Rock, looking for any perceptible signs of things awry, ready and waiting to pounce.

After a time there is no need for pouncing. No more checking. No more waiting.

The blood flows and flows until the bags are deflated and her body is plump with the excess fluid, and the pressing on my shoulders and my mind grows wings or dissolves or something, and I won’t give Pyruvate Kinase Deficiency another thought for at least a month.

As the doors of the hospital puff shut behind us, we step into the fecund, humid air of freedom and Sunshine Coast sugarcane, leaving our baggage behind.

And we start our whirling dance of life. Like dervishes.

With abandonment. And redemption.

DONE

…From The Ashers

If you would like to help a kid like Coco, and a Mum like me, please consider giving the gift of blood.

Call http://www.donateblood.com.au on 131495 to book an appointment.

Thanks!

Some things are more important than a blog.  (I know, who knew?)

Here is a real news story that I’d love you to read, and perhaps share, and most importantly do.

A story in our local paper, The Sunshine Coast Daily  please have a squiz.

Thanks

…From The Ashers xx

Image: Wikipedia

Blood.

It is our life force.  It is a clever fluid that carries oxygen to our cells.  It takes our every breath, to every part of our bodies.  And then it lets us breathe out again.  In.  And out.  In.  And out.   And repeat.

Without it our cells would be gasping, asphyxiated.

And we would die.

Blood.

It looks alarming when we see it outside the precious tubes of our arterial network.  It is so bright, so vivid, and so shiny that it almost seems to have a life all of its own.  If you look at a drop of blood closely it seems somehow thick with vibrancy and hope.  A crimson lustre, full of promise and potential.

It scarlet-shouts at us: lookatme lookatme lookatme.  Full of its own importance, for it knows: without it, we would die.

Blood.

Most of us don’t think much about it.

From time to time some of it may leak out of us, in scratches and cuts and scrapes, and we wipe it efficiently away- red blots on white tissues- and discard it without a mind, for we know our clever bodies will make more and more and more.  And repeat as required.

For without it, we would die.

But sometimes people can lose more than they can make.

And sometimes, some bodies have diseases that break down the blood too quickly.

And some other people, through no fault nor folly of their own, make thousands and thousands of the ruby red discs, but those bloody little frisbees are left wanting: wrong shape, fuzzy edges or missing some parts, so the intelligence of the body sends them to the liver.  For termination.

And yet, without these biconcave saucers: they will die.

This child is one of those.

Thankfully, she doesn’t need your blood this week, but one day soon, she will.

Please, roll up your sleeve, and share some of your carmine elixir of life.  You’ll make some more, I promise.  In fact, you’ll do it without even knowing.

She, however, simply can not.

Blood stores are at a critically low level at present, so you will be hearing me parp on about this all week.

Please call 139596 to make an appointment, or visit the Red Cross Website to find a location, check your eligibility, or share this information with your friends.  

Not everyone CAN donate, so those of us who are able to, have the ability to SAVE A LIFE… I think that’s a super-power.

…Thanks and Love, From The Ashers xx

HIts of the week:

1.  Blood donors. “Bloody” legends.  And lifesavers.  Our life is completely different this end of the week, with Coco all topped up with the claret.  Can’t thank all those anonymous donors enough.  Call 13 14 95 to find your nearest donation spot.

2.  The music therapy lady at Nambour Hospital.  I’ve got be honest, although my face was saying “Oh yes, music therapy whilst my screaming child gets treated like a pincushion, what an smashing idea”, my head was saying, “FFS you crazy bloody hippy, piss off and leave us to our misery and our work you friggin’ lunatic.”   Turns out, she was right and (gulp) I was wrong.  The music did help.  Go figure.

3.  Oh hello coffee delivery, yes please.

4.  And to go with said coffee, check out this mug.  I have no idea what or why this was invented, but who wouldn’t want one?

For the person who gives you the shits?

5.  These new shoes.  I know, I know, they’re bloody ugly, but in my other life I have a real job (No I’m not a highly successful and award winning author- who knew?) where I spend the whole day on my feet.  This week I finally chucked my old pair, and got these babies.  Just like going home.  Thanks Get Set Footwear on Gympie Terrace… (Tell ’em I sent you, they’ll give you a good deal.)

And a late entry… After my anti-bird rant, this popped up in my Instagram feed. Oh Jamie, I already love you, and then you wear this.  Not sure if its a turkey or a giant penis, but I like that you don’t look impressed. #birdssuck

What are you loving this week?

And what do you think of Hitwave Alison?  Should I also be including my top 5 shits?