I am writing this post in the middle of the night, because we have gotten to that time of the quarter when the bags of blood are looming, and I can no longer pretend that the kid won’t ever be getting another transfusion.  I know she will, and I know it is soon.  Her skin is golden and the whites of her eyes are almost green.  She has had some tantrums.  Once, when she didn’t want to leave a party, another because I hadn’t bought her an umbrella.  Minor slights that usually wouldn’t bother her, are blown out of all proportion.  There is yelling and stamping and slamming of doors… And that’s just me.

We know the behaviour is a result of a haemoglobin so low most of us wouldn’t even be able to leave the house, and yet we can’t excuse or gloss over it, because this is her life.  This is what she has to learn to handle for the rest of her days.  And someday, hopefully far off in the future, we won’t be here to explain her colour, her fractiousness, her fatigue.  In that someday, people will turn their backs on a person who acts like a diva for no apparent reason.  So we need to make her able, and not enable.

I have been by her bed for a lot of this evening.  Listening to her breathe, and breathing her in.  Smelling her sweet, strange smell and wishing that she could stay innocent of what comes next.  Measuring my breath with hers and willing her to take in large doses of oxygen for the few red blood cells she has circulating.  Patting her gently as she tosses and turns.  Tickling her legs and arms where the itchiness is becoming too much, to save her from scratching herself to blood.

You would think that her current state would make her bones tired and her sleep deep, but instead it seems to rob her of rest, and create a state of irritation.  Irritation of skin and of personality.  Perhaps it is the bilirubin scraping her insides, or her blood cells trying to claw their way to the surface of the marrow.

Perhaps it is just that she knows what I know.

It won’t be tomorrow, and maybe not even this week, but at the moment, we are limping along.  Tonight I will sleep with one ear and one eye outside her door, listening to the tossing of sheets and of fingernails on skin.   And of prickly sleep-talk.  And of breath.  Most importantly, of breath.

Because soon, it will be time for those bags of blood.  Soon.

 ….From The Ashers

If you are able to give blood, please do: Coco, for one will need some soon.

Call 13 95 96 or contact the Blood Bank online

Some of you may know I play a little thing over on Anna Spargo Ryan’s Blog called Flash Fiction.  The prompt this week was: “They ate grapes together under the fog of afternoon.”

Here it is:

Of all the types of fog, afternoon fog was the worst.

Morning fog was kind of expected, and was somehow deliciously painful.  Morning fog could bring with it a pain like a knitting needle to the temple, or a dull burning of the intestines.  It married with a mouth that felt full of breadcrumbs, and a tongue one and a half times it’s normal size.  But morning fog had a smell of repentance to it, and with that, re-birth.

Evening fog was to be coveted.  It was light and fizzy and full of promise.  Evening fog was the gauzy beginnings of a fun night ahead.  The slight blurring of reality that came with the fog was welcome, as it buffed his sharp edges, made him more interesting and outgoing and helped him fit.

Afternoon fog was the worst.  It held hands with an overwhelming fatigue that made his steps heavy and slow.  It smelt of shame and denial and furtiveness.  He knew his eyes would be shifty, and she would try not to notice, but she would, and they would scream at each other.  And that would only make the fog clot.

She had set up a makeshift picnic on the balcony to welcome him home.  A sense of celebration, now that he was no longer drinking.  She had laid out the bright yellow tablecloth of hope and prayer, with a platter of strawberries and grapes and water crackers and brie.  He sat down next to her and she smiled at him, her face a moon of optimism, and he knew he couldn’t tell her. Not today.

So he fought the fog, and tried to feel as sober as the atomic strength mints he always had pushed hard into his cheek.  She moved the platter forward toward him and  just looking at the over-ripe strawberries, on their way to liquid, and the dried edges of the brie, made the hot bile sear the back of his throat.  She must have been sitting her a while.

He swallowed hard, and tried to relax his jaw muscles, reaching for a grape, fighting away the fog of two vodkas at lunch that had become seven.  She smiled again, wider this time.  She really did want to believe him, believe in him, even when she knew she was holding onto the balloon of a lie that would either deflate or burst, depending on how she nurtured it.

He forced is own marriage-dependent smile, and they ate grapes together under the fog of afternoon.

Okay everyone, have at the hits:

1.  This book:

SO good

I don’t really want to even tell you about it, because I am insanely jealous that I didn’t write it, but I must. I underlined so many passages, I don’t even know what bits to tell you about.  Just get it.  And read it.  It is a thing of beauty.

PS I don’t usually do book reviews because it reveals too much about my heart, but this time I’m compelled.  So I’m making it compulsory reading as your blog assignment. GO.

2.  These Espresso Martinis.  I made them myself, thanks to the explicit instructions from the QT Sydney, and they were goooood.

Made by me. And god knows I don’t make many things..

3.  This view:

Check out that … beer

I know everyone talks about the view from the other direction, but you can have that, with the shitty bridge in the way- this side is the business.  With the added bonus you get of walking through The Rocks and sitting with an excellent beer on the roof of this bar:

4.  This dude:

I guess I’ll wanna name drop, and write you a post about what he was like, sometime.  But for the moment, let me say that the dude was grouse, and exactly like he is on telly.  And he got this  motley lot together again, and THAT is a good thing.  Warms my heart.

I hope my husband wasn’t giving J.O. the bunny ears*..

5.  My Mum.  She looked after the kids and the cat all weekend, whilst we explored Sydders and wined and dined to our hearts’ content.  Shame one kid had a cough and the cat had a urinary tract infection and was pissing all over the floors.  Who’d be a parent, eh?

* He was

…From The Ashers xx

Dinner One

When Hayley was scared and about to start the serious chemotherapy, but was acting tough, I went down to Newcastle for a visit.  It was winter, and as Nath would say, “As cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss.”  But Nathan wasn’t with us.  He was back with the kids in the humid faux-winter that is Noosa.  John was working his skinny-whippet arse to the bone in the calm of before, so it was just us.

We mostly stayed inside; by then Hayls was bald and probably feeling the cold more than she would ever let on, and at home we had heat packs that Kay had sewn, either for Hayley, or for Ricki before her.  At home we had thick socks, and cups of tea, and heaters, and the oven.  Always the oven.  We were cooking a slow roasted bit of cow, and when I say we, I mean Hayls, because we all know I don’t give a shit about cooking, and I definitely wouldn’t dare offer to cook a meal for my mate, cancer or not.  Every time she told me to go and check on dinner, or DO things, I quietly shat myself, but I did it anyway because I can be tough when I need to, and I know she hated having to tell me in detail what she wanted done.  Decribing how she wanted the sourdough soaked and squished into dumplings, telling me the amounts of wine and herbs and things to add to the meat, watching from her spot on the couch as I cut up the veggies.  She would have given most anything to be the one doing the work.

Whilst we waited for dinner to cook, we talked about things, old and new.  We laughed at all we had done together so far, and of things yet to hatch.  Swimming through pregnancies, eating at organic cafes, jump dancing, drinking beer, family holidays in tents with leaches and open fires, and others with sticky tropical beaches.  We looked at PET scans on the computer and decided that the white hot cancer was definitely receding, definitely.

Olive and I danced together in the lounge room.  We spun around and jumped to test my pelvic floor to Michael Franti.  “Aunty Ricki loved Michael Franti” we were told, and I wondered if we should turn him off lest he was a bad omen.  And then to Rhys Muldoon and the Poo Song.  We danced and whirled, not because I wanted to- I don’t even like dancing- but because Hayley was puffy and achy-sore, and our dancing made her eyes shine.  I can be tough when I need to.

Eventually we sat down to dinner and the meat fell from the bone and the sauce was like nothing I’ve ever tasted and the dumplings were perfect, and I knew this was a good meal.  A meal of friendship and fear and hope and love.  We drank our cherry beers and I wondered if I would ever have a meal as good as this.  Because it was the meal of before.

Dinner Two

When Hayley had been gone six longshort months we were invited to a dinner in Sydney with a man she had worked for back in those days of endless adrenalin and boundless fun in London, back in the days before the grey shadow of cancer attached itself to her soles.

We were all in the dining room, waiting for Jamie Oliver to arrive, and the energy in the room was strange and it was nervous.  For some of us, the last time we had set eyes on each other was at Hayley’s funeral, and for all of us, the last time we were together was that long long day.  We were a gang, a group of people tied at the hearts by the light of our friend, united in our sadness and with each of us stuck in our memories of the one who would have put us all at ease with a twinkling tease.  What are a group of mourners called?  A sorrow?  We were trying to be bright and smart and funny, but we were, in the end, a sorrow.

He stepped into the room, this man who had made this night happen, but was somehow an outsider, he had a sadness, but he was not in our sorrow.  At least not yet.  I wanted to like him, and I thought I would, but he was an interloper in this party of his own design.

He stepped into the room, this man who had barely met any of us, and walked over to Little Olive.  He bent down to her level, and gently introduced himself, and befriended her with his eyes and his lisp, and in that moment I loved him in a way that made my heart almost rupture, because I knew that this man, on this night, had made a memory for Olive that she would carry with her forever.  A night when so many of the people who loved her Mum hard, and her Mum loved right back, were gathered together, in laughter and fun, the tears buried deep this time.

Eventually we sat down for our meal and it was delicious and plentiful and cooked to perfection.  We sipped our flowing beer and although I knew that this was supposed to be a good meal, a meal of friendships and love and commemoration, every single part that I liked just reminded me of something I didn’t.  Every delicious bite reminded me of a bite that Hayls wouldn’t have.  Every laugh was one not shared with her.  Every bit of light, reminded me of the shadow.

I know this was supposed to be a good meal, but it wasn’t, not really, because it was the meal of after.

A little thing to make it all worthwhile…Bless you J.O.

…From The Ashers xxx

Just a quickie today, because I don’t want y’all to think I’m neglecting you, or have forgotten you, but I’m KNACKERED after my weekend away.  This country mouse just can’t do the big city any more.  Or perhaps that’s just the Espresso Martinis talking.

Anyway, blogs will be forthcoming about our adventures I’m sure, but for the moment, let me tell you that Sydders (as I like to call her) is a different beast from Newsa, and I know this because I caught taxis everywhere.  And taxis tell you a lot about a town.

Up here cabbies tell you about; the weather, Toned Abs and the fact that he’d better not bring in Daylight Savings, or when the surf festival/food and wine festival/triathalon festival, or any other festival, starts.  And if you leave your $7.50 bestbargainintheknownworld high heels in their car, they drop them back at your front door.

In Sydders they’d rather not have a chat really, unless you count talking quietly to their mates on their earphone-microphone mobile phones.

However, if another cabbie slights them, they will bring on Armageddon. Shouty amageddon.

Our driver: What are you doing you idiot, why did you block me in?

Other driver: (Gesturing to front side panel) You didn’t have your light thing on that flashes me, how did I know you wanted outs?

Ours: Well you blocked me now you are costing my clients money.  Lots of monies.

Other: You should go back to school, you know the school where they teach you about driving, and about the little light thingy.

Ours: You are an idiotman and yous should go back to school.

Other:  No you should.  You don’t even know how to do the drives. You have to turn the big wheel for steering and also put on the light for me and the other drivers to see.

Ours:  You are mormon.

Other:  You are mormon more.

I suspect no one was actually a Mormon.  I suspect no one had been to that special school with lessons of blinky things, or possibly any school at all.

But at least no one talked about Tony Abbot and made my mind’s eye ill with the thought of him in his Speedos.  (Sorry, you can’t not think of it now can you?)

Seeya all tomorrow…. From The Ashers xx

Look over here!

I found another new cafe for y’all.  If you are from my end of the Sunshine Coast you’ll know the spot I mean if I say, “German Restaurant”.

I know, I know, that site has been an eyesore for most of the time I’ve lived up here, and guess what?  Tom and Kako and some of their mates have transformed that place into something special.  A space that makes you feel healthier just by turning off Noosa Eumundi Road, to a little place in the sun. Sunspace.

Follow me, I’ll take you on a little tour….

All bright and shiny-new. With an ever changing menu, based on whatever they picked from the garden THAT DAY…

Before we go inside, I’ve gotta show you the outside areas.. You see, this place has lots of little pockets all over the place, so you can find your own little fave space in the sun…

A sunny little nook

See those pots? They are biodynamically grown greens for use in the cafe.
Food miles = zero

Very cute stumps to sit or play on over there.. and over in the distance: more goodies from the garden, straight to your plate.

Now we can go in.  Isn’t it fresh?  And again, you’re spoilt for choice on where to recline… By the window? On the window seat?  In the lounges?  Next to the kiddie’s area?

A perfect spot for blog writing…

Who doesn’t love a window seat, to eat lunch, chat, do some craft…?

Lounge around with cushions by Ami (a name to look out for in design)…

Added bonus: you can do a quick shop for tonight’s dinner.  Now THAT’S what I’M talking about.  No need to “pop into the supermarket” and come out a lazy pineapple* lighter.  From what the owners are saying, the best is yet to come on this front.  They have plenty of room for more stock, so as the demand grows, I’d hazard a bet the amount of fresh produce will too (See what I did there? Grows?)

Don’t faint, but even I would eat these veggies

Nic’s Bics and Nic’s Nuts. I’m loathe to admit it, but maybe activated nuts do taste better… Maybe... (Hangs head in shame)

And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for: What kind of cake can you get in a healthy joint such as this?  Now, never let it be said that I won’t go all out to source you the best chocolately tastes this Universe has to offer.  Ignore the words: organic, raw, chia and cacao, and just hear this: delicious, sweet tasty chocolate mousse cake.  With a yummy Little Cove Organic Coffee to savour along with the rich goodness.

And not one bit of guilt.

Now THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.

If you haven’t been, might I suggest you get yourself over to Sunspace and check it out?  This place is going to get crazy busy I think, so I am going to get myself known now, in the early days, so I can get special treatment once the joint is pumping.

*That’s fifty bucks, in the local parlance.

***This is not a sponsored post, and I paid for my own delicious treats (as well as looking like a total knob going around taking photos of the place and trying not to get photos of the other customers.)  The lengths I go to for you all…***

…From The Ashers xx