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

Hmmm…

So it seems that things have changed around here. (See what happens when time marches on? Things even look different.)

Have you changed too?

Firstly, an apology: I know said I would keep blogging over the holidays, but I lied. Not intentionally, but a lie none-the-less.

I did intend to blog, but one thing lead to another, and having brothers who mockingly call this thing “Dear Diary” and a Mum that I’m pretty sure hates any personal information being shared on the Socials, I felt ashamed/weird/silly to blog the holidays away. To be honest I think I would have preferred being caught red-faced having a date with Palmela Handerson, than tapping away on these keys and pressing climax publish.

And then  as the days wore on, so much happened, and I just couldn’t keep up. The list of potential blog posts in my head just grew and grew, and before too long I realised there was no way of ever catching up. So my brain sped up and up and it was like a mouse running, running on its tiny wheel, so I had to force it to stop. The thoughts then grew plump and over-ripe and  rotted to ruins, like plums on the footpath, with that sweetsickystickystench to flare your nostrils and as you walk quickly by.

And every day that went by, it became easier and easier to simply not blog. I was still writing of course, for without this tap tap tap of the keyboard I don’t know what to think, but just nothing fit for your eyes. Or perhaps I underestimate you, and your ability to listen without judgement.

I became self-conscious. I imagined this writing process to be like some excruciating public speaking gig, where you stare at me with your arms folded,  and I try to make you laugh and cry, despite yourself. Tough crowd. Not pleasant.

This self-consciousness expanded to my subject matter. Instead of From The Ashers simply being a forum of my experiments in thet written word, I forgot that this is my space,  and you are my guests. Free to come and go as you please.

Instead I started to think that you can choose the content and I had better deliver what you want. Even though I have no idea what that actually is. I felt bad that I wanted to talk to you about death and grief and despair. I thought that you’d probably had enough of my self-absorbed public whining, and that I was (am?) here to entertain you.

But of course that’s not the case is it, not really.

I can talk about whatever I want here: this is my piece of peace and virtual real estate, and I can say whatever the fuck I like, within my own rules of decorum. I’m allowed.

So what will blog be like? I have no idea.

What will the blog schedule be? Again: no idea.

I have a new job, so time might be managed differently and posting could be sporadic. Perhaps I can find out how to let you subscribe so you will get updates when I post. That would make sense.

Will I still be sharing stories from my heart? Yes. That won’t change. I’m always writing about them in my mind anyway, so I might as well pop them up here in case you want to have a look. In fact, the way I make sense of this world is through the written world, it seems I know no other way. So be warned: thoughts will just flood onto the page, largely unedited (as I see when I browse through old posts. *Shudder*)

This was on my Insta from Kelly Exeter… Nails it.

Will there be ads on here? I bloody hope so. Some day I hope someone will just walk right up to me and say: can we advertise on your blog? If they do, in the interests of full disclosure and petty bragging, I will tell you, although I guess you will know, for I’ll be driving around in a fully restored FB Holden, with a tricked up Kombi for weekends.

Will there be a book? Perhaps. One day. When I create a workable and reliable Delorean. Hopefully that’s soon, because my kids are growing up so quickly I need to slow things right down, lest I miss a minute. (Plus I said something thoughtless yesterday, that I’d like to go back and erase.)

So I’ve done the WordPress update, and it appears that I don’t have the dottie background or my old headings saved anywhere on this thing. So for now (or maybe forever, or at least until someone comes and fixes it for me), it’s triangles.

Or nothing.

Welcome back you, welcome back me.

It’s good to see you.

…From The Ashers xx

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

So, in this weird week of sadness for something that has the feeling of unreality, and happiness for my own good fortune, here are the hits:

1.  Long, lazy days by the pool. It is SO HOT in Queensland right now, every day has the oppressive energy of a storm that wants to launch, so The Ashers are spending much of our time languishing. So much so that Liam has adopted a posture akin to a bodybuilder as he wants to show off his “guns” that have developed from all of the swimming and swinging on the rope catapault (don’t even ask, it is SO dangerous, I can’t even look).  Coco’s blonde hair has taken on a faint green tinge, and me? Well this old skin is like a well aged sultana. On the upside, all this lolling about has lead to me painting the back stairs and supervising the gerni-ing. I have all the good ideas.

2. Pool toys. How good are they? I mentioned in some previous blog the silly things the Evil Geniuses bought for five bucks, but oh how wrong I was. Last week I had a pool full of kids so I gently suggested the first person to do one lap up and back on those ridiculous, tippy things without falling in would earn two dollars. Kept ’em going for at least an hour whilst I caught up on my wrinkling (See 1. above)

3. The elves. This year the elves have struggled a bit to find trinkets to put inside the advent drawers, so they have gone a bit crazy, pulling the tiny drawers out and just shoving things in the general vacinity. This week they pulled out four of them and just kind of leaned a DVD on top, and it happened to be Mr Bean’s Christmas. I made the kids some caramel popcorn and they had an early bath and settled on opposide ends  of the couch (“Don’t touch me”, “No, you don’t touch ME”) to watch it. Watching them get the Mr Bean vibe and laugh, full, proper belly laughs was a balm* to my heart. They watched it three times in a row. It made me happy to see they have the same sense of humour as us- Nathan and I often, errr, bonded over Monty Python, Black Adder and The Young Ones. I’m thinking that I might try and get a copy of The LIfe of Brian tomorrow. Even if they don’t get all the jokes, I reckon the references will serve them well as they negotiate their way through a religious school. (Or not).

Some other friends may have come to the cinema too…

4.  Making a blood deposit (me) and a blood withdrawl (Coco). We are so lucky to live in a country where this is something that is freely available and safe. It never ceases to amaze me how selfless people can be, how generous of their time and energy, for the good of anonymous strangers. Yet again, thankyou blood donors. (Plug: call 13 14 95 to donate!)

5.   A lovely blog reader who also happens to be a friend, dropped this off yesterday!

CHOO CHOO BARS!! Who even knew they were still a thing? I am eating one right now for breakfast (it’s Christmas, right?) They are smaller than I remember, but who cares, I have A WHOLE BOX. And they are just as delicious, and yes, as the package promises, strangely soothing… Coco and I are having a ball showing each other our black tongues. Liam thinks we are “gross”, but he’s clearly 10 going on 28 and an IDIOT… Thanks so much Suze.

And just for the record, if you are thinking of dropping presents around to my joint for no reason, I also like Veuve (Thanks Rose), money, shoes, books, money and Veuve. Feel free to go nuts.

So, in crazy and turbulent week of emotional and actual storms, what have been your hits?

*A rare and valuable balm. (Monty Python)

…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