Blood of the Very Best Kind

See this guy with me here?

I like him a lot. So much so, I’ve shared my life with him for over twenty years. We met at high school, on my 15^th birthday. These days, we also share three young sons, two dogs and a big ol’ happy home. 

 We’ve had some amazing adventures together: dived shipwrecks in the seas surrounding the Solomon Islands, dodged sharks up and down the east coast of Australia, we’ve skydived over Port Phillip Heads, white water rafted in Cairns. We’ve eaten snails and frog’s legs in Singapore, goat souvlaki at the Caldera on Santorini and partied way too hard on Mykonos. We’ve owned businesses, spending 24 hours a day, 7 days a week together for months on end, grown to appreciate the other’s passions – I learned to dive, he still won’t read, but he does listen to my stories. We love each other’s extended families and he builds the bookshelves that I shop to fill. We’ve shared every momentous occasion of our lives together, every celebration and every moment of grief. We’ve created three amazing humans and we’ve nursed family members through smashed (and amputated) limbs and terminal disease.

Which kind of brings me to my point. He’s sick. Not terminally sick – but sick enough that our lives have taken a huge punch to the gut. After an infection last year, he contracted a rare autoimmune disorder; so rare, only about 12 people in Australia per year get it. His immune system is eating his peripheral nervous system. So far, it’s only dining out on his hands, forearms, feet and face. That was entree. Without treatment, the disorder’s main course will be devouring his ability to walk, and his heart and lungs could wind up as dessert. And that would be bad. Very, very bad. The good news is, while it’s not quite curable, the gobbling up process can be slowed down, maybe even stopped with the correct treatment. It will involve spending 3 to 5 days in hospital every fortnight to month, a long way from home. This new adventure begins in a bit over a week. He’ll be pumped full of fabulous stuff called Intragam (brand name) via drip. It’s also known as Immunoglobulin treatment or IVIg. Intragam is a blood product, made from the treated plasma of donated blood. It will take blood donations from between eight and eighteen thousand people a year to keep him well. In case you missed that...yes, eighteen THOUSAND. This stuff is worth nearly double the price of gold per gram. I shit you not. And he needs about 140 grams per treatment.

Right now, with all of my being, I’m thanking the Universe we live in Australia.

Obviously, for a product like Intragam, there’s a lot of boxes that need to be ticked before you’re allowed to have it. There’s protocol, systems in place so that only the most needy are given this wonderful stuff; it can’t just be handed out willy-nilly. Luckily (or maybe that’s unluckily?), there’s been no question of my husband’s need, in fact he’s been fast-tracked for treatment. But, like all good things, there’s a problem - other than the fistful of side-effects.

There’s not enough of it to go round.

This of course, is just one of the things that drives the cost of Intragam. Not enough people are willing, or have the time or thought to give up a couple of hours, 3 or 4 times a year to give blood. Yeah, I admit it, it’s about 15 years since I donated blood. But you can bet I’ll be donating as often as possible from now on. Blood donations are not only used whole for accident victims or patients in surgery. Your single donation of scarlet liquid goodness is often split up, treated, and sent to help three different patients. The products derived from your blood may just help someone who is undergoing chemotherapy, kidney dialysis, or a disease that screws up the clotting mechanism, someone who has any number of blood or immunity disorders. Anyone can be in our position, relying on the generosity of other people to share something so precious, it can’t possibly have a price tag.

All it took for Simon was a small bump to the elbow to set this thing off.

 If you’re able, please consider donating blood.

http://www.donateblood.com.au/

Thank you.

**PS – Once my beloved has had a number of successful treatments without side effects, we’ve agreed to be guinea pigs in a clinical trial. I’ll be trained to administer his treatment from home, in smaller does once a week. If the trial is successful, it could save the health system millions of dollars per year and free up a few much needed hospital beds. Plus, I get to play nurse and stick him with needles and blood goodies and tape that will rip the hair from his chest.

Yessss.

The Hunger Games - the book, the movie and sharing both with an eleven year old geek.

The nagging probably started more than a year ago. I don’t remember exactly when. But it’s been constant, unrelenting, maddening. My eldest son, 11yrs – who I’ll call Geek Boy for the purposes of this blog - decided he had to know everything there was to know about The Hunger Games.

He wanted to read the books. I said no, he wasn’t old enough. He wanted to see the movie when it finally came out. I said not while he lived this side of Hades, or at least not until I’d seen it for myself, or he turned thirteen, whichever came first. He said it wasn’t fair; his friends were allowed. I said his friends didn’t have mothers who read and reviewed thirty or forty Young Adult novels a year. I said I knew about the Hunger Games, I’d read them all. Those other mothers didn’t. He said he was an advanced reader; again it was unfair that other kids were allowed to read it and he wasn’t. I said I don’t care, I’m nasty and I’m evil and I didn’t think he was ready. He could read The Hunger Games when he was old enough to understand the book properly, that it was more than a bunch of kids forced into an arena to kill each other for what was, essentially, entertainment for the privileged, a means of governmental control, a commentary on a fucked up society. He read reviews of the books. He watched trailer upon trailer when the first snippets of the movie were released online. He memorised the names of actors and their characters. He put forth intelligent argument after intelligent argument as to why he was mature and literate enough to be allowed to enter The Hunger Games world. As his mother, I felt the step was too big for him to take. Once he’d read and hopefully understood The Hunger Games, his literary tastes would be changed forever. There would be no going back. Reading these books would cross him over a threshold I wasn’t sure I wanted him to take.

In the end, I gave in - with a little help from his Dad, who got fed up with the nagging before I did. He convinced me Geek Boy would probably pinch the book from my shelf and read it anyway. So, we agreed that if he read the book, beginning to end without dipping into anything else in the meantime, then yes, he could see the movie.

My little Chip-Off-The-Maternal-Block read the first book in a day and a half. But did he get it? Hell yes. The two of us have had some amazing, mature discussions about the many themes Suzanne Collins touched on throughout this series. Reading The Hunger Games was a kind of coming-of-age thing for him – and me. We discussed not just this particular story, but dystopias versus utopias, the writing style (first person, present tense), the use of a strong female protagonist, the Big Brother phenomena, society’s current obsession with reality TV, sympathy and empathy, civil war and politics. These books have been an awesome bonding experience for the two of us.

So this week, I kept the parental side of the bargain. Together, we saw, loved and spent hours discussing the movie. Frankly, I was blown away by his reactions and understanding of a film that we both felt was as faithful as it could be to the original novel. Of course there are differences; minor changes in character and plot.  Geek-Boy and I were worried about how the movie makers would adapt a book written in such an intimate manner from lead character Katniss’ point of view without using her as a narrator giving some sort of naff voice-over. Lead actor Jennifer Lawrence squashes that concern with her first five facial expressions. Her ability to convey emotion without a word is subtle and heartbreaking. The two scenes that come to mind most are an intimate moment with Cinna seconds before the tributes make their appearance in the arena. Katniss trembles in silence like only someone utterly terrified can do. The second scene is during the actual games, when another tribute is killed. Yep, she even made me tear up a bit – no mean feat considering I was waiting for the moment.

Neither of us liked the use of the shaky, hand-held camera filming method. It was an annoying distraction. In the novel, too much time is spent explaining the world at the beginning before The Reaping takes place (the day where a lottery is held, picking unwilling ‘tributes’ to be forced into taking part in The Hunger Games), in the movie, more time is spent afterwards at The Capitol while the tributes are being prepared for the games. The story works better this way. Bonus points for more time with Lenny Kravitz as Cinna and Woody Harrelson, who plays mentor and past Hunger Games winner, Haymitch. They’re both beyond awesome in their roles. Another welcome difference is that the Haymitch character is far more likeable, though remaining true to form. I imagined him older, dirtier than Harrelson’s version, but I’m happy to have my vision changed. Donald Sutherland’s character, President Snow, is underused. This dude is evil incarnate, but if you haven’t read the book, you probably won’t get that from the film. This is another case of brilliant casting, and it’s a shame to see Sutherland go to waste.

The movie is actually less violent than the books. That’s not to say the gory stuff isn’t there, it is. But it’s not the focus of this film.                    

A couple of days later, how do I feel about letting Geek Boy cross that line? He’s now been exposed to horrific violence in literature, a book that forces a mature reader to think about the ‘what ifs’ long after the last page is read. Fine. I’m still good with it. He came home and flew through book two, Catching Fire and now he’s deep into the third – Mockingjay. He’s spent three days immersed in books that are challenging him and lighting a fire in his belly. I mean, how cool is that? I underestimated his emotional capabilities. I underestimated his maturity. I went against my own theories that we adults forget that children cope with and understand far more between pages than we’d like them to. I tried to swathe my own kid in bubble wrap, conveniently ignoring what I, myself was reading at his age. Of course, The Hunger Games isn’t for every 11 year old. It’s not for every parent, either. But for Geek Boy and me, it opened a whole new line of dialogue, and another level of my bookshelf for us to share. And at the end of the day, that’s what it’s about isn’t it? Being able to share a passion for good books, characters and plots with your child is the best.

So... now all I need to figure out is which Stephen King to start him on first?

What's in a (blog) name?

Yikes. Here we are, or, at least – here I am. My first solo, independent blog.

I’ve played this blog thing before, a couple of times actually. The first one was with one of my writing groups, but I didn’t know how to work the machine room side of things, and got kinda lost. Blog two was, and still is, something I write alongside my co-consipiritor and favourite friend, Kylie Fox. Together, we go by the pseudonym of A.K. Wrox. A.K’s blog is linked to our author website:

www.arrabellacandellarbra.com

The suckiest thing about a new blog, is figuring out what to write about the first time you post. Should I try to write something profound; something funny; a deep, dark, terrible secret (or not); give a boring writerly update; or... maybe I’ll just give an insight into the title of this new venture?

I love Willow trees, particularly the weeping kind. I have done ever since I can remember.

My paternal grandparents lived at a dairy farm at Katunga, in central Victoria. My Dad grew up there, and we spent long weekends and school holidays visiting his childhood home. ‘Yen-Trah’, as the farm was known (our family name spelt backwards, *groan*) was about forty acres, but we didn’t venture far past the deep, always-green lawn at the rear of the old farmhouse, mostly for fear of snakes. If Dad took us with him, we were allowed to explore the dairy, the irrigation channel to fish for yabbies, the old stables and enormous hay sheds. But mostly, we hung out on the lawn that was split down the middle by a perfectly straight concrete path, laid by my grandmother, who we called Nin.

That path led to one thing – the willow tree, my Pa’s pride and joy. It was huge, soft and cool, with a single bench seat set underneath the flowing fronds of leaves. Pa used to clip the bottom of those fronds when they got too long, giving the tree the appearance it had been dined on by roaming cattle. I never saw Pa clipping the tree, and it wasn’t until I was much older that my Dad explained this was why it grew the way it did.

Nin and Pa’s farm was surreal, a world away from home for this suburban kid. There was an outdoor dunny that terrified me, canaries in an avery that sang beautiful songs, young heifers lowing over the barbed wire fence, eager for a scratch behind their ears or a handful of hay. A maze of the tastiest string beans grew along one side of the house, directly over the septic tank and a concrete crocodile adorned the strip of stone garden. My sister and I slept in old, creaky beds that once belonged to my Dad and his brother, and Nin made six meals a day, all home baked, all dripping with lard and sugar.

But it’s still the willow I remember most. It’s decades now since Nin and Pa left the farm, and many years since they both passed away. The tree has stayed with me, as a symbol of the most perfect, peaceful place I can think of; somewhere to sit, think, and imagine stories and people that existed nowhere but in my own mind, and those of my imaginary audience who would listen, enthralled in the tales I told them. The willow tree is that special place that holds the key to my imaginings and wanderings, where my stories are born and nurtured.

Just don’t ask me how most of those stories end up being about monsters and murderers, brain matter and blood....