My brother’s wife had a birthday last weekend. I wanted to send her flowers, but it’s hard to know what she likes. Here at the house, Mum has always wanted to do some outrageous decorating, but Pip prefers things very subtle, so they’ve found it hard to agree on anything over the years.
That being said, I think it’s criminal not to send someone a big, bright bunch of flowers on their birthday. So I chose a bunch of sunflowers and sent them to Pip and my brother’s house in London.
In many ways, sunflowers are a bit niche, and I knew it was a risk to send them — but it was a risk I wanted to take because there’s something so beautiful and almost magical about them. I sent them from Mum and me, and Pip sent me a message saying she loved them, which I was really happy to hear.
You can see the sunflowers below.
Having been through the process of applying for a job at the Red Cross Lifeblood call centre and then withdrawing from the race, I felt inspired to donate blood. I had never donated before, but honestly, it’s another thing I love about the Red Cross. It fits into that whole sense of unity between people that I find so moving.
I once said to Mum that I like the idea of sharing myself with people, and she snickered at me like a child, as if I was making some kind of sexual remark. But what I really meant was that, in a way, we as a people are one organism — connected — and we should do what we can for one another. I’ve been trying to find the right words for that feeling, and what I said doesn’t quite capture it, but in the context of blood donation, I love the idea of sharing my blood with someone who might really need it.
There’s a blood donor centre in Modbury, so I made an appointment for Monday night at 6:15pm. I had to answer a whole stack of questions about travel overseas, tattoos which I have none of, previous surgeries which I also have had none of, and other health related things like that.
Below you can see the front of the donor centre — and below that, the view from where I was sitting when I was waiting to be called to donate. You can see the decorations and the colourful, welcoming spirit of the entrance.
After I’d answered the initial questionnaire, I was taken into a small room with a phlebotomist. She went through the same questions I’d already answered out the front, only this time in much more detail. She was nice, and as we talked, I found myself thinking that maybe I could be a phlebotomist and work for the Red Cross at a donor centre. I’d thought about it before, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. The thought of taking blood from people didn’t bother me as much as I expected it would.
She asked whether I’d like to do a full blood donation or a plasma donation. She explained that they needed more plasma, so I said I’d do that. Once we’d gone through everything extensively, she asked me to look at her computer screen, which had a little spiel about how it was an offence to give false or misleading answers to the questions. It went on to say there were hefty fines — or even prison time — for doing so.
It’s actually a bit of a slap in the face. You go there wanting to do something good, to donate blood, and then you’re hit with this big fat legal warning at the end of signing up. I get where they’re coming from, but it definitely sobers you up quickly. I also did a quick mental review of all my answers — because with my luck, it would just be typical to end up with another criminal conviction out of all this.
The process of giving plasma takes around 45 minutes. It involves drawing blood, extracting the plasma, and then returning your red blood cells and platelets through the same needle, along with a saline solution. Below you can see the chair and the apheresis machine — the one that works the magic.
The phlebotomist hooked me up to the machine and gave me a very long-winded explanation about what was happening. She checked my consent more than once — and I appreciate why they have to do all of that — but I just felt like saying, enough talk, stick the needle in and do what you have to do.
But then, when she did put the needle in, I don’t know what happened, but blood went everywhere. It was right then and there that I realised I could never be a phlebotomist myself, because the sight of all that blood made me want to be sick.
Once things were under control, I settled into the chair. There were a few weird sensations but nothing that really bothered me. While I was lying there, Rebecca sent me a photo of the bunch of flowers I’d sent her — they’d just been delivered at 7pm from Tynte Flowers.
Rebecca had gone for a job with one of the government hospitals as a peer worker in mental health support and had just found out she didn’t get it. She was really upset, so I sent her flowers to remind her how fabulous she is, that she’s loved, and that something else will come up soon.
You can see the flowers below. I was happy with them, though I have to admit I’m getting a bit tired of Tynte — they don’t change things up as much as I’d like.
She said I’d probably end up with a few bruises where the needles had been, and that I could come back in two weeks, which is exactly what I’m going to do.
I still had to hang around the centre for about half an hour afterward, just to make sure I was okay. They had plenty of food and drink available for donors to help replenish themselves. You can see the fridge full of drinks below.
I want to close this post by sharing something I was thinking about. I remember reading an article online about the judge in Sydney and the last case he handled before retiring. The title of the piece mentioned a “Swan Song.” When I saw that, I started wondering what a swan song actually is.
The myth goes all the way back to ancient Greece. People believed that swans were silent their whole lives but, sensing their own death, would sing one final, heartbreakingly beautiful song. Plato wrote that the swan’s last song was a hymn to Apollo — the god of music and light — sung not in sorrow but in joy, because the bird was going home to the divine. Later writers like Aesop and Aristotle debated whether it was literally true or simply poetic, but the image endured.
Over centuries, the “swan song” came to symbolise that moment when an artist, leader, or anyone, really, produces one final act of grace or brilliance before fading away — the beauty that arrives precisely because it’s ending.
There’s something about that idea that’s so incredibly beautiful — and yet, at the same time, so incredibly devastating.
