
ends with toast.
MY NUMBER is good today, less than 10. As the coffee draws, two slices of toast await a smear of avocado. The dogs are at the front gate, watching rabbits dodge speeding tradies. As the dust cloud settles I dial up four units.
Haemochromatosis! It needs a catchy name – “rusty blood” or “the Irish condition", perhaps – and a marketing campaign. (In the blood, May 9, 2015) The accumulation of dietary iron in my body is easily controlled through therapeutic blood donation. It’s the damage done before diagnosis that has recently reached the tipping point.
“Recently” is a delusional description in my case. It was 2020. As the lockdowns and fear kept people inside, it was easy to postpone, then cancel, those pesky blood tests and check-ups. Life online enabled me to feed the cravings for sweet treats. Zoom meetings became a smorgasbord of chips, lollies and soft drinks. And there were lots of Zoom meetings. My PB was 11 spread across one very long day. Next morning I woke with a massive sugar hangover.