A Matter of Blood
What Blood Carries
It moves through us, unseen and relentless — a life pump, a red tide of inheritance and mystery. It oxygenates, nourishes, defends. And sometimes, it breaks. Hemolysis — the destruction of red blood cells — isn’t poetic, but it is deeply personal when your own blood turns against you.
In my case, it’s called AIHA, autoimmune hemolytic anemia. It means something in me has forgotten what is mine. My body has made an enemy of itself. The irony? It doesn’t feel far off from the human experience of family.
Everyone that was here to greet me when I pushed out of my mother's womb in 1948 are all in Heaven.  Now-a-days, family, there are only three of us left now — myself, my brother, and his daughter.
A thin thread of blood ties stretched like thin plastercine over years, silence, and choices.
My niece--33 years younger than me-- prefers tying flies for fly fishing over tying connection to me. Maybe it was easier for her. Maybe there’s a story I’m not part of. Either way, she’s chosen distance. There’s no medicine for strained or severed family ties — no transfusion that can bring back what’s been left behind.
Today is my brother’s 74th birthday. I didn’t reach out. Not because I’m angry (though I’ve been there), but because I no longer do things just because.Â
Over the years, birthdays were never big for him — not in a celebratory way — and honestly, I doubt he’s expecting anything from me. Still, the silence feels deliberate. Clean.
He gives his heart now to his 11-year-old ailing dog. His wife died in 2021. She had to leave.Â
Meanwhile, for 12 years now, I see my oncologist, who today tells me the rituximab — the treatment meant to target the B-cells — didn’t work as well this time as has in the past years. Not unexpected, she says. That’s how it goes sometimes. Still, I had no side effects. No night sweats, no enlarged organs, no lymph node pushing out my skin. Just quiet disappointment. Still, she tells me: Watch and wait.
If symptoms appear, we'll act. Until than , hold steady. No need for treatment. When fear visits remind what the medical term indolent means and silence the death nell bell.
I once believed blood was thicker than anything. But I’ve learned that blood doesn’t mean love. And family doesn’t always mean presence.
So here I am: managing what’s in my veins, and what’s not. Watching, waiting. Living. Peace and truth are my anchors.  And Anxiety isn't insistent.
Truth is the healthiest thing you can do with blood — is let it flow on without forcing it to stay close.
Barbara Mulski, Reg. Clinical Psychotherapist and Counselling
Surrey, B.C.