Part 4 concludes Ian Harrison’s coming of age serial.
A Change Of Heart Part 4
Tuesday, April 1, 2003.
The friendly surgeon knew my heart wasn’t in it, even with me waving a knife and swearing up a blue streak, fangs bared. No April Fool’s.
Everyone sympathises with the lioness with a thorn in her paw. No-one cares about wicked wolves. We eat little chauvinist pigs and mischievous boys who play tricks. We swallow grandmothers whole.
I’ve sucked it up, accepted it and moved on. We don’t need awareness. Schoolkids selling ribbons. Whether I’m rotting at home, hospital or prison, my sentence was decreed at birth.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005.
Crimes Act, Section 61. Common assault, with a maximum of two years.
Newspapers reported it like I’d rampaged through the Manly Ferry, stabbing everyone on board. But I’d planned it. A calculated risk that would backfire and blow up in my face… which it did.
Now I’m free to roam again, carve out a fresh tract of territory, a lone wolf.
Monday, October 11, 1993.
Kellie Vanilli – chart-topper one minute… forgotten the next.
Where’s this list published anyway? Doctor Chang would say something. If only…
I’ve had this career brainstorm. Low stress; low competition. I’ll be a courier.
Tuesday, March 1, 2005.
Sitting in prison, I knew there’d be questions. No-one understands; only the special hearts try. Everyone’s moved on. Married, nappies, P & C committees. Establishing their own packs and dens. Fair enough, we’re in our thirties now.
My plan made sense on paper. Get a doctor on-side; play-act he’s in peril. I’d be arrested, make the news. People would finally start talking organ donations.
Everyone wins… except me, the woman with nothing to lose.
However sympathetic he may have appeared during our “hypothetical” chat, no doctor would endorse a crazy woman roaming his hospital with a knife.
I could write a book. I have written one! A tabloid paid a warden to photograph your every page, diary.
Current affairs and breakfast radio shows ask “why”?
I evade. “Put yourselves on the donor register, everyone.” “Don’t pull knives on medical professionals.” “Prison food – worse than hospital food.”
Sunday, May 29, 2005.
Why humiliate myself with a stupid, doomed-to-fail plan?
Queue-topping meant nothing. I didn’t want sympathy. People cluck their tongues, telling me what a misfortune it is.
It wasn’t happening to them! I wasn’t contagious! I wasn’t being melodramatic – I’m dying, for fuck’s sake. Statistically, on borrowed time already. Captive wolves only survive until their late teens.
Friday, July 5, 1991.
Cried all day, diary. My saviour. Gone.
Some arsehole shot Dr Chang yesterday.
Whoever pulled that trigger is a mass-murdering shit and they should hang. Or worse – give them heart disease and dash their hopes any time there’s a tissue match.
Shutting myself away for the whole school holidays.
Thursday, January 12, 2006.
I haven’t worn anything other than pyjamas or hospital gowns since Christmas. Barely remember what fresh air smells like.
Mum’s a crack-up. “Don’t be so morbid, Kelly.” Mum, we’re planning my funeral!
I found a third-cousin in Melbourne suburbia. Mum wants to invite her and mists up. When I say “you and Dad are all the family I know,” we have a good cry, until I need a blast of oxygen.
Music : Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf, naturally. Alanis Morrisette.
Spring romanticism is “rain on your wedding day.” Unfortunate is “rain on your wedding day.”
Irony is finally, after nearly twenty years, finding a suitable heart… but being too damn frail to undergo the transplant operation.
Monday, November 13, 2000.
Play “spin the Bintang” in Denpasar – it’ll point at an Aussie.
A group of schoolies let me crash in their rented house’s lounge-room. Paul, his name was, shrugged. They’d stayed in a backpacker’s until four days ago… Paul had his brother bet on “Brew” to win the Melbourne Cup.
We were now enjoying the winnings of Paul’s lucky trifecta. “Second Coming” apparently ran third. There’s an omen, diary. A wolf can’t howl unless it’s dark enough for the moon. Fingers crossed everything goes well at the consulate tomorrow and I can leave on the weekend.
Saturday, August 27, 2005.
At least I got people talking. And made up with Mum and Dad. I don’t care if people hate or judge me. Finally they can’t ignore me.
Kelly Enfield. Seeking to match a young, strong man. Organ donor. Into thrill-seeking, fast cars, adrenaline sports, living for the moment. Can’t wait to have that vital piece of you in me.
Do it, you big stud-muffin. I’m waiting for the call. Time’s a-wasting.