We have to care. If we don't what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning? I have had my share of life's ups and downs and there were days when I did not want to get out of bed, did not want to wash I was so overcome with grief and trauma. I felt like I was swimming in dung and every now and again I would see some light and come up for air. My family and friends were the light, the oxygen I needed. When I faced my own life threatening illness and spent terrifying hours in intensive care one Christmas just a few years ago, as I felt myself slipping away there they were again to help pull me through. Friends have often told me I should write a blog - so here I am! It's stories that can breathe new life into our veins, give us the oxygen we need, to help us care. I grew up in a small house, among rows and rows of identical houses on a large overspill council housing estate, in fact the locals called it rather bluntly the 'spill.
My parents did not have much but what they lacked in material things they made up for In personality, love and care, and both blessed thank goodness with boundless energy and a great sense of humour! My mother was the clever creative one who made sure we could all read and write before we went to school. It was her love of telling stories through drama, writing scripts, sketches and pantos for our school PTA that has been passed down through the generations. My father was the sentimental emotional one who shared stories and songs with us of his life in a world so different to that around us growing up in the Seventies, a world of hot sun, exotic food and golden temples in a land then called Burma, where he was born in 1931. They cared for us, their family, our friends, work colleagues, and they taught me how to care through love, sharing and telling stories.