Fulfilling Promises

In 1998, a second cousin, Jeanie McGregor, aged 78, visited me from her home in Sydney, Australia. She travelled to Scotland specifically to meet me and pass on her mother's story. Her late mother, Jean, had been my grandmother's youngest sister. Jeanie explained she had been unable to have children herself to pass down her mother's story; however, she wanted to make sure the bravery of her mother and other women like her, born at the turn of the 20th century, was never forgotten.

Jeanie told me that she'd had two younger half-sisters whom she hadn't seen since that fateful night of 17th November 1928. She wanted to make sure her mother's story lived on as a reminder of the suffering and hardship the women before us witnessed and experienced, and in the hope the story might reach her half-sisters so they could finally understand what had really happened.

I'd returned to the land of my Birth years before; Jeanie was the only living relative of my father that I met, other than my beloved uncles, my father's brothers.

The meeting with Jeanie was extremely emotional for both of us. She hadn't been to Scotland since she was a child. She had been adopted by her mother's sister, my Aunt Margaret and the family decided on a fresh start so they immigrated to Australia.
I was literally overcome with emotion when Jeanie arrived from Australia. Growing up travelling the world is a wonderful life, but the only family you have is your immediate one.  You learn nothing about your identity, your little quirks and mannerisms, all the simple little things that are often passed down.  

I had never met anyone from my father's family other than his brothers, my beloved uncles.  Once we had settled down, both cried a little and hugged. Jeanie opened her bag and handed me a copy of an old newspaper clipping...

"GOVAN, GLASGOW - November 17th 1928.
"Neighbours were alerted by the screaming and crying of three young children in a top-floor flat in Backburn Street, Govan. The police were alerted. They had to force the flat door open. They were almost overcome by the smell of gas and the screams from children locked in the bedroom.
Police found the mother, 28-year-old Jeanie Campbell Maxwell, dead with her head lolling on the side of the oven. The woman had died of gas inhalation. Police found her two hysterical daughters and stepdaughters safe inside the sealed bedroom. The fire brigade commented on the late woman's acts to protect her children. 

inside the bedroom/

 

 Police broke down the door to find the woman of the house, Jean McEwan McGregor Maxwell, dead with her head lolling in the open oven. The woman had turned the gas on full and died of gas inhalation.  Police noted she had taken great care to protect the children by opening the bedroom window to ensure fresh air despite the cold evening. She had sealed off the bottom, sides and top of the door from the living room side to prevent gas seeping under or over any gaps in the doorframe.

I soon realised large parts of the story of Jeanie's mother, Jean Maxwell nee Campbell, had been far from unique. At the turn of the Century, thousands of women were working in factories, often doing backbreaking work for an absolute pittance, and were regularly beaten and abused by their spouse.  Laws against domestic abuse, or indeed any laws for women's rights, were nonexistent.

Glasgow, along with most major cities in the UK at the end of 1800s and early 20th century, had high death rates in childbirth due to complications. Countless women suffered and died because they couldn't afford medical treatment for illnesses and diseases. Hundreds died at the hands of back-street abortionists, or at the hands of their husbands, and any man who took the notion. Physical and mental abuse was rife without real laws in place to protect the poorest of the poor.
                                          _________________________

Jean McEwan, Maxwell, nee Campbell. Was the youngest of four daughters and two sons of John Campbell and his wife, Mary née Bone. I don't know a lot about the Campbell family. It was always a taboo subject between my father and his three brothers. My paternal grandmother, Helen Greene nee Campbell, was just two years older than her late sister Jean.

All six Campbell children were born and raised in Govan, Glasgow. 

Their father, John Campbell Sr., was a steelworker in Govan Docks. Originally from Fortingall, Perthshire. He was the last of a long line of Blacksmiths; sadly, the advent of the motorcar saw a rapid decline in blacksmiths. John's wife, Mary nee Bone, was the youngest daughter of a prestigious landowning family from Daryldimple, Ayrshire. Her affluent family rejected her choice of husband - (a) Clan Campbell was treated with contempt in many parts of Scotland (that's a totally different story). However, when the Bone family saw their daughter's determination, they relented and gave her an impressive dowry.
Mary bought a shop with a large, spacious tenement flat above it. The shop became one of Glasgow's most famed confectionery shops. Mary bought the best quality chocolates from Europe. 

 Jean and all her siblings. Sisters Maggie, Margaret, Helen and Barbara and brothers James and Duncan were all seven children born and raised in the flat above their mother's Confectionary Shop. Mary Campbell had bought the shop with the flat above as part of her wedding dowry from her parents.

Duncan Campbell was the baby of the family, as his siblings loved to remind him. Their mother had an evident soft spot for her youngest child and usually let him off with misdemeanours that would have cost his siblings a punishment. Duncan was born on 2nd of October 1901. His brother James was three years his senior and already working in Govan Docks.  Duncan hated the thought of working in the docks. He was obsessed with the military; He loved reading books with the old stories of Clan Campbell ruling the glens; he loved all sorts of military books. ~
It was a matter of weeks before his 16th Birthday when it was announced that Great Britain was now at war with Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany. Duncan had seen Lord Kitchener's posters, "YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU" He was an impulsive young boy. Without pausing for thought, he joined the queue to sign up. He lied about his age; he didn't have his Birth certificate. However, he was a tall youth; the officers looked him up and down and stamped his application. 

Telling his mother was the hardest thing he had to do. She screamed, cursed him, cursed Kitchener and all the rest. But once you sign those papers, there was no going back.
15-year-old Duncan Campbell was just days away from his 16th birthday. He died on the blood-stained fields of Ypres on his very first day of active service. 

Jeanie told me this and many other stories about my family history. Jeanie explained that her two half-sisters, daughters of Jean's second husband, James Patterson, were taken away to live with him. The three girls weren't even given the chance to have a last hug together.
Jeanie's Aunt Margaret was an older sister of Jeanie's mum. Margaret had no children 

Jeanie was the daughter of Jeanie's first husband, Robert Maxwell. He'd died years before. When her mother died, Jean's sister Barbara and her husband took her in; they decided to immigrate to Australia at the end of WW2. Jeanie never saw her sisters again. Never having a father, and being just 9-years-old when her mother died, must have been extremely traumatic. Fortunately, Jeanie had a very happy life with her aunt and uncle, whom she came to call Mum and Dad. She also had a long marriage with a man who loved her as much as she did him.  Unfortunately, they couldn't have children; instead, they fostered. Jean spoke with pride about the number of young people they had nurtured and helped onto the road to being happy, successful people.
  

Jeanie wasn't able to have children and felt she had no one left to pass the story of her beloved mother down. As a young woman, she made a silent vow never to let her beautiful late mother be forgotten, and so Jeanie travelled thousands of miles across the world to meet me and pass the story on. I was deeply touched and honoured to be the recipient, and vowed to Jeanie that I would ensure her mother's name would live on.

When we actually met face to face, the age gap between us was inconsequential; we clicked, we connected. She was the only member of my father's family I had met apart from my darling uncles, my dad's brothers. It must have been genes recognising genes because we hit it off immediately.
Family... It's always been an important word. Knowing I gave Jeanie some comfort by listening to the story of her mum. She looked so happy and relieved to meet me. You could see the joy on her face to at last talk about her mum with a blood relative. 

Jean vowed to come back in 2000 to celebrate with me; we made plans, we were like sisters in a sense. But it wasn't to be. Jean never made it to 2000. She died in her sleep in 1999. I really hope that after a lifetime of keeping that story in about her anguish and the loss of her mother inside...and finally sharing it. I pray my darling second cousin found the peace she needed and is resting up there somewhere with her darling mum.

Peter and the Wolf

"Peter and the Wolf" Bored watching the sheep Peter constantly cried 'WOLF'. The townspeople were fed up responding to his false cries for help. Then one day, the wolf appeared unexpectedly and Peter's cries for help went unanswered. Peter and the sheep perished.

Last year I had an amazingly straightforward operation on my right eye. For the first time in over 20 years, I can identify colours and shapes, however, reading, typing and other things remain problematic, I have my life back to a certain degree.

Almost everyone misplaces things from time to time. More often than not it's forgetfulness. Every day up and down the land millions of people will call in exasperation "Have you seen my keys? Has someone moved them?".

For the deafblind or anyone with a large degree of vision loss misplacing things and the inability to locate things is habitual, and extremely annoying and frustrating for those charged with finding things.

Small children habitually touch and move things, it is annoying but inevitable, more so when things belong to someone visually impaired. And so it was in my house. The number of things I'd misplaced and couldn't see or that had in fact been moved, lost, broken or taken must have run into thousands over the years, but that's life.

There's also another side to the story. When things are deliberately moved or taken. Sometimes to see the reaction, or because things were accidentally broken then binned to hide the evidence.

Then we have this - "The most common crime in Scotland 2022/23 was dishonesty. Taking someone's property without the owner's consent or knowledge".

Over the years I have 'lost' hundreds of things. However without going into detail - Recently I have "lost" quote-unquote my entire wardrobe of clothing minus jackets. Entire drawers of jumpers, tops, blouses, leggings, T-shirts etc and specific household items and utensils. Ironically no one came to check if I had indeed 'lost' these things. years of "losing" things as a 'previous blind woman' has been weaponised and served as cover to the thief.

I won't even attempt to describe how I feel yet I will no longer be forced to remain silent - I've since spoken to others who have been victims of similar crimes. Like me many have been discredited and culprits remain unchallenged. 

My family is my everything. The culprit in this instance is going through a tough time, but that does not justify this. In fact for some time now on and off the culprit has been staying in my home while I waited on them hand and foot, including breakfast in bed. That's what you do for loved ones or so I always thought. However, this does not mean I should take it on the chin.

I don't care what the contrived justification is, theft is theft there is no excuse, it is cowardly and immeasurably cruel - but then so using a disability as a cause to disbelieve and discredit an innocent victim. 

To Live... Is the greatest gift

As a child, "home" could be anywhere in the world; however, the places all of us chose to call "home" was in Surrey, both Cheam and Epsom.Our house in Epsom was roughly two miles from the famous Racecourse. It was quite amusing but a little unsettling that, whenever we returned from our worldly travels it would be a toss up to which house we stayed in, the one in Cheam or Epsom. The Epsom house had a massive basement, stuffed full of every game, board game and toy imaginable. We had a lovely cinema where we could get snacks and watch movies We also had a games room and a music room. Despite having an impressive lifestyle, my brothers and I were unspoilt. We had lived in Cheam, Surrey, before moving to Epsom. One of our neighbours was the adorable Sir Harry Secombe, his wife, Myra, their three children and five boxer dogs, who were the curse of the neighbourhood. Sir Harry's children were a good few years older than me. One day, I was walking past their garden fence when I heard the dogs barking aggressively as usual. Then, I suddenly realised two of the dogs had dug a hole right under the fence, and two snarling heads were visible inches from my feet. I screamed in fright. Sir Harry heard me and came rushing out of the garden to console me. I had no idea this man was famous, no idea that he had played Mr Bumble in Oliver, I hadn't seen the film, and I had no idea that would be the start of a friendship between Sir Harry, his wife and my parents that would last for many years, even after we moved away. Summer in Surrey and the Southern counties means CRICKET. That rather boring game where bowlers try to hit the wickets and the other team tries to hit the ball and run back and forth... Everyone and everyone went to the Surrey Cricket matches when they played at home. It was commonplace for renowned celebrities to turn up in force to cheer on their specific team. During the interval of every match, Sir Harry would come up to collect me in from the reserved spectator seats. He'd take my hand and hold a white bucket in his other hand. "Now, Elizabeth, remember, you are a celebrity and charity representative, so let everyone see your adorable smile." And so I did... every single cricket match. I loved that man, maybe not old enough to be the grandfather I never had, but old enough to be my much-loved friend. My darling beloved father never touched alcohol. His mother, whom I never met, had allegedly been a heavy drinker. I will never understand why, given his history, he decided to invest in a fully stocked bar in our large sprawling lounge. The bar was equipped with everything. He collected miniature whiskey bottles from around the world and was immensely proud of his extensive collection. My parents would throw parties when my brothers and I were safely tucked up in bed at the other side of the house. Their guest lists included politicians and celebrities; My father and his brother had played a significant role in the running and promotion of the Labour Party in our part of Surrey, and so the great and good and the slightly dubious were happy to turn up. I will never forget the erm...bronze ornament... that John Prescott and his wife presented my parents with for the garden. I don't recall it actually making it into the garden,

I was rarely aware of my parents' grand parties; my bedroom was on the other side of the house, and party sounds didn't penetrate. I knew they also threw Christmas parties... It was Christmas Eve, and I was eight years old, and safely tucked up in my bed, I couldn't hear the partying at the other side of the house; instead, I lay in my cosy bed looking up at the high window above my bed. I could see the full moon shining down on me. I must have nodded off.. I don't know what woke me, I opened my eyes and closed them tightly, convinced I was imagining or dreaming. I thought I'd seen a fairy sitting on the bed beside me. Cautiously, I opened them again and blinked several times. There WAS a fairy sitting on my bed beside me! I tried to sit up, but she gently shook her head and smiled. "Stay there, darling, all is alright." She smiled. I was awake enough to look at her. She had long black hair, rather like my Mummy." But it wasn't Mummy. This was a fairy with blue wings, a shiny blue tiara and... a magic wand that twinkled at the top. She smelled so beautiful, too. I have never smelled that particular scent. She gently pushed a strand of my wild red hair away from my face, "I want you to go back to sleep, darling girl, when you wake again, it will be morning, and Father Christmas will have left you everything you wished for. She softly kissed the top of my head. I did what she told me and kept my eyes closed... I didn't open them again until morning. Indeed, all my dreams had come true. After the excitement of opening presents, I told my mother about the fairy, and she smiled. You were very lucky to have that fairy come and see you, she said, kissing me softly. As I said, celebrities and politicians were part of life, but magical fairies certainly weren't.

Several years passed, and my parents loved travelling the world, a few months here, a year there. It meant my education was chaotic, which is one thing I always regretted. ~ We came back to the UK when my parents bumped into an old friend at an event in some castle somewhere. I recognised the woman my parents were talking to right away - My Fairy Minus wings etc. She held out her hand to me and kissed me on the cheek "Hello, Elizabeth." She smiled, "My name is Elizabeth too," And that is the story of my Christmas Fairy, also known as Elizabeth Taylor.

My poor father was a disastrous businessman. Everyone loved him, but as a boss, he was a nightmare. His generosity was his downfall time, and again, He started ventures that were non-runners and paid workers more than the expected salaries. That was him through and through. My hero, who had zero common sense. Everyone loved my father. Everyone could see he was a genuinely good, decent, caring man and loved him for it. My hero... my friend... flawed... yes... unintentionally hurt me... yes... but nothing, absolutely nothing could distract from that wonderful, funny, sometimes ridiculous and vulnerable man whom I called Daddy.

My bedroom was at the front of the house, so I could never hear any noise from their parties. It was Christmas Eve. My bed was under a high window, I could see the full moon shining in, I couldn't hear the noise from the party, I closed my eyes thinking of Santa and fell fast asleep. I awoke suddenly, and in my half-asleep state, I felt a hand touch my cheek gently. I caught a whiff of a magical-smelling perfume. I tried to focus on who was sitting on my bed. She had long black hair with a slight wave at the bottom, just like my mum, but it wasn't mum, it was the most beautiful fairy imaginable. She was wearing a long-sleeved pale blue dress with sparkles on it, she had a shining diamond necklace around her neck and wore a diamond bracelet. Her wings were also pale blue. They looked so delicate. She was holding a wand which looked like it had a real gold handle. But the thing that struck me most was her eyes, they appeared to be violet, I hadn't seen anyone with eyes that colour before. I had my stunning, magical fairy bent forward and softly kissed me on the top of my head. Smiling sweetly, she whispered, "Go back to sleep, darling girl. When you wake up, all your dreams will have come true."

I was deeply saddened years later, I learned by stunning fairy was. That beautiful fairy was estranged from her own daughters, it seems they were mostly brought up by their fathers.  Although neither of my parents touched alcohol and always kept a full bar, I always thought they had quite a few similarities with Taylor/Burton. Four highly talented, glamorous, gifted individuals who loved each other but were poisonous together. The difference was my father remained with my mother until he died. No one should forsake their future and love life for a false sense of responsibility. 

No matter where we went in the world, it was always an adventure and always, always an honour to have the opportunity to live like that.

Complexity

The Solar flares - aurora borealis - have appeared in unexpected places this year and will carry on as the solar storm continues with the unbelievable force of charged particles from the sun blasting into space and hitting Earth.

The severe space storm could knock out Mobile Phones this weekend.
I love the incredible music of Gustav Holst especially - The Planets - He brings each planet to life through music. However, he chose not to write a score for Earth, I imagine even the greatest mind would fail to create an orchestral piece that could encompass the cacophony of noise drifting across space from our home planet.

The Magical sounds of nature and laughter or the wind blowing gently through the trees, the sea lapping across the sands and pebbles. The call and caw of birds, dogs barking cats meowing and the millions of other magical sounds which say we are here. We exist. Our oval-shaped planet is bursting with beauty, love, goodness, laughter, unity and happiness. It would be impossible to compose a score replicating the beauty of Earth and all its wondrous simplicity and innocent complexity. Such sounds would be drowned out by thousands of aeroplanes of every size taking off and landing, circumnavigating the planet. The roar of traffic the billions of cars, buses, motorbikes, lorries and trucks zooming along every road in every land. The blast of bombs. rockets, missiles, guns. The screams of the trapped, injured and terrified. The agonising, gut-wrenching screams from children and adults alike as they look upon the torn bodies of the person or persons who, hours or moments ago had been living, breathing, standing or sitting beside them, loving them, protecting them and even sheltering them.

Nothing Holst or any other composer alive or dead could successfully compose a score to summarize this - our home. 1. Mars the Bringer of War. 2. Venus, the Bringer of Peace. 3. Mercury is the Winger Messenger. 4. Jupiter the Bringer of Jollity. 5. Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age.

6. Uranus is the Magician.

7. Neptun is of the Mystic.

I can't possibly think of an appropriate name for Earth. The closest word is Chaolity.

Cochlear Implants

I came across something I'd written on my Facebook page in 2015 (at the bottom of this post). I can't believe it's only been 8 years since the Cochlear transplants, which have given me the gift of hearing again for the first time in over 20 years. Most people have one transplant; I received two simultaneously.

The dual operation was carried out by two comparatively new surgeons and overseen by the consultant. The 3-hour procedure entailed cutting behind the ears and peeling back the hair and skin before drilling a hole and attaching an electrode fitted with a magnet behind each ear. Records show the youngest person to have a cochlear implant was a 6-month-old baby girl in 2014. Today in Scotland, the youngest person to have a Cochlear implant was a 6-week-old baby girl. The oldest person was a man aged 103! The surgeons who performed my miraculous surgery were a young man and a woman. I've often wondered who did which ear. There's no outward sign of the electrode and magnet on the left side of my head above the ear; the right side is positioned higher on my head and sticks out. They both work perfectly, but one is better handwork. Until comparatively recently, my 'party trick' was to attach forks or dessert spoons to my head, but the magnets attached to the exterior of the cochlear were causing pressure pains. Now my party trick has been reduced to attaching teaspoons instead.

                         -------------

Written in 2015

Dear World,

I've waited so long to hear you again. To hear laughter and join in. To dance in rhythm to music. I've yearned to sit with family and friends and converse freely, not feign comprehension and interest when the reality was I heard nothing nor could I see to read lips, I was there but unintentionally excluded., I existed but did not live.

The indescribable joy of listening to my grandchildren talk and laugh, voices I'd never heard before. The peace and happiness of sitting by the window and listening to rain splattering against the panes. To wake to the sound of birds chirping and calling to one another.

Please I beg. Don't make the sounds I hear negative, full of sadness or prejudice or hate, nor let the voices of News Reporters drone on about how many more innocents have been slaughtered through mindless greed and power-obsessed demons.

How I yearned for 'normality' and re-engagement with the world outside. Yet, I would willingly choose to be permanently deaf and blind again if it would make a difference in this beautiful world tainted with screams and blood, negativity, unfairness, cruelty and injustice.

Dear world, I pray to make the sounds that echo around this hearing world positive and good and of happiness, peace and love. In truth, even though it would be painful. I would happily live enclosed in a world without vision and hearing than in a world of hate.

All reaction

The Simple Things

I've often wondered what my life would've been like if I hadn't sat under that eucalyptus tree all those years ago. It felt like I'd become a curiosity of science as doctors and specialists speculated and exchanged theories about the actual source of my unexplained dual sensory loss. It's easier for me to put it down to the spider bite, although that theory shocks some people. It could easily have been a combination of things. Travelling abroad used to entail vaccines for everything, we'll never know the exact cause, but I've spent a massive part of my life living with the consequences. 

I married had my children and worked hard to be a good mum, wife and business partner, but pretending to see and hear sufficiently in a world that didn't make allowance and inclusion for those things was soul-destroying. It's unintentional but extremely common for people with any degree of hearing loss to be 'left out' in general social interaction and within the family structures. 

I struggled on. I Studied Social work for a couple of years but had to drop out because of a lack of inclusion. The same happened with a Psychology course. I even completed a full computer programming course but didn't sit the exam. I was convinced I'd fail it because I hadn't had enough assistance. 

 I decided to join a Political Party not long before an election. It took courage to walk into the local constituency office and explain my desire to help and about my sensory issues. I was horrified when the man I spoke to told me coldly that they didn't need my help. I almost burst out crying with embarrassment and turned to leave, then I spotted another man in the room. He had red hair and a beard and looked kind and friendly. I tried to lip-read when he turned and spoke to the first man. "What the hell did you say that for Jim? Everyone is welcome in this office, and we appreciate everyone's help". He turned to me and smiled. "I'm Robin Cook. Glad you've come to join us. When you're on the biscuit run remember I eat Turnocks Caramel Wafers". He laughed.

Robin Cook MP later became British Foreign Secretary. He always spoke clearly and directly to me and, included me. He became my hero for his goodness, honesty, and fairness. I loved it when he brought his sons to my house and introduced me to them and had a cup of tea. The man who'd made me feel unwelcome was called Jim Devine. He became an MP after Robin's death and was later jailed for corruption.

Robin Cook transformed my life in several ways. He made me feel valued and appreciated. He taught me about politics, and he encouraged me to do things, he didn't look at me as deafblind, he saw the person. I became a campaigner and crusader. Thanks to him I made a brief appearance on News at Ten. Nine o'clock News and a political program. I secured a massive number of signatures to prevent the local construction of a massive waste incinerator.  

Everything changes. Life is simply a collection of phases - Frustrating times. Heartbreaking times. Loving romantic times. Times when everything is a struggle. Times of grief and heartache. Times of excitement. Nothing stays the same... I learned that the hard way...

   

I Am What I Am

Books. books. Once upon a time... I'd read an entire book a night. Which wasn't always wise when living in the outback, the bush or some other godforsaken place.

Imagine sitting under a tree in a dark, dense wood in the middle of nowhere. There's no moonlight. You curl up under the base of a tree with only an old torch and an open book. Suddenly. The silence is broken by the rustling of leaves close by followed by a crunch of twigs underfoot. You jump in alarm when the light from the torch begins to flicker...

Okay, well, I guess I'll never make an author, but I can tell the story of my life and what a life it has been. Yucky at times, wonderful at others. Exciting, challenging, scary, frustrating, isolating, lonely. Unpredictable. dangerous, magical, privileged, and never ever boring and predictable. 
I loved everywhere we lived, and yet everywhere we lived, I was an outsider, didn't belong and fit in. That is the way it was. My parents couldn't see it or understand it.  I think that they were selfish people in some respects; they could have left me at boarding school in England, but they chose to drag me around.

And so books were my friends and companions. Thomas Hardy (Shakespeare, I still keep the complete works beside my bed), my all-time favourite Tolstoy.  Conan Doyle... to name a few.

I loved my life and freedom as a child. I had no idea how the unique, isolated, lonely life would impact me and my association with other humans. My relationship with people outside my direct family was nonexistent.  I was always an outsider, always had a different accent, and couldn't fit in at school because it was always different subjects. Different games, attitudes, behaviour, expectations, I was teased and bullied mercilessly because of my long curly bright red hair. it was the same everywhere except in India. I don't know what was worse. Constant bullying or dozens of adults and children constantly gathering around me, trying to touch my hair, smiling and chattering loudly.

I always thought my mother was lying when she claimed a well-known Maharaja had informed someone to ask her if she would sell me for three elephants and some land, she successfully used the threat to sell me for a long time. Years later, I learned something that made me think she may have been telling the truth.

"Red is an auspicious, sacred colour in Hinduism. Used widely in social and religious functions. It's a symbol of ardent affection, passion, and sacrifice. Scientific and psychological studies say, "Red enhances positive feelings". In my case, it's more 'red flag to bull'. 

My idea of absolute heaven was to sit beside ants' nests. I'd take treats and place them close by, they love sugar and anything containing sugar. They love fruits, meats etc. They are seriously misunderstood and undervalued by humans. I spend every spare moment, day or night, sitting beside an ant's nest, book in hand.  These fantastic life-forces are the most intelligent insects on earth. They are in the bible, Proverbs 6:6-8. Greek God Zeus turned into an ant, and his son Myrmidon was an ant. The study of ants is called "Myrmecology" named after Zeus's son. Sadly, you can't really did beside ants nests in Scotland 

There were times when I craved human company, but the truth is, they didn't understand me or I them. Deafblindness changed me forever. I like to think it benefited me, too, it enhanced my sense of empathy and awareness, but didn't change the isolation or stop me from feeling like an outsider everywhere I went.

Nowadays I love speaking in public about things that matter. I don't lay claim to being a great speaker but I'm passionate and love to talk about life disabilities and learning to understand and tolerate each other. 
There aren't enough words to describe my happiness at seeing shapes and colours again it's only a minuscule bit of vision in one eye but it's incredible even being able to see the difference between night and day again. I can see moving things too. My friend and I were out for lunch in the local garden centre, my friend was looking at trees for her garden and called me over and excitedly told me to hold out my hand. Then she placed two tiny ants onto my upturned palm. I squealed with excitement. They were tiny tree ants. So tiny that I struggled to see them as they ran hurriedly up and down my hand. I knew what species they were. Called  Formica and known as F aquilona. They were wood ants, which generally live on the ground and feed on insects on birch trees. Their species is dying out in some areas of the UK.

In bed at night, I can still reflect on the marvellous places I've been and seen as a reminder of happier times. I used to love reading to my children; I was delighted to find a stack of old books in the loft. Enid Blyton's Magic Faraway Tree. The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Wind in the Willows and others. Happy memories of reading goodnight stories to the children and grandchildren... 

I am what I am
Not overly talented
Nor quick of wit
I am what I am                                                                                                                             and that is it. 

and that is it.