It is 5 December, afternoon, and it is raining.
My cats, Tabitha and Purdy, two old, grumpy cross-breeds whom I adopted from RSPCA, are rushing in from their adventure outside. Hair from their fur is everywhere. I need to vacuum clean. I want to rest. I have a day off from work (hell, as they have called it). Last week I convinced a grown man, who was protesting by refusing food and fluids, to resume eating and drinking, and more importantly, to make important decision for his life. I did so by simply talking to him. Life is precious, I said. I had cancer, and I fought with all my strength to stay alive. Your life is precious. You are. There is no shame in deciding to be a man and choosing to live. Did I give his dignity back? I hope so.
Life is precious. I don't say so because I am religious (I have my Faith but that doesn't matter), I say so because I know it is. Here, on the most recent page, my story begins.