Sunderland charity Love, Amelia sees volunteer boost after award
A children's charity which has seen volunteers more than double in a year has been formally presented with the UK's highest voluntary award.Love, Amelia, based in Sunderland, officially received the King's Award for Voluntary Service for its work across the city and County Durham last week. Steph Capewell, who founded the charity in memory of her daughter, said the award was an "such an honour".She added it had also helped raise awareness of the baby bank and bring more volunteers since its announcement last November.
"We've definitely had more volunteers come through [since November]. I think more people want to get involved," she said.
Love, Amelia was founded in 2019 in memory of Ms Capewell's daughter Amelia who died in January 2018, just 12 minutes after she was born.It offers support to families experiencing hardship and poverty, giving donated items to those in need.The charity has welcomed more than 1,200 volunteers since its launch, with about 700 joining in 2024.Ms Capewell said the King's Award for Voluntary Service, which is equivalent to being appointed an MBE, helped bring extra credibility to the baby bank's work and made people more excited to join.
Two representatives of the charity will attend a garden party at Buckingham Palace in May."It's been a week of reflection for the team of what's happened over the last six years to get to the point where we've received an honour from the King," Ms Capewell said. "It's really incredible."
Love, Amelia has distributed more than 13,000 parcels to families in need over the past six years. "We don't want this work to be needed but for while there is poverty and hardship in the region we'll do absolutely do everything we can to support those families," Ms Capewell added.
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The Guardian
a day ago
- The Guardian
When they chose to die together, my grandparents wrote the final chapter of a love story spanning 70 years
In their final moments, Ron and Irene lay together in a single bed, soft smiles on their faces. They wore special shirts picked out for the occasion; his a cranky cockatoo print, and hers the same white and floral print blouse she wore to their 70th wedding anniversary a few months previously. The only sign of what was to come were the twin cannulas, one in each of their intertwined hands, with long thin tubes winding back behind the beds and out of sight. It had felt like an eternity to get here – the reality closer to three weeks – with countless possible pitfalls. But it was about to happen. Ronald and Irene were about to get their final wish; to die peacefully together. My grandparents met in South Hurstville in the 1950s. Irene defied her father's wishes and married at just 19. As the youngest of seven, she was expected to remain in the family home and care for her sickly mother. Ron, whose parents and older siblings migrated from London in the early 1930s, met her through a friend, and was smitten from first sight. The courtship was fast, but the love endured. They had four children in Sydney before moving the family unit to Port Macquarie in the 1960s. My mum speaks so warmly about her childhood, growing up on the banks of the Hastings River, days of sandy feet and salty hair. Streets where they knew the names of every neighbour, and afternoons spent prying oysters off river rocks to slurp down. In the decades between my mother's childhood and my own, my grandparents travelled Australia in a caravan, with long stints in Perth, Katherine and wherever else took their fancy. In the 1990s, they bought a small hobby farm in Unumgar, inland dairy country on the Queensland-New South Wales border. By this point, they had five grandchildren and set about turning the property into a kids' paradise. Ultimately they moved back to Port Macquarie, to spend their twilight years with the wider family. Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads I can't remember the first time my grandparents told me that they wanted to end their lives together. I felt like I'd always known, and to my surprise so did many others. In the lead up to them accessing voluntary assisted dying, we learned that they'd said it early and often to many people. Fiercely proud, Irene had nursed all her siblings through their final stages, seeing first-hand how painful the end of our lives can be. It was at least 10 years ago that she told me, vehemently, that when it was her time, she wanted to go her own way. Fate took away her sight first, with glaucoma making her almost totally blind, and then saddled her with a hideously cruel degenerative spinal condition. She'd lose dexterity and feeling in her hands and feet first, as her nerves were slowly crushed by the crumbling spinal discs, eventually leading to paralysis. She was tougher than an old boot, and barely let any of us see her pain – wrestling with my toddler even at the age of 90. In April, when the nerve damage turned into dysphagia and she could no longer eat, she decided it was time. 'I'm done,' she said. 'I've done everything I wanted to. I am ready to go.' NSW was the last state to legalise voluntary assisted dying, coming into effect in 2023. Each state has slightly different requirements, and it remains illegal in both the Northern Territory and Australian Capital Territory. Eligibility is strict; in NSW, a person must make three requests (two verbal, one written), be assessed by two separate physicians and a board, and, crucially, suffer from a terminal illness that is expected to cause death within six months. In the first seven months of legalised VAD in NSW, 1,141 people initiated a first request to access VAD and 398 patients died via the service. Irene's first assessment was tense. It was unclear whether the spinal condition would qualify as a terminal illness. Ron, overcome by the situation and his own myriad health problems, had a severe panic attack. These attacks were frequent, incapacitating him mentally and physically. One of the medical staff commented that he'd likely qualify easier than my Nan – and the room stood still. It felt like an obvious choice. A period of wonderment – would they really get their wish? Ron was crystal clear and adamant. He did not want to live without his love. They were ready to write the final chapter of a love story spanning seven decades. The next few weeks were incredibly stressful. They each had three stages to pass, in quick succession, with their primary physician walking a thin line in balancing medications to keep them comfortable without ever impairing their ability to make a clear choice. Any perceived impairment or loss of mental ability could disqualify them. For people in their 90s, that could be triggered by something as simple as a fever. My grandparents took it in their stride, instituting a daily happy hour – longtime friends and family could drop by from 4pm, for a last glass of 'bubbles'. Miraculously, Irene's dysphagia seemed to not include Australian sparkling wine. It was like a farewell tour, as they laughed and cried, treating nearly every visitor to their own rendition of Willie Nelson's On the Road Again, which they'd sing together with a smile, anticipating their final adventure together. My aunt made a last-minute, multi-leg journey from Western Australia to hold her parents' hands one last time. Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion Some people struggled. It had only been a few months earler that we'd celebrated their 70th anniversary in the rec room, with balloons and a giant slab cake. A volunteer played the guitar, and my grandfather crooned Too Young by Nat King Cole over the microphone. Despite this, they were unwavering and emphatic in their decision. They had a wonderful life, they had done everything they had ever wanted, and it was time to go. Once the NSW Voluntary Assisted Dying Board passed that final approval, the date was set. Arrangements were made. Final meals were requested; honey king prawns for him, spring rolls for her, from one of Port Macquarie's many Chinese-Australian restaurants. I have no idea how my mother, their primary carer and an absolute saint, managed the process of orchestrating not only the death of both her parents, but also wrangling all five of us grandkids together from across Australia. Even with the approvals in place, there were still hurdles to jump. There were last-minute psychological evaluations. Anecdotally, we'd been told only half of VAD cases actually go through with it – data from the states puts the number closer to 30-35%. What if one of them changed their mind at the last minute? The night before the final day, we all gathered in my parent's Port Macquarie house, sitting around the table with our Nan and Pop for one last meal. A blur of tears and laughter. Holding my Nan's soft wrinkled hand, and her convincing me that this is what they wanted. I felt like a little girl, crying and being comforted by my grandmother one last time. In a way, I felt as though I had pre-grieved, particularly when I took my husband and two boys to say farewell two weeks earlier. My three-year-old climbed up on my Pop's lap to share his plastic insect collection, and they talked at length about grasshoppers versus praying mantises. My Nan toggled her head around until she found the one pinpoint in her vision that still worked, fixed it on my husband, and told him to look after me. I could tell that day that they were so sure, so strong in their decision. They would never go back, not knowing it was what the other one wanted. They told me my boys were special, and destined for great things, and in that moment I broke. Maybe that's why on the day I could be strong. The 'event', as we called it, was scheduled for 10.30, and we started assembling in their room from 9.30am. My dad opened bottles of champagne, and we all had our final bubbles together. The kitchen staff of their assisted living facility wheeled in a trolley laden with finger sandwiches, caramel slices and tea and coffee provision. Willie Nelson played. It felt like a party. It was a party. Both my grandparents chose to die via medical assistance, rather than self-administer, requiring four medical personnel in the room. The two doctors shepherded us through the process with an endless amount of patience, empathy and care. They gently told us it was time, and Irene laid down next to Ron on the bed. The cannulas went in, the cords winding back and away, so the doctors could step back and allow us to be by their sides. Ron and Irene held hands. The music changed to a soft version of You Are My Sunshine. I sat next to my Pop and held his other hand, while my Mum, brother and cousins surrounded my Nan on the other side. I whispered the first line of a favourite childhood story, and he smiled, picking up and taking over, telling it to me one last time. My Nan made a highly inappropriate joke – terrifying us that it would be her last words – before chuckling, and saying: 'Here I go – love you all.' And then it happened. Calmly, quickly, with dignity. In a room full of love, with smiles on their faces and without any pain. We'd been told that hearing was the last sense to go, so we repeated I love you, I love you, I love you, until we were sure that they'd finally slipped away.
The Guardian
a day ago
- The Guardian
The moment I knew: she was giving birth to another man's child – I was in absolute awe
In 2018 I had just started lecturing in nursing at a university in South Australia. It was the start of the academic year and I was new to town, so a colleague and I decided to check out the open-day stalls. I'd been vegan for a few years and was hoping to meet some like-minded folk. A person in a Sea Shepherd hoodie pointed me in the right direction and I was immediately struck by this woman sitting in the middle of the stall. It's a moment captured in resin in my mind – there was a crowd of people and cupcakes on the table. I would say I was 13 paces away from Laura when I first clapped eyes on her. She was just breathtaking; smiling, happily chatting to people. She seemed to have this immense gravity to her and I could feel myself getting pulled into her orbit. I chatted to her and a few others and left the encounter absolutely stunned. No work got done for the rest of the afternoon. I didn't know what to make of it. It was a struggle to even accept she existed. I was in shock but I did my best to brush it aside. I was married at the time, but things weren't going well. I definitely wasn't looking for love, but I joined the Vegan and Vegetarian Club and we saw each other in passing over the next few months. During that time I discovered Laura was in a relationship too. Six months later I was going through a divorce and I learned Laura had also separated from her partner. But her situation was a lot more complicated; not only was she still living with her ex to care for their three-year-old, she was also five months pregnant. It sounds absurd to say, but these details felt peripheral to me. Such was the chemistry between us that we managed to turn the famously unsexy annual general meeting of the Vegan and Vegetarian Club into our first romantic encounter. We kissed by the campus lake and I was a goner. We agreed that whatever we were getting into was temporary. With a preschooler and baby on the way, and life as a single parent to get used to, a new partner was a convolution she didn't feel she needed. I knew I very much fell into the nice-to-have, not need-to-have category. I thought I was OK with that. I even tried to date other people. But being with Laura was like having the colours of the world turned up to 11. Every other encounter paled in comparison; I only had eyes for her. As her pregnancy progressed, I found myself helping her more and more. Each day we felt ourselves slipping into a relationship and each day she reminded me that we weren't serious. When her waters broke six weeks early, I was the one who took her to the hospital and helped advocate for her. The midwives weren't taking the situation seriously and from a professional perspective I knew they were dropping the ball. Eventually they conceded Laura was likely going to experience a preterm birth. The following days were intense, but I never left her side. In a gesture of what I'd like to think of as 'radical acceptance' – and much to Laura's chagrin – I installed a baby capsule in my car. Despite her protestations, I knew deep down I'd be the one to drive her and the baby home from hospital when the time came. Not long after that, she went into labour. If I thought I found Laura impressive before, watching her give birth sent my opinion of her stratospheric. By the time the staff agreed to check how she was progressing, she was 10cm dilated and ready to push. By that point her confidence with the staff was at such a low ebb she rejected their offer of a wheelchair and instead elected to walk herself up a flight of stairs to get to the birthing suite. I was in absolute awe. Our daughter was born shortly after. Once the pressures of having a baby in the neonatal intensive care unit had passed, I asked Laura when she wanted me out of the way. 'If I wanted you gone, you wouldn't be here,' she told me. 'I don't want you to go.' She was showing such vulnerability, and it wasn't easy for her. But in that moment I could see her own radical acceptance had hit home. I knew all too well I was madly in love; it turned out I wasn't the only one. Seven years later our blended family has grown to include two more children. In 2023 I proposed to Laura on national television. She said yes. Do you have a romantic realisation you'd like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian.
Daily Mail
3 days ago
- Daily Mail
How your dad says he loves you... without uttering those three words
It seems that fathers are not as good as mums at telling their offspring they love them. But researchers say they show their affection in rather more practical ways. These include lending cash, offering a taxi service and manning the barbecue, a poll found. Overall, 85 per cent of both men and women said their father is the first port of call when they need something. Most Britons say it's the small things their dad does – which also include making cups of tea or taking their cars to be fixed – that shows they truly care. The research, from flower delivery service Bloom & Wild, found one in three (33 per cent) say helping out with a much-needed emergency cash injection shows that dads care. The list of dad's love language gestures includes giving advice on practical things – such as which car to buy (22 per cent) – or looking after the grandchildren (22 per cent) and helping put up shelves or flat-pack furniture (19 per cent). Bringing you a cup of tea (29 per cent), taking your car to get fixed (20 per cent), mowing your lawn (15 per cent) and standing with you at the barbecue (17 per cent) are other key ways many dads continue to show love to their adult children, according to the 2,000 surveyed. The respondents to the survey said their top memories of their fathers included buying them sweets (41 per cent) and giving lifts to friends' houses (40 per cent). Jo Reason of Bloom & Wild which commissioned the poll to mark Father's Day next Sunday, said: 'We can see from the survey that dads express their love in ways that aren't always loud, but they are always meaningful. 'That's why, this Father's Day, we are celebrating the quiet, everyday acts of care that make dads special.' Some 91 per cent agree that, as they get older, they came to realise that their father was right about most things. The same percentage will be buying a present and card for their dad this Father's Day. This research was conducted by Perspectus Global last month.
