Family.

We’re nothing without family.

A truth so many of us forget as life takes over.

But for me, I count myself as one of the lucky ones, having grown up surrounded by mine.

A close-knit clan, made up of four uncles, umpteen cousins, and endless Sundays spent at my granny’s.

I was the second oldest of the grandchildren, and having only ever spent time with my dad’s side of the family, I suppose it’s no surprise I felt most connected to them.

The youngest of my dad’s brothers was my uncle Brian – or as I like to call him, uncle B. He was the big kid of the bunch. The one who would buy us candle-making kits, sand art, and all kinds of retro craft magic to keep us entertained when we were younger.

He also made a pretty good spaghetti bolognese back in the day – a detail that definitely helped boost his “favourite uncle” ranking.

And, even when I got older, and outgrew the crafts, he took me along on family days out with my auntie and cousins – often to the beach, the amusement park, or anywhere promising a bit of fun. And he always delivered.

Then there’s my uncle Alastair, the second youngest, and a man of many traits: the joker, the critic, the agent (sporting or otherwise)… and above all else, the biggest champion of all his nieces and nephews.

He’s got a certain knack for ending up in ‘unique’ situations – usually daft, always hilarious, and exactly why we love him. He also has a tendency to dole out ‘pep’ talks, whether we want them or not, often focusing on our future goals and what careers we should follow. Although I guess his advice isn’t too bad… he was the one who always said I should write this story.

Alec is next – he’s also my godfather. A role that fits him well, given his faith and kindness. He’s probably the most sensible of the four (not that it’s a high bar), though he still manages to bring a healthy dose of silliness to life.

He’s the one who took me to Sunday School and church all those years ago, hoping I’d soak up some of the stories and songs, and find faith in something greater.

For now, the jury’s still out on whether any of it stuck – something about getting cancer at 23 and not exactly feeling the love from the big guy upstairs put a dampener on it all! But, in spite of this, I’ve always admired the strength of faith he and my auntie hold, and the comfort it brings them daily.

Last but not least is Stephen – the oldest of my dad’s brothers, and the one who taught me what hard work really means.

My uncle Stephen is the Del Boy of Ballymena. And because of him, I spent many a weekend reluctantly helping him on his market stall – reluctantly, because it meant early mornings and long days on my feet.

At the time, I hated it. But now I see it for what it was: a lesson in graft.

Eventually, he set up a shop in town and gave me my first ‘proper’ job - selling party supplies on Thursday evenings and weekends.

A chair and some central heating? Much preferred to a muddy market stall.

But through it all, the heart of my childhood was always Granny’s house.

She was one of my favourite people – a little nutty, often forgetful, and always offering you biscuits (usually out-of-date) even when you’d just had three.

With my mum’s dad living in England, she was really the only grandparent I had present whilst growing up – and I loved her with all my heart.

I’d visit her most Saturdays – a perk of having her live just across the road – and we’d spend the evenings watching Cilla Black help the UK’s loveless bag themselves a blind date, or episodes of Stars in Their Eyes – with fully grown men dressed up as Meat Loaf and women sincerely believing they were the next Celine Dion.

But Sundays? Sundays were for the family.

Uncles, aunties, cousins – all squeezed into her small, slightly-too-hot living room.

On these days, you couldn’t hear yourself think, let alone get a word in, but it didn’t matter.

We were all together.

Therefore, when the years passed, and I crossed the Irish Sea to Scotland for university, it felt strange no longer being at home.

Of course, all of us grandchildren were older now, so Sundays at Granny’s had grown quieter and less frequent.

But still, I missed them while being away.

I missed bumping into one family member or another when in the town.

I strangely missed people knowing who I was and that I was a Neilly girl.

And every time they planned a BBQ or a trip to Carnfunnock – a gorgeous country park along the Antrim coast – I’d feel a pang of homesickness, wishing I could be there too.

So when I was diagnosed, it was my dad who had to break the news.

To his brothers.

To my granny.

To everyone back home.

And just like his reaction that first morning in hospital, theirs has stayed with me – not because I saw it first-hand,  but because of the stories I’ve heard since; stories that still break my heart to hear. 

Maybe it’s because they’re all cut from the same cloth – strong-willed Northern Irish men.

Hardy. Resilient. Proud.

Traits they earned years before I or any of the others had come along.

Men who lost their own dad – my grandad – to cancer when they were still figuring out who they were.

But once the shock wore off, they didn’t hesitate.

They got organised.

They made plans.

They figured out how to show up – even from hundreds of miles away.

They checked in daily.

They updated friends and extended family.

They joined Liz on her mission to scale ridiculous hills.

They fundraised. They rallied.

And thanks to some uninspired teasing from my dad, they would also eventually give me the deeply mortifying title of Lauren Bucket – thanks to my face and name being plastered on collection tins and... you guessed it... buckets across Ballymena.

Thanks again, dad!

But really, what I’m trying to say is this:

I’ve always been proud of my name.

I’ve always been proud of my brilliant, yet slightly mad family.

But watching my uncles rally – calling, climbing, fundraising, showing up – took that pride to a whole new level.

They couldn’t take the cancer away.

They couldn’t fix what was happening.

But they made damn sure we never felt alone.

Even if that meant the occasional Sunday FaceTime from my granny’s – the whole family crowded round, shouting over one another, trying to fit into the frame.

I guess, in hindsight, if having my face on buckets was the price of that kind of love?

I can live with that.

(Though next time, someone really needs to pick a better photo!)