Gains and Losses

*~*~
prompt or not: "how i look"
aww ~ 8:45
*~*~

I used to have a flat belly. I don't anymore.

In my early twenties, I wore a size 4, later growing into a size 6, then a size 8, then a size 10, then a size 12, and now usually a size 14, sometimes 12, depending on how a garment is made.

Steroid intake over the last three years doesn't help my mid-line.

I'd be lying if I said I don't miss the days of my flat belly...or at least smaller waistline and smaller bust-line and smaller arms. Smaller and toned; my body used to have tone.

I joined the YWCA a couple weeks ago. When I joined I met with a lady on staff, Hazel, who weighed me, measured me, and calculated my Body Mass Index, BMI. My BMI is 28; my goal it to make it 25.

When measuring my thighs, Hazel states, "Your thighs are sure small." I had never had small thighs in my past; they used to be muscular.

Hazel and I discus my goals. My main goal is to build my strength and endurance. Due to nerve damage, my muscles have degenerated. Weight loss would be a side benefit; but I could use to lose 30 pounds. If ever I get strong enough to again take up backpacking, I'd want that 30 pounds to be my backpack, not my body.

I educate Hazel a little bit about nerve damage...that I cannot lift or bear weights. That I want to give pool exercises a try, especially for my arms. To see if they can once again take on some tone and gain strength.

Hazel and I discuss my eating habits.

"Gathering at the Store" 1000 pieces

"It's not that what I eat is unhealthy," I tell her. "It's that I eat too much. Especially at night. I've done better the last couple weeks - eating more consciously. And eating less at night. I recently built a jigsaw puzzle to occupy my hands at night instead of grabbing food."


"Well, let's make that your first goal," Hazel responds. "Don't eat after 8:00 PM."

"Okay," I reply thinking to myself...yeah right.

I have failed miserably. In fact, my mind totally rebelled against that goal. I was faring better before I made the no-eating-after-8:00-PM commitment.

What is this? I've asked myself. I make a commitment to not eat after 8:00 and now...my mind and taste buds have gone into overdrive. "Eat. Eat. Eat." Okay Carol, maybe you should make the cut off time 9:00? But, why do you even try? And with these steroids you take, how will you ever rid that belly tube? Only in first world countries do we have this problem of too much food.

I've felt more guilty about the abundance of food than about not keeping my no-eating-after-8:00-PM commitment.

The YWCA water exercise class I attend is fun; much laughter is shared. We get a good workout; I'm always tired afterward. I am probably the youngest person in the class; most are in their latter sixties and up into their eighties. Usually I am the only white person; most participants are black. The class usually has eight to ten participants. A few members have shared their stories as we have sat in the whirlpool after class. The group inspires me.

Class always ends with prayer. Willy, the instructor, calls us to form a circle in the pool. We hold hands, and he calls on someone to pray. People in the circle whisper, "Thank you Lord," and "Thank you Jesus." I am silent.

After the prayer, someone shares a joke for the day. The final note is lighthearted laughter.

If Willy ever asks me to pray, and I imagine he will, I'll have to decline. I no longer pray aloud in groups. I'm not even sure if a god is listening.

Gravity

*~aww, 4/16/14, it does not define me~*

Pepe and I arrived at the Muddy Creek Greenway. We parked in the small gravel parking area on Robinhood Road. Pepe sat beside me in the passenger seat as my copilot. He gazed out his window; I'm sure he was eager to walk and sniff and make his marks letting other critters know, Pepe was here!

He looked at me with his hazel eyes...filled with trust. "I love you too, Pepe," I responded.

I climbed out of the driver's side of the 1999 gray Ford Explorer. I walked around the vehicle and opened Pepe's door. "Stay," I commanded firmly as I donned my green parka and my multi-jewel-toned woven cotton scarf. The weather was cool today. Pepe obediently waited like he knew I had his safety in mind. I clasped his leash onto his collar, picked him up, and placed him all fours on the gravel. Pepe is a small dog, white and fluffy, probably some sort of miniature poodle mix. He reminds me of a little human boy, always in discovery mode.

We made our way down the small gravel parking area onto the paved Greenway. The Beatles were singing "here comes the sun" through my Bluetooth earpiece. The sky was crystal blue and the sun bright; the time was around 5:00 PM.

My body felt heavy as I moved along. Thoughts meandered through my mind.

The movie "Gravity" that I saw last night in 3D at the $2.50 theater - when Ryan Stone was losing oxygen; I could hear her wheeze. I could feel the fluid build up in her lungs. I know what that feels like...to not be able to breathe. When Ryan Stone was back on earth, after landing in the water and finally making her way to solid ground, her legs wouldn't work at first. I could feel that too...I know what it's like to pull myself out of the water wherein my limbs are buoyant and then non-buoyant as they hit the air. Neuropathy can cause one's limbs to feel so very heavy.

I joined the YWCA last week and started a water exercise program. On my first visit to my first water class, I climbed into the pool from a side wall, instead of using a ladder. I was instructed I need to use the ladder when getting in and out. At the end of my the class, I struggled while using the ladder as I climbed out of the water. My arms were barely strong enough to pull my body weight up as my non-buoyant body hit the atmosphere.

Pepe and I walked along the Greenway. Absorbed in my thoughts, I didn't notice the heaviness of body as much. Thoughts continued to meander.

I've again been pulled back into reading and thinking and conversing about and writing about cults. I wonder what some people think when they read my blog. Do they think I'm 'stuck' in my cult past? Does my past define me? I really don't like it when people say things like, "My illness does not define me," or "Such and such trauma does not define me."

My life lived defines me. That includes all of it...from jimson weed to my children to my marriage to my decades in The Way to the illnesses to my dream of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail.

I wish that was what defined me, that dream of thru-hiking the AT...that somehow the dream will turn into a reality.

More thoughts regarding Victor Barnard...and influence...and The Way...and...

On March 1, after learning about two young women that had come forward about their experiences with Victor Barnard and River Road Fellowship, I published a blog entry.

Victor Barnard again made the news this past week. As of April 11, 2014, Barnard is a wanted fugitive in a nationwide manhunt.

On April 15, at around 11:30 in the morning, I learned about Barnard's April 11 warrant. Apparently, the news had just been made public. At that time, I found only one article regarding Barnard's warrant; it stated he had 59 sexual misconduct charges against him. As the afternoon of April 15 rolled along, the media machine and world wide web got the information out to the public. Over the subsequent days, more details have been forthcoming. There has been a flood of articles and news clips.

I've read, and read, and read.

I've watched and listened.

I've weighed and Wayed...inside my heart and mind...weighing some of the similarities between Victor Barnard's abuses and past abuses of certain Way leaders. In the 1980s, Victor Barnard was associated with The Way International; he is a Way Corps 14 graduate.

And I've thought....

Victor Barnard used the scriptures to justify followers meeting the sexual needs of the "man of God."

Wierwille, The Way's founder, did the same; and Wierwille taught Martindale, Wierwille's successor. Certain top Way leaders had an inner circle teaching that adultery was okay; to my knowledge that part of Way history is still hidden from loyal Way followers. Wierwille taught that every woman under King David's rule belonged to the king. Wierwille taught that adultery with Bathsheba wasn't King David's sin; but rather, King David's sin was putting Uriah, one of "the mighty men of valor," on the front line of battle with hopes that Uriah would be killed.

And I've thought...

Victor Barnard quoted, "To the pure all things are pure," justifying his sexual atrocities.

I remember, as a young woman, sitting in the Big Top with over 1000 other committed believers in Word Over the World Ambassador training, intently listening as our "father in the Word," "Dr." Wierwille, stated something like, "No unbeliever's penis has any business being in a believer's vagina..." as he talked with us WOWs, his "kids," before we went "on the field to move the Word over the world." The Way taught "the age of grace" and "happy is he that condemneth not himself in that thing which he alloweth."

And I've thought...

Victor Barnard gave his "maidens" rings and gifts.

Kristen Skedgell shares in her memoir, Losing The Way, that Wierwille gave her a ring. Wierwille was married at the time; Kristen was young enough to be Wierwille's daughter. Kristen was presented her ring on the motor coach after one of her rendezvous with Wierwille. The ring came from a box that holds rings; some rings were still in the box among empty ring slots. Did other women whom Weirwille abused get rings too?

Victor Barnard would call a "maiden" to Barnard's lodge when Barnard wanted sex.

From what I've read and been told, Wierwille called women to his motor coach; Martindale called women to the Way Corps chalet in the Way Woods.

Victor Barnard instructed his "maidens" to tell no one about his sexual relations with them.

Wierwille taught the "lockbox;" there are things that a person doesn't share. Other believers may not be spiritually mature enough to understand certain situations. Some may not understand the freedom we have in Christ; such freedom might present a stumbling block to those less mature believers.

And I've thought...

Victor Barnard had his "maidens" take a salt covenant with him, that they would be loyal to him until death.

The Way teaches salt covenants are taken only on special occasions, for specific reasons. To break a salt covenant makes one worthy of death; to break a salt covenant means one's words are not salted. I took two salt covenants while in The Way; one at my wedding and another as part of a Way Advanced Class Advance. That Advance was held at a camp in Reidsville, North Carolina, in the summer of 1981. The Way didn't hold "Retreats," only "Advances."

Victor Barnard's sexual victims were underage females, a most heinous act.

As far as I know, that wasn't the case within most of the Way inner circle that engaged in sexual improprieties. Still, those Way inner circle leaders abused their power of trust. Such is not an affair; it is abuse.

And I've thought...

The Way isn't responsible for Barnard's actions anymore than the Seventh Day Adventist Church is responsible for Koresh's actions.
Or am I incorrect on that?
I mean...how much influence did The Way have on Victor Barnard's morphing into what he has become?
Or was Barnard always that way...simmering beneath?
But then Koresh is a few generations removed from the Seventh Day Adventist Church; whereas, Barnard is like a direct offspring of The Way International.
Without Way influence, would Barnard have committed these same or similar acts?
I know we'll never know for sure.

___

Links to posts on toss & ripple about Barnard:
3/01/14: Victor Barnard and River Road Fellowship
4/19/14: More thoughts regarding Victor Barnard...and influence...and The Way...and...
8/18/2014: Victor Barnard: "Preaching Lies" to air on "The Hunt," Sunday, August 24, 2014
2/28/15: Victor Barnard is apprehended in Brazil...
6/11/17: Docudrama: "Deliver Us From Evil"
___

Staying Alive

prompt or not: "staying alive"
aww ~ 4/16/14
****

A year ago, in April, 2013, I wrote a poem entitled PN.

I gave it that title because I didn't want people to think I'm a complainer or a dismalist or a whiner or a downer-in-the-mouth. If I give the poem a title explaining exactly what I am referring to, people might think I'm attention seeking or playing the victim card.

I posted the poem online, in a support forum for people suffering with PN, that is peripheral neuropathy. One of the responses came from a man who suffers with this dastardly disease; he stated something to the effect that this illness does not have to define our lives.

My immediate internal response was, He's right. I *shouldn't* allow this illness to define me. I *shouldn't* be negative; I need to be hopeful. Mine was a knee-jerk internal reaction, like an automatic reflex programmed from somewhere deep in my brain. I'm wrong; he's right. Am I allowing this illness to define me? I didn't publicly respond with a comment, but I did click the "like" thumbsup button, because I felt I *should*...that I *should* be more positive.

The man then posted a response poem - words to encourage. I felt he was trying to help me out of a gutter. But I hadn't asked for help, had I? I don't even know if I was in a gutter. And even if I was, so what.

****
PN

Some days it burns
Some days it aches

Every day it lingers
Every day it weakens
Every day it exacts

A toll

Quarters
Tokens
Tolls
Accessing parkways to meander
Accessing highways to faster

But this toll
Accessing fatigue that drains
Accessing despair that pines for death

I just do not know
if I have what it takes
to pay this toll

My pouch approaches bankruptcy
Time for a loan

4/11/13
me
****

Waiting for a sign?

Hahaha...

This came across my computer screen yesterday.

A sign! Two, three, four, five signs!

I like these kind of signs.

Losing Touch

prompt or not: "losing touch"
aww ~ april 9, 2014
****

My mind swirls when I think of the phrase "losing touch."
Of Dad in the 1980s and 1990s. Living as a quadriplegic with no sense of feeling from his shoulders, down his torso, into his groin and thighs and knees and calves and ankles and feet and toes. For thirteen years, his body never responded with startles to our touch when we would physically clothe him and change his external condom catheter and put his socks and shoes on his feet and position him in his chair or in his bed. Sometimes his legs would jerk, but not because he felt our hands; his limbs would simply spasm. Sometimes he'd laugh and say something like, "Watch out there!"

My mind swirls when I think of the phrase "losing touch."
Of my own body back in May, 2011. My limbs turning to rubber as this damnable disease of neuropathy invaded my nerve tissue, squelching its sensitivity and ability to perform; wreaking havoc on my muscles, depleting them of strength. At at that time, my body and mind waking in the mornings as my eyes would open with a blink and I'd be faced with immediate fear. Oh god, another day. I wonder how well my legs will work this morning. For balance, I would reach for the bookcase beside the bed; I refused to use a walker. My arms weak, my hands feeling so very heavy like I was wearing boxing gloves, though I'd never worn boxing gloves. I despise this illness with a passion.

My mind swirls when I think of the phrase "losing touch."
Of Mom in the 2000s. In her catatonic state sitting in the chair beside her hospital bed, her eyes glaring at me as if I was the devil himself, though she had no knowledge of herself at the time. I had to remind myself she wasn't there, in her mind. Even when she bluntly stated, "Take off my glasses." Those were her only words for what seemed months but was probably only weeks.

My mind swirls when I thinking of the phrase "losing touch."
Of my own 15-year-old mind and body in 1974. Possessed by the terror of datura stramonium, jimson weed, the devil's weed. Hallucinations in full 3D. Rape in an open stadium. Institutionalized in a circular asylum. Black cock roaches crawling my body in a flesh feast. Witch doctors dancing round and round my bed. A secret world where I only was on the inside.

My heart grieves when I think of the phrase "losing touch."
Of my own dream, now at 54 years old in 2014, to thru-hike the 2184 miles of the Appalachian Trail. My call of the wild. My high school dream that I first gave up in my early 20s. Gave it up to serve God and then had to let it go because of decades struggling to survive my own internal drowning fluids. A dream resurrected in 2010. Perhaps a silly and superficial dream, but still...a journey I often find myself longing for. I haven't totally given up the dream. But slowly I'm letting it go to the realm of never-to-be-fulfilled. I think something in me hopes that if I let go the dream...maybe, somehow, it will find me again...

Going Outside

prompt or not: going outside
aww ~ 04/09/14
*****

Today, I walked alone downtown, making my way from Holly and Poplar up to Fourth Street where Mellow Mushroom is located across from the indie cinema, Aperture. I had a craving for some Mellow pizza.

I felt somewhat foreign among the people on the sidewalks - foreign but alive.

I usually walk trails and woods, not city sidewalks.

I thought, I am among the living; they have community. I don't feel I fit, but I'm comfortable with not fitting. Maybe I should do this more often.

Worst Case Scenarios

prompt or not: "it's not over"
aww ~ 4/02/14
*****

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Hubby had gone to bed at his regular hour around 9:15 pm. Before laying down he helped me undress my upper torso, carefully and gently pulling my shirt up over my head and arms and then doing the same with my bra. He placed both items of clothing on one arm of the wooden coat tree in the corner of our bedroom along with other male and female garments straddling the tree arms. From the coat tree, Hubby retrieved my purple, long, tank top night shirt. Hubby lifted my arms and gently pulled the night shirt over them and down my upper torso.

The past week had been rough physically. The weakness and pain in my limbs exhausted me. Usually I didn't ask Hubby to help me dress and undress; I push through the pain and then rest to regain strength after clothing myself...though my strength seldom felt gained. But the past few days, I was tired of pushing.

I crawled into our king size bed around 11:00 PM. I got positioned while grunting and mumbling. "Damn it," I whispered while working with my weak and painful limbs. "Okay there," I responded with a whisper. Between my whispers, I breathed deeply feeling that somehow the breaths would help me deal with the pain and weakness and give me energy and strength to get situated. Hubby stayed fast asleep to the left side of my body.

I lay on my back with my eyes closed, unable to fall asleep.

I get my shots tomorrow. What if they don't work this time? And even if they do, what do I do when the effects wear off again? What if I'm getting worse? What if the neuropathy is progressing? What if I loose functions in all my limbs?

Visions went through my head of life as an invalid; of the strain it would put on the family - the financial struggles, the emotional struggles, the mental struggles. I lived those struggles up close and personal helping care for dad when he was a quadriplegic. Day in and day out; day in and day out. I knew the details.

I can't. I can't. I can't do that to my family. If somehow, I could be put in a nursing home and be cared for, I could accept that. If it could be done without breaking us financially. But no way, no way could I put so great a burden on Hubby...to have to care for me as an invalid at home. How could we pay for me to go somewhere without losing all our savings? Maybe we could divorce on paper; that way our money would be legally separated and I'd qualify quickly for Medicaid.

My thoughts and mental images continued as I lay in bed, in the dark, eyes closed, the clock ticking toward the midnight hour.

I'd rather die than to burden Hubby and the kids with my care. I could go to another state that has right to die laws, assisted suicide. I don't like the term "suicide" for right to die. It's not suicide...it's assisted death. I have to think of it like that...not suicide, but rather death...on my terms.

What about the guilt that would lay on my family? I would have to assure them somehow that it is my decision. That I blame them in no way. But I know that wouldn't stop the guilt. Which would be worse? Them having to care for their invalid wife and mother...or me making an exit on my own terms?

What about a funeral? I have no church or even really a social group. I want my body donated to science and the rest of the remains burned. Then I'd want my ashes spread along the Appalachian Trail at Grayson Highlands, with the feral ponies, and with the tokens I buried there for Alex, the aborted life from my womb. Hubby and Son and Daughter could read one of my poems...maybe "A Child's View."

There would need to be another memorial for the family and friends that don't hike; there needs to be some sort of closure for others. Folks could come to our house, and order a pizza and share stories. Maybe some of my stories, written by my own hand could be read. It wouldn't be a big crowd; I don't have many close friends or relatives. I wouldn't want a big crowd even if I did have lots of close friends and relatives.

How cowardly Carol, to want to choose death over disability. Lots of people live with disabilities; what a coward. But I have no fight left; I'm just too tired. I don't have any fight left; I just don't.

As I lay in the dark on the right side of the king size bed, I felt literally scared. I often think in worst case scenarios because then, if I can accept those, all roads lead up from there.

How ironic that just three weeks ago I was thinking, more like daydreaming, about thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail...planning in my mind how to pack my supply boxes for Hubby to ship to me. How I'd pick up those boxes from the drop stations and then pack leftover contents and drop ship to my next stop where I'd repeat the process.

I rolled over in bed, feeling like a fish floundering as my arms flopped with my grunts as the pain would shoot through my biceps. I spooned against Hubby's backside flopping my right arm over his torso. "Hubby," I whispered through tears, "I'm scared. And I'm so sorry." I had said I'm sorry hundreds of times the past week.

Hubby awoke with those kind of guttural and sighful sounds that people make when being awoken out of sleep.

"It's okay," he gently responded. "You have nothing to be sorry about. This is important. Let me rouse myself and we'll talk a bit."

Church of Wells ...when the doubts arise...

The Church of Wells (CoW) located in Wells, Texas, was featured last night on ABC's Nightline Prime. Links to that Nightline Prime report are listed at the end of this blog entry.

I hope that the ABC Nightline Prime exposure will put that last bit (and enough) doubt in, at least, some Church of Wells followers' minds and hearts to make the break....as scary as it might feel for them to make an exit.

With that in mind, following is an excerpt from some dialog that I shared in some personal correspondence last week. I'm posting the following excerpt just in case, a Church of Wells doubting member takes the chance to google search the "Church of Wells" and by some slight chance finds this blog entry. I figure the more exposure, the better...especially for the current CoW followers that are having doubts.

[Note: The excerpt below was not written in regard to the Church of Wells, but the same issues often apply when one is considering (often with great fear) an exit from a coercive group.]

[Begin excerpt]
...Every person's exit is individual...depending on the person's depth of involvement, length of time involved, local leadership (regarding larger groups which then meet in more local contexts of smaller groups), the person's own temperaments, and I'm sure other factors that I can't think of now. With all that in mind, following are some factors that I was confronted with. I know other former cult members have had similar, if not the same, experiences on one level or another.

Fear..."Who can I trust "out there?" "Where can I turn?" "How can I leave my spiritual family?" "Will I become 'mark and avoid'?" "How will I hold my own family (husband and children) together?" And on and on. I can list lots more of the fears. Who can I trust beyond the group was HUGE for me, and I know it has been the same for others.

Once a person decides to exit, s/he might exit via a "splinter" group of the larger org...via others who have defected. And the person may continue with that splinter group the rest of their lives. But, in that case, tactics are at least eased. Shunning being one of the first tactics to go. Once the 'walkaway' knows s/he can trust someone; that trust will grow toward others. They will learn that the larger world is not a place lurking with devil spirits or suppressive persons in every corner, but rather a place filled with diversity...some of that diversity includes things to beware and much of it things to investigate and some to embrace.

Once a person exits, s/he is also quite vulnerable for a time, depending on many factors including the ones listed previously. S/he may at some point jump wholeheartedly into activism in an anti-cult-type arena. And that may be great for them. But, certain anti-cult groups can be harmful as well.

After a person exits, s/he may experience overwhelming grief and loss...and miss their former group and/or belief system...both which gave them great purpose. There would have been what seemed wonderful and genuine experiences in the group. If all was bad, in all likelihood, the former member wouldn't have stayed with the group. If the person can learn to embrace the loss and not stuff it and learn to incorporate that loss into their life experiences, health awaits on the other side. ...
[End excerpt]

For CoW members wanting to know where to turn, but not sure...following is one avenue (set up specifically for CoW members) that may be helpful. (Note: I am not associated with the following email or phone number. I found it online.)

churchofwellsexitplan@hushmail.com and 206-984-6859



[I don't live near Wells and am not friends with anyone involved with the Church of Wells. Due to my past and due to interest in cultic groups and due to the fact that this group is so young (as a group and in the ages of the leaders and members), I took an interest in middish-March and have been reading CoW's website (mainly the testimonies and rebuttals) along with other news articles.]

Links to the ABC Nightline Prime feature on the Church of Wells:
Part 1: Church of Wells: Tracking Down Controversial Religious Group
Part 2: Church of Wells: Searching for Answers
Part 3: Church of Wells: Confronting the Elders

Links to my blog posts regarding Church of Wells:
Church of Wells: I see no good end ....
More thoughts regarding the Church of Wells...and The Way...and us humans...and...
Church of Wells ...when the doubts arise...

Going Home

aww ~ march 23, 2014
non-subject: going home
***

November, 2013.

I received a voice mail from one of my former pet sitting clients.

"Hey Carol; this is Melanie. I realize you had to downsize your business back in August due to health issues, and I hope you are feeling better. But we've had something happen and I'm wondering if maybe you could help us out."

There was a pause in the voice mail, and then Melanie's voice continued with a slight tremor like she was holding back tears. "There's been a death in the family. If you are able to give me a call, I'd appreciate it. I have a new cell number." She left her new number on the voice mail.

Melanie's family owned five chihuahuas, a boxer, and a cat. They lived in another county and the drive to their home was out of my normal service area; I charged a bit extra due to the distance.

The elderly boxer, Cayman, had some health issues and sometimes would refuse his medication. I'd have to coax him with different foods in order to get him to swallow his pill. Sometimes he could be downright stubborn. Due to his age and failing health, he could get ornery. His forever growing-back cataracts could make him look scary. Yet, at heart, Cayman was a sweet dog, and I loved him.

The chihuahuas were entertaining, to say the least. Rascal would bark during much of my entire visit. Sometimes Rocky and Pita and Tanner would join in with Rocky making a chorus of yaps. Pita was the only one that ever really warmed up to me, wanting me to pick her up and love on her. She'd hop on her back feet, clap her front paws, and smile.

Mojo, the long-haired cat, stayed in the master bedroom with the door closed away from the canine crew. He was an affectionate cat and had the longest cat whiskers I'd ever seen.

I returned Melanie's call.

"Hey Carol," she answered the phone. "Thanks for calling back."

"Sure," I replied. "I heard your voice mail."

"Phillip died," she responded bluntly.

I was stunned. I had expected that maybe a grandparent had died or someone elderly. But not her 40-something year old husband.

Hearing her news, I immediately thought of another client who, some months earlier, had told me over the phone that one of their twin babies had recently died. When that other client had told me about the death of their almost-one-year-old twin, I felt time stop. The fragility of life so stark. Such news is sobering, shocking, unexpected, unbelievable.

"Oh my gosh Melanie; I am so sorry," I responded feeling a pit in my stomach and a hole in my heart. There was silence for a moment.

"When did it happen? If you don't mind me asking." I inquired, trying to be sensitive.

"In August," she said. Another pause.

"Do you want to share what happened?" I gently asked, not knowing quite sure what to say, yet wanting to acknowledge her pain.

Her voice quivered as the story poured out for the next twenty minutes.

Phillip had a heart condition, which was discovered back when he was in college and played basketball for Appalachian State. At that time, he underwent surgery and was told he'd need another surgery when he got older. He had the second surgery some 18 years later in his latter 30s and was told he wouldn't need the surgery again. With medical advancements since his first surgery, this second surgery had permanently fixed the heart malfunction.

Within a year or so of the second surgery, he noticed his heart beat would speed its pace, which was one of the symptoms of the condition which had been permanently fixed. But every time he went to get it checked, he was told all was normal...that he was just having some anxiety over it.

This happened off and on for a couple years...until August, 2013.

One night in August, like any other normal week night, Melanie and Phillip went to bed. Melanie awoke in the dark wee morning hours; Phillip was not in bed. She arose and went to the other room where she found Phillip seated. He was having the symptoms again. Melanie checked his pulse and it was a bit fast; she suggested they go to the hospital just to rule out anything bad. But Phillip declined and said it was okay; the symptoms were the same that he'd been having and every time he'd go get it checked, nothing was wrong.

Phillip and Melanie went back to bed. Phillip fell into a deep sleep. But Melanie, who was in nursing school, couldn't rest well. Drifting in and out of sleep, she checked Phillip's pulse rate throughout the dark morning hours. His pulse was normal each time she checked it.

Then around 5:30 AM the alarm went off.
Phillip sat straight up in bed.
Hollered three times while grabbing his chest.
And then fell out of bed onto the hardwood floor.
His heart had stopped.

Melanie grabbed her phone and called 911 as she rushed around to his side of the bed and began CPR. She performed CPR for thirty minutes until the ambulance arrived. Phillip came back to life momentarily and said, "I love you," and then died as Melanie tried to bring him back.

Kevin, Melanie and Phillip's five year old son, was in his room in the back of the house. Melanie thought Kevin would not have heard anything until the ambulance arrived. After the medics arrived, Melanie entered Kevin's room. His first words were, "Is Daddy dead?"

As Melanie told me the story, I sat on my end of the phone with tears trickling down my cheeks.

We talked a bit more about how she and Kenneth and the animals in the family were holding up and what her plans were.

She was moving back to her home place to be near her family in South Carolina. She was in process of building a small home on her family's land. She wondered if I was able to help with the pets until she could move at the beginning of April, 2014.

This upcoming last weekend of March, 2014, will be my final visit with the crew.
I'll see the 5 chihuahuas - Rocky, Pita, Rascal, Tanner and Lola.
I'll see the cat, Mojo.

But I won't see Cayman, the boxer.
He died within the last couple weeks.