My First Girlfriend

 I remember my first girlfriend. We were in first grade so we were about 5 or 6 years old. Her name was Lucy Anderson and her dad owned Andersons's Department Store in downtown Independence, Iowa. Lucy sat behind Mary who sat behind me. One day I asked Mary how to spell her name. Then I wrote a note and gave to her to pass on to Lucy that said, " Will you mary me." I honestly don't remember her response but I like to think she said yes.

Hardest Run

 Into my trucking years, I remember my hardest run from West Glacier, Montana to Winona, Minnesota and home to Cedar Falls. I left West Glacier on a Thursday morning, say around 8 o'clock with a load of lumber, I delivered in Winona Friday afternoon sometime before 5 in the afternoon and was home, sitting in a bar sipping a beer, at 8 o'clock Friday night. Total miles around 1,500. I did stop and slept a couple hours (maybe 4).

My First Car

 It was Spring or Summer of 1975. I was 18 years old. I remember my first car was a 1966 Chevy Impala station wagon. Really. It's what I wanted. It was a kind of a  tan color like sand, with a white roof. I paid $600 for it plus I paid a local artist $200 to air-brush paint a desert scene on the side windows. It was 2 speed automatic on the tree and I cut off the shifter handle and replaced it with a Budweiser tap handle. With the mag wheels I put on it, it looked pretty decent. The factory radio was AM only so I bought an AM-FM radio with an 8 track player and mounted it inside the glove box so it wasn't visible to thieves. That didn't help though. While I was at the Cattle Congress (it's like a carnival) someone broke the wing vent, unlocked the door, pried the glove box door open and  ripped it out. It was a good car though. It took me and my friend Marty to LA and San Diego and back to Cedar Falls. Though the rear main seal failed on the way out there so we spent most our time there replacing it. A couple years later I traded it for my brother's 2-door olds cutlass. Rusty with torn up seats but still a good runner.

They Call Them "Accidents" For a Reason

 Somewhere, sometime, for some unknown reason, the subject of motor vehicle accidents came up and this person I was talking to profoundly explained why they are called accidents. "Otherwise they would be called "On Purposes", he explained. That analogy has stuck with me ever since.

So as a truck driver with close to 2.5 million accident-free miles, I have seen my share of accidents. Mostly after the fact, in the clean up stage, and a few times in circumstances as such, that I was unable to assist with aid in any way. 

I do remember being first upon a single motor vehicle accident early one morning, The morning sun was just breaking way to the darkness. The driver of a car some ways ahead of me, apparently fell asleep and drove into the ditch rolling several times. We were in far western Nebraska on I-80 just miles from eastern Wyoming border. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road, grabbed by blanket, and sprinted to the crash scene. The morning air was chilly explains why I thought to grab a blanket. Arriving at the scene, I found the 2 occupants conscience and in shock. One was just sitting there on the side of the ditch, just staring. He had what appeared to be a miner cut on his forehead that was dripping blood. The other was nearby and screaming in pain. Looking closer, I could see his nose was nearly ripped off his face and his right arm was bent and broken in such a way I could not describe it. I did my best to get him to lie down and be still so I could cover him up with the blanket. By this time, another truck driver had stopped and was assisting keeping the 2 victims calm and warm. Out in the middle of nowhere and long before cell phones, we hoped help would come soon. And it did. Within minutes, a state trooper arrived and a paramedic unit soon after. I reported to the trooper what I was told by the person with a cut head, that he was a hitchhiker and they had been driving all night and he assumed the driver fell asleep because the next thing he remembers was sitting in the ditch watching a cloud of dust settle on the crashed car in the ditch.

No. I left my blanket and never got it back.

Swim Lessons

I remember as a small child of 7 or 8 years old taking swimming lessons at the municipal pool. There were certain steps or skills that had to be learned before being allowed to pass through to the rank of those being allowed to swim in the deep end of the pool. First step, I remember, was holding your breath under water for 10 seconds. Piece of cake. The instructor directed me to go to the next group. So I moved to the group right next to us for the second step which was face floating for 10 seconds. Again, easy peasey. Again, the instructor told me to move on to the next group for back floats. My heart sank. Tried and try as I did, I couldn't master the back float. After several attempts, the instructor told me to go to the end of the line and keep practicing. Time was running out and swim lessons would be ending soon. When the instructor was busy with a different student, I slipped over to the next group, which was dog-paddling. Since nobody was keeping track of who was passing the various skills and who belong to which group, it was naturally assumed by the next instructor that I had passed the back float and was ready for dog-paddle, which I already knew and easily passed on to the next group before swim lessons ended for the day.

I'm a fairly competent swimmer nowadays and feel very comfortable and able to swim a great distant. I was even on the diving team in high school - though not very good at that. But, I still cannot back float.

School Bus Hotel

 

I remember I was about 18 years old, hitchhiking, and found myself in this tiny little town in northern Missouri, where it was the home base for a traveling county fair/carnival that I came to know of the summer before, but that's another story. So, I came to this town looking to get hired by the carnival and travel with them for the summer. I needed a place to sleep for the night and I'm walking down this street downtown. There's a line of little kids waiting to get into the movie theater. I asked one of the kids if there is a motel in town or someplace I can sleep. He said no but I could sleep in their clubhouse which was an old, converted school bus. One of them broke away from the line and led me to old, converted he showed me this his old school bus in the back yard. He assured me his parents wouldn't mind me sleeping there. A couple hours later the kid and several of his friends came back from the movie and thought I might be hungry for something to eat. They all chipped in and got me popcorn, a candy bar, and a cup of soda pop. I'm thinking that's pretty cool of these kids to do this. And their dad comes out a little bit later and kind of checks with me and says his kids told him some guy is sleeping out here and just wanted to see what's going on. I explained to him that I hitchhiked here, and I was going to go to work for the carnival the next day and there's no other place to sleep. He said it's cool. So, I slept there and got up the next morning and changed my mind. Turned around and hitchhiked home again.

Baking by Phone

 I remember several years ago when I lived in Fargo. Computers were new-not everyone had one. Cell phones were dreams only developers had. It was one of those dreary Saturday or Sunday afternoons I was hangin out in my apartment cleaning, watching movies and on this particular day, baking fudge brownies. Now I'm not an experienced cook by any means but these brownies were going to be the cure for my munchies. Peering through the tarnished oven door wondering if they were done, the phone rings. I could tell it was a much older lady as she asked for so-and-so. I politely told her she had the wrong number but, "I am baking brownies. Can you tell me how to tell if they're done or not?" "Why yes", was her reply. "Stick a fork or toothpick in the center and if it comes out clean, the brownies are done."
No names were exchanged. Nothing else was said. We hung up, both feeling a little better than moments before. Sometimes it really is the small things that make a difference.

My First Thanksgiving Away From Home

 I just finished Thanksgiving 2024. Memories of my first Thanksgiving alone passed through my mind most the day so tonight, I remember exactly what I was doing the day of Thursday November 23, 1978. I was on my way to Philadelphia. It was late afternoon when I got underway. I was driving a 1976 cabover Kenworth, faded green and white, with only the bare basic interior and pulling a 40 foot refrigerated semi trailer loaded with 40,000 of Spam. The name "Ellsworth" was on the side. Ellsworth was 1 of a couple trucking companies willing to hire new inexperienced drivers. I had just turned 22 years old, fresh out of trucking school where I graduated with a 98% grade; best ever in that class of anyone. I was long-haired, bearded, cowboy boots and cowboy hat, country boy kind of kid because that is the image I saw truck drivers as being. I soon learned it wasn't so common as TV made it out to be. Definitely not Smokey and the Bandit. I don't remember having a CB radio but I do remember the am\fm radio barely worked. The engine was cut back to 55mph, and that was downhill with the wind behind me and rode rough as a buckboard from the 1880's. 

I clearly remember the bumpy, hilly, drive across Wisconsin in the nighttime rain. I don't remember much more after that until my delivery. After unloaded, my next load was to be M&M's from Hershey. PA to East St. Louis. I got lucky finding the Hershey plant, loaded up with 40,000 pounds of M&M's and the gave me 2 giant bags of M&M chocolates and M&M Peanuts to snack on during the drive. I next remember having difficulty finding the warehouse in East St. Louis and driving in circles until I stumbled upon it.

I remember my next load was some kind of oil in drums from East St. Louis to Minnesota. When I got to the place to load, it was a blind back into the narrow dock off a small busy street. Being new, I can see I would spend forever trying to get backed in, IF I could at all. Fortunately for me there was a seasoned driver already there waiting to get loaded. We talked for a bit and he listened as I told of my fears and doubts of trying to get it backed up to the dock and asked him to hold up traffic while I tried. Nice guy took the sob story and offered to back it in for me. OK, that's not how it went. I gave him this sob story of being new and not good at backing at all and offered him $20 if he would back it in for me. He expertly backed it in to the dock like he had done it a hundred times before. Wow.. My jaw dropped and my eyes bulged out a little. This man was my hero and he refused to take my $20 too. Back north to the truck terminal in Eagle Grove, Iowa. Round trip; Minnesota to 2 stops in PA , then to St. Louis for 2 stops, then back to Iowa where I fought a snow storm and was probably one of the last trucks that would fit in the truck stop the night before I was to make it back to the terminal; 3 weeks, about 2,600 miles. I was beat and tired. and Broke. I went home and stalled for time until my paycheck came. $300 plus the $150 I drew for expenses on the road. I was hurt and disillusioned. Think about it. $450 for 3 weeks pay in a truck that pounds and bounces the common sense right out of you and only 2600 miles. I should be doing that in 1 week. I called and quit on the spot. It was less than a week later I met up with one of the instructors from the truck program who told me of a company called Elliott Brothers that needed a driver and he knows them and would put in a good word for me. I started work for Elliott Bros. Truck Lines the first week after Christmas 1978 in a shiny cab-over Kenworth with premium interior and painted green and yellow, like a Crayola box, and tops out at 72 mph. I like it there. They gave me a chance and I learned a lot and became good at my job. I was there for about 5 years pulling a flatbed with 4 foot grain sides and a tarp - commonly called "Covered Wagons" hauling bulk grain from Iowa to grain barges in Hennepin, IL and international ships in Chicago, then load steel back to the likes of John Deeres, Maytag, Lennox, and Waterloo Industries to name a few,

Ill probably elaborate on other memories with Elliott as they come up. It was there my love for truck driving intensely developed and I was recognized at being good at my job.

More later

Paradox

 First, let me say this is not my works. I remember many, many years ago I had this memorized and often recited it amongst friends. So how many years is many many? I honestly don't remember what time frame it was. My best guess would be my late teens to early 20's.

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

    Ladies and gentlemen, hobos and tramps, cross-eyed mosquitoes, and bow-legged ants, I come before you to sit behind you and tell you a story I know nothing about. Admission is free, so pay at the door, pull out a chair, and sit on the floor

One sunny day in the middle of the night, two dead boys arose to fight. Back-to-back, they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. A mute man shrieked at the fright, and a lame man danced at the ghastly sight. A deaf policeman heard the noise and came to kill the two dead boys. If you don't believe this lie is true, ask the blind man, for he saw it too.

No Driving in the Ditches

 

I remember back my late teens I was working for a construction company. One morning, we’re on the highway, driving to the construction site out of town, and we’re behind a large box truck following a line of traffic that’s backed up because road construction up ahead. We’re just driving along about, I don’t know, 35 to 40 miles per hour, and suddenly, the straight truck shoots off to the right into the ditch and crashes. There were those few milliseconds that we wondered what was going on when we saw the line of traffic had come to a stop. Not paying attention or whatever, the truck driver did not respond or react soon enough, so he turned off suddenly into the ditch to avoid piling into the cars in front of him. We pulled over to the side and stopped and ran to the truck to see what we could do to help. The truck driver had a small gash on his forehead and was obviously shaken. I remember asking what he was hauling (thinking if it was hazardous). I don’t remember what he was hauling but it wasn’t hazardous. That’s all I remember of that event.

TV Dinners

 I remember as a child, TV dinners. I remember the commercials on TV, advertising them as a quick healthy alternative to cooking a 3 or 4 course meal. They carried the Banquet name and came in a aluminum tray with partitions for the main dish, side dish, and I think the 3rd was dessert. You cooked them in the oven, obviously, because microwave ovens weren't invented yet. I don't remember them tasting any different then they do now days and chicken with corn and mashed potatoes is the only one I remember-maybe because it was the only one I liked.

My Money My Bike

 I remember the first bicycle I bought on my own with my very own money. I was 14 years old and had been saving money from a paper route. And I finally had enough to buy my own bicycle. It was a blue 5 speed with the shifter on the hand grip. It wasn’t a Schwinn though. I really, really wanted to Schwinn but I couldn’t afford one just yet. Still, I felt so grown up going to the store, picking out the bike I wanted, and paying for it with my own money.

Penny Draws and Ink Stamps Where?

 

I guess you have to know Marvin to understand him. Marvin was my best friend during my party years from about 18 to 21 years old. Marvin was kinda tall and big-boned and came from a farming background in northeast Iowa. He wasn’t very physically attractive, but he was by no means ugly either. Marv did have an attractive personality though. Something almost magical about his charm that made it easy for him to hook up with attractive girls. Anyway, during those party years, our favorite place to hang out was a bar called the Circle in downtown Cedar Falls. They would have bands a couple of nights a week and cover charge at the door to get in. Marv and I were regulars there, so they knew us quite well.  One night there was a cover charge when Marvin and I went there and there’s lady sitting there at a table at the door to take cover charge. After paying your dollar, she normally would stamp the back of your hand, so they knew you paid to get in. Once, Marv asked the girl where she wanted to stamp him and she replied, “anyplace you want” so Marvin unzips his pants and pulls out his thing. She didn’t even bat an eye. She just stamped it and he zipped it up just like it was nothing. I about busted a gut laughing. That was a typical type of antic Marv would pull. Anyway, it was penny draws that night at the Circle. One penny would buy you a draw, or glass, of beer. We were putting them down followed by a couple shots of Tequila on the side. Sometimes if we were tanked enough, we were the first 2 on the dance floor. I really think the bar liked us as customers because we created a positive party mood and everyone had a good time. On this night, we would tell the barmaid, “Beers for everyone” and she’d go around and give a beer to everyone and it only cost us, I don’t know, a buck or something, at a penny a glass, but we had the honors of being able to tell others we once bought drinks for everyone in a bar. Good times.

Mortars that go Boom

 

I remember when I was around 19 or 20 years old, I worked for a chain link fence company in Waterloo. One fencing job we did was a tall chain link fence with barbed wire around the perimeter testing grounds of a small factory that made and tested mortar shells. These were the type of mortars the military used in wars. Every now and then they would need to test these mortars. They would sound a loud siren to signal they would be detonating a mortar. We would have to go back up to the main office and they would take headcount or tag us in, so they know that everybody was out of the testing field. They would blow up the mortar and we could all hear out the loud boom. Then another siren would go off signaling testing was complete and we were allowed back in the field to continue putting up the fence.

I have nothing but fond memories of the couple seasons I worked there. Special note to Tom, Marv, and Chris. My co-workers and party buds 7 days a week. I may need to write of other memories from that period in my life.

Ranch Hands and Shortcuts

 Back in my truck driving days, I remember hauling a load of baled hay from southeast Idaho to northern Montana. Driving a then-fairly new 1983 double bunk cab-over Kenworth, and my boss, driving his truck, we took the 2 loads to a ranch just a mile or 2 south of the Canadian border, where they had been experiencing shortages of hay. We met our "guide" at the edge of a nearby town who rode with me to show the way to the ranch that had purchased the hay. I remember turning off the pavement onto a long straight gravel road. I've got printed pictures of the loads of hay and gravel road. Anyway, we drove maybe 30 - 45 minutes  before turning onto a narrow dirt drive to the ranch.

So far, the whole trip was rather uneventful. We maneuvered our trucks to the area where the hay was to be unloaded. Then 2 or 3 ranch hands climbed onto top of my load of hay and began tossing bales to the 2 or 3 guys on the ground who were stacking them. I remember most about these guys is how cliché they were for ranch hands. Trimmed hair, cowboy hats, blue jeans, cowboy boots and rolled up log-sleeved plaid shirts. Wanting to get this done and on my way, I climbed up to the top of my  trailer load of hay, planning to help throw theses bales to the others. How do I put this......? Dang. Those bales are heavy! I later learned about 160 pounds each. I struggled to heave a couple bales down to the ground making myself look embarrassingly weak as a wimp before cowering back into my cab of my truck. These guys were picking them up and tossing them around effortlessly like kid stuff.

Once finished, it was awesome that they invited me and my boss to stay for lunch. Steak, potatoes, homemade buns, and iced lemonade. I got the impression that this was sort of a common meal. Makes sense. Big cattle ranch - all the free beef they want. I remember...these guys were somewhat surreal. Tough, fit, healthy, macho, manly, picture-perfect images of what everyone thinks a ranch hand is. After lunch, I asked our "guide" if there was a short cut back to town to avoid so much gravel roads. He said they have a road that cuts through their grazing fields that is significantly shorter. Once again, he hops into my cab to show us the way back to town. Right now I don't know how to properly describe this short cut. It's not a public roadway. It's, at best, a narrow trail across the too-soft, not-meant for semi trucks and if it wasn't wet and muddy, it was soft and swallowing up our heavy trucks. I was having panic thoughts of getting stuck and the cost of a tow truck to come rescue us. I also have printed photos of that mud road.

Yes, we made it back to town. Straight to a car wash with outside bays, to wash the hundreds of pounds of mud that had collected to the underside of our trucks.

A Summer of Mischance on the River (Part I)

 The Wapsipinicon river, or Wapsi, ('a' as in 'what') as it is locally called, is a tributary, beginning in southeast Minnesota and draining into the Mississippi river in southeast Iowa. It was early Summer and the water level was high due to rains. I remember I was 10 years old at the time and waist-deep in the river, pushing floating sticks and logs away from the boat dock so they wouldn't get tangled in our fish lines while we were fishing. That was our excuse anyway. In the back of my mind, I remember we were more so doing it to cool off on this sultry afternoon; stopping short of swimming since we weren't allowed to swim in the dirty river. 

I doubt that we were splashing about and having fun. After all, we were serious about fishing and the task of moving the driftwood away from our fishing spot. Then, something bit me. It didn't really hurt bad as I recall, but I knew it was something I needed to exit the river to check out. My right knee had a gash in it and doing some pretty serious bleeding. Being the Boy Scout that I was, I tied my 2 socks together to make them long enough to wrap around my knee to stop the bleeding. The following period of time is vague. My memory is saying my mom was busy doing something so she asked a family friend to take me to the doctors. The doctor put 7 stitches in my right knee. Now here's an honest twist to this event that I do remember clearly. The gash in my knee was likely caused by a half-sunken log or stick and in the shape of the letter "J". That very next morning, after I woke up and was making my bed, I found a fish hook in my bedding. A fish hook as you know, in the shape of the letter J. About the same size as my gash....Things that make you go "hmmmmmm".

A Summer of Mischance on the River (Part II)

 Days after getting 7 stitches in my right knee, my family went on our annual 2 week vacation. I don't remember where we went or anything about the vacation. It is safe to presume I didn't go swimming or enjoy it much with 7 stitches in my knee. I don't even recall when I got the stitches removed. 

However, not long after we returned, I remember mom, dad, my brother Dana, and I went on a boat ride with our neighbors on their pontoon boat up the Wapsipinicon river. I remember wearing my favorite pair of shorts and sitting at the front of the pontoon boat next to Dana, dangling our bare feet in the splashes of water. I was sitting on a 2x10 plank because I didn't want to get my favorite shorts wet, when I scooted too near the end of the plank, upsetting the center of balance and tipping into the river. I remember emerging behind the boat and hearing frantic screams from my mom on the boat. 

Dad immediately dove into the river to my rescue. I was an avid swimmer so that's not why he was diving in to my rescue. I remember dad yelling at my mom to stay on the boat and how silly she looked when she did a belly-flop into the river to help. The river was shallow enough at this point that dad was able to carry me to shore.  How coincidental was it that this mishap occurred directly in front of my family doctor's summer cabin? And how coincidental was it that my doctor and his wife just happened to be lounging in their yard to witness this tragedy? And how coincidental was it that my doctor's assistant and his wife just happened to be lounging alongside them? God was obviously looking out for me that day.

The next memory of the event I have is in the back of my doctor's station wagon on the way to the hospital. I remember telling my parents that I have $300 saved up to help pay for this, unveiling a faint smile smile from my mom between all her tears. I remember not feeling any pain whatsoever.

I only remember bits and pieces of my 2-week stay in the hospital to recover. I remember having a crush on the candy-striper who attended me, getting quiet adept at handling a wheelchair, skillfully balancing it on the 2 wheels. I remember the deepest cuts on my thigh got infected so the doctor had to remove 2-3 stitches to squeeze out the puss that had grown underneath. 
13 lacerations on the inside of my left leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf. Over 350 stitches is what the doctored reported sewing in. For the next 15 years, I seldom wore shorts or went swimming because I was so self-conscience of the ugly scars on my leg.

Hereditary Rituals

 It was an outside Spring cleaning kind of day at our house today. You know. Cleaning up sticks from the yard. Trimming the rose bushes back. Putting the snowblower away and breaking out the lawn mower. Cleaning and sweeping the garage. Putting shovels on their seasonal hooks. Because my health isn't as young as it used to be, I got to be supervisor and my 2 sons were the work force. It was the first really beautiful weekend of Spring. Clear blue skies. Shining hot sun. I was a bit surprised of the effort and detail they put into doing the various tasks because I knew my boys had other things on their mind. Fifty-some years ago, I was in their shoes. 

My dad would round up my 2 brothers and me on this first nice weekend of the season and make us help him do the same. He was a stickler for detail. He wanted every speck of dirt and dust cleaned from every little nook and corner. Throwing out old stuff. Minor tune-up on the mower and getting it running. Besides being a bit obsessed with organization and detail, he was also quite direct and terse. He had little patience for incompetence and imperfections and his thundering voice was the crack of his whip to get us to do  better. It would take an entire afternoon for the 4 of us to clean the yard and garage. By then, it was supper time and too late to do stuff with our friends. To us boys, the first beautiful Spring day of the season was ruined.

I loved my dad and I see a lot of his finer qualities in me but when I became a dad, I swore I would not act or raise my children in such a way that they would fear me. I also said I would not be as strict and would not rob them of their free time. 

The job got done. Only 2 hours. Not done perfectly, but done. And my boys still had time to get outside and enjoy the nice weather with their friends. 

My mind started to wander. While my blog is about memories, I stopped myself short before getting carried away with my philosophies and opinions on raising children. I'm still learning.

Bubble Gum and Paddle Boards

 Grades 7 through 9 were called Junior High where I lived in my precocious puberty years. It was during those years, I remember, girls petitioned the school to be allowed to wear slacks for the first time. And this was a public school! It was during these years, if the gym teacher caught us chewing gum, we had to stick it to our nose and wear it the rest of the day. It was during this part in time where laws had not yet been made protecting children from the discipline of teachers. One gym teacher, Mr. Chase, was friends with the shop teacher. Shop class is where guys learned to work and build things with wood, metals, and plastics. On the other side of the fence, there was Home-Ec, where girls learned how to cook and sew. Girls didn't take shop and guys didn't take home-ec. I don't know if that was rules or just accepted practice. Back to Mr. Chase now, being friends with the shop teacher gave him access to the shop and tools. Between the 2 of them, they both had some violent-looking paddles with holes, notches, and grooves carved and etched into them that made my skin crawl just looking at them. I don't remember what type of mis-deed had to be done to get beat with a paddle, but I did see them get used on more than 1 occasion. I remember once seeing one student wearing nothing but his jock, was ordered to bend over and grab his ankles and place his head under the door knob and get his paddling. As of this current moment, I do not remember if  I ever got a paddling or not, but I do remember wearing my gum on my nose once or twice.

Not All Memories Are Good

 We all have them. Memories we don't want to remember...but do. One of my worse I remember is the day I told the doctors I wanted to die, and I was serious! The ambulance had taken me to the hospital because I was having a respiratory exasperation. I've had them before. In fact, this was the 3rd time this month I was in ER because of it. But this time was so much worse. 

Now I love my sons immensely and will do anything possible so they do not have to suffer or experience deep sorrow. I know. It's part of life and I shouldn't try to shield my children from it but it's the parent in me that doesn't want to see them hurt. My youngest son wasn't even 13 yet and the other was almost 24. That previous summer we had experienced the sorrow when our life-long pet dog had died, but how do you prepare them for your own death?

But I was gasping for air. It was taking every little bit of strength I had just to inhale one tiny, little, wisp of air. And again, every ounce of strength I had to exhale a short puff of air. I clearly could not breath and was suffering more so than ever before. I was getting weaker and weaker and profusely miserable and getting worse every minute. I'd like to think the doctors had everything in control but I didn't see it. I'll never forget the moment the words came out of my mouth; "I want to die. Please, help me. I can't take it any longer. I just want to die!" I was scared. I chose dying as being less painful than seeing my boys suffer.