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The Dream Pushers: A Memoir of Death, Lies, and Deceit


Chapter 1 The Potters Mold I sat wishing, praying, and under my breath cursing my luck--I should be the one who was clinging to life, not my wife, not the mother of my children. We had come a long way together. Over thirty five years, she matured into a woman of tolerance and understanding--a woman any man would savor, not only to share a bed with but to share his life with. Now I wish I could share my prayers with her as I sat begging God, Jehovah, Jesus, and every other deity who crossed my mind; even going so far as selling myself to the Devil in hopes the woman who was needed by so many would not die, but with my head resting on her breast that sickening feeling engulfed me and I felt my hopes, dreams, and faith slip away as I whispered, "Honey it is okay if you want to let go," and with my next drawn breath pleading, "please, Trisha please, don’t die. I need you, the kids need you, your mother needs you." All the while, Trisha’s gown grew damp from the tears shed by our daughter, Rachelle, and me. Her hands, once so warm and comforting were cold, and the laboring of her breath no longer kept her cheeks pink, and it was at that moment I came to the realization no one was going to answer my prayers, not God or the Devil.

"Damn it, Jehovah, you are gonna let her die," I cried, not caring what anybody thought as I reached for the Kleenex tissue beside the bed and wiped the flow of my sinuses and tears. The words, "She is gone, Mr. Walker," spoken by Janet Wilcox, the attending nurse, became the splitting maul which splintered the rootstock of my family, friends, faith, and God.

Trisha's death ended our journey in life, and I ended the spiritual voyage I had been on since nineteen fifty-five as a young boy when Mama said, "Yes, I would love to live forever on a paradise Earth," in response to the two women who were standing in the threshold of our lives.