On one woman’s tombstone she said she wanted this epitaph:

“Tried everything twice…loved it both times.”

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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Yesterday evening our family cat, Pumpkin, dashed in the house with something in her mouth – turns out it was a bird…a bird that was still alive and chirping. (I have to wonder if she found the baby bird on the ground and decided to rescue it before the neighbor’s cat got it.)

Ever so gingerly Pumpkin was carrying this little bundle…but wouldn’t let us near it (she kept evading our attempts to ‘rescue’ it from her mouth).

We, of course, feared the worst—that Pumpkin, perhaps having ‘hunted’ and ‘caught’ her first bird would kill it and eat it—a horrifying thought, and not something I wanted to watch.

(It was certainly frustrating to have to listen to this chirping and not know to what degree the bird was injured, or how badly it was traumatized.)

It was only last week that Pumpkin had brought a still wriggling and dirt-caked worm into the living room to play with while the neighbor’s cat, Oz, watched from the porch and cried piteously.

Had Pumpkin now progressed to hunting birds?

Anyway, here was Pumpkin carrying this chirping bird around the rooms, with us scolding and following and pleading with her to give it up. But she proudly carried it around as if it was a trophy…or an errant kitten…and dashed back outside with it and jumped off the porch.

With much persuasion and circling on the grass, my fourteen-year-old daughter finally managed to grab Pumpkin and get her to release the little bundle. And while I donned garden gloves to gingerly pick up the bird, my daughter took Pumpkin into the house and closed her inside.

It was obvious the bird was in distress—it kept opening and closing its mouth as if gasping for breath (I had seen the children’s hamsters do that to a degree before their pets had died) so I wondered if this bird had been badly injured…or was it simply going through the motions for receiving food from its mother?

In any case, my hopes for a happy ending were dashed when the bird suddenly seemed to regain a burst of energy, keep it’s head upright, flap its wings, then unexpectedly jerk out of my hands and plummet to the ground.

It happened so fast, there was nothing I could do.

I hollered for help but it was too late.

The bird died right then…it stopped moving.

And it broke my heart.

I examined the bird for puncture wounds from the cat’s teeth—nothing!

What exactly had Pumpkin’s motives been?

Any thoughts?

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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“Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. He was brilliant…a genius…curious…and had an extraordinary gentleness. He never said one hurtful word to me. Every time I told him what I wanted to be when I grew up, he would say, ‘You can be whatever you want!’

“He was truly an amazing person and father.”
~Stephen

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

“Just wanted you to know how your site has helped someone,” the reader from Illinois told me recently.

“My girlfriend was being harassed…someone broke into her house and left an empty beer can in a conspicuous place and stole several photos of her and her children. The whole situation was really creepy. When she went to the police they said there wasn’t much they could do for her.

“So I told her about your website.

“After she read it she contacted the police again and demanded they take her situation more seriously. Now I’m happy to say they are looking into the matter more thoroughly…thanks to your site!”

Thanks for sharing this true-life story Deb so that others may be prompted to action.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

My husband and I recently went on an amazing date/adventure to Kaslo, B.C. where we enjoyed a delicious lunch at the newly renovated hotel on Front Street, did a wonderful hike on the Kaslo River Trail, took in breathtaking views, did some window-shopping…just had a phenomenal time.

But it was on the way to Kaslo that we had a sad encounter: at the place where we briefly stopped for twenty dollars worth of gas, that morning a fawn (probably one born not that long ago…in late spring) had been killed (perhaps accidentally by a passing vehicle) and the mother was sitting next to her baby’s body.

Momma wouldn’t budge.

Nor would she look at anybody who dared venture for a closer look at the somber spectacle.

Her devotion was remarkable…and touching.

I don’t know what events unfolded for them after we left. But I felt very sad for the plight that statuesque mother was in. I’d heard of elephants mourning over the loss of a family member…but a deer?

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

I thought it was a joke:

“Did you hear,” my eleven-year-old son announced when he bounded in the house at suppertime, “that Michael Jackson is dead? He had a heart attack.”

“No way!” I replied.

Sure enough it was true…the T.V. news confirmed he was dead…but of cardiac arrest (not the same as a heart attack).

I’m stunned.

And I can’t help but reminisce about the Michael Jackson concert I saw in Vancouver in the early/mid 80’s…the Victory Tour – that was spectacular!

My sister Cindy had been shocked at the time when I told her I was going to his concert (I had stayed overnight at her place).

“He wears makeup you know,” she had scolded.

But I didn’t care. He was a pop sensation…a great performer…and who could resist that moonwalk!

Michael Jackson dead at the age of 50!

What a shock!

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

Brother David Steindl-Rast is a Benedictine monk, author and spiritual leader who implores us to open our eyes and really look at our day and all the blessings in it.

Watch his fantastic video called “A Good Day”. It’s 5 minutes and 32 seconds long:

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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Above all we must realize that each of us makes a difference with our life. Each of us impacts the world around us every single day. We have a choice to use the gift of our life to make the world a better place – or not to bother.

~Jane Goodall

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James

I did not choose to become bereaved.

Painful as it is, I choose to allow grief to work progressively in me.

I grieve because I lived much; my child died but my love for my child didn’t.

Since I loved, and still love, very much, I expect my grief to be severe.

I realize that each person grieves differently.

I accept that my wife and children will grieve differently than I do.

As a father and husband, I do have a responsibility to my children and my wife.

I can best fulfill that responsibility if I grieve and allow them to grieve.

Grief, while very real, is not rational.

I accept in others what appears irrational to me.

I am a part of my family and of humanity.

I accept the irrational in my thoughts and actions.

Grief need not drive a wedge between me and my family.

I choose to allow grief to strengthen our family ties.

Unresolved grief continues to produce mental and physical symptoms.

I must allow myself to cry, even openly.

Grieving does not answer the question, “Why?”

Since there is no acceptable answer, I must accept the unanswered question.

My child was a person, is now a person and will be a person in the future.

I can never forget my child.

I cannot return to the normal that existed before my child’s death.

I must go on to what is now to be normal for me.

Getting on to a new normal does not mean forgetting my child.

My child remains in my thinking and my talking now and will in the future.

I cannot be grateful that my child died.

I am grateful that my child lived and I choose to express that gratitude.

I cannot forget the events surrounding the death of my child.

I choose to recall the happy memories associated with my child.

If I allow it to, by my grieving, time will produce a healing.

I realize that healing does not mean forgetting my child.

I could not control the past, which included the death of my child.

I do have some control over the future as I build the future with my family.

My child’s death did not happen so that I might become a better person.

I choose to allow my child’s death and my grief to make me a better person.

I did not understand before I joined the fellowship of the bereaved.

 I choose to become more understanding, tolerant and compassionate now.

My grief has created and brought out many emotional needs for me.

I can help meet those needs by meeting the similar needs of others.

My spiritual beliefs did not die with my child.

I choose to use them to help me through these difficult years.

Questioning those beliefs and values is not wrong.

I must, as a result of my questionings, strengthen my belief system.

I did not choose to become bereaved.

I choose to allow good to come out of what is now so severe for me.
~Robert F. Gloor

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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With Father’s Day fast approaching, here is an appropriate tale. I guarantee you will remember “The Wooden Bowl” tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now, a year from now:

A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year-old grandson.

The old man’s hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.

The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather’s shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.

The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess.

“We must do something about father,” said the son.

“I’ve had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor.”

So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner.

There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner.

Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.

When the family glanced in Grandfather’s direction, sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone.

Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.

The four-year-old watched it all in silence.

One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor.

He asked the child sweetly, “What are you making?” Just as sweetly, the boy responded, “Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up.” The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless.

Then tears started to stream down their cheeks.

Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.

That evening the husband took Grandfather’s hand and gently led him back to the family table.

For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

On a positive note, I’ve learned that, no matter what happens, how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.

I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles four things: a rainy day, the elderly, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.

I’ve learned that, regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life.

I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life.”

I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands. You need to be able to throw something back.

I’ve learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you. But, if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others, your work and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.

I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.

I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one.

I’ve learned that every day, you should reach out and touch someone. People love that human touch—holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.

I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn.

Thanks for passing this on to me, Ken.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James