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   Carol Possehl was taken off of life support in a hospital in Minneapolis, Minn., and allowed to quietly die; she was 42. She had been diagnosed with leukemia in 2006.

   After undergoing two bouts of chemotherapy, one of radiation and what looked like a successful bone marrow transplant from her brother, her doctors made the decision to put her in a medically induced coma due to her having developed a massive inflammation in her lungs from the chemotherapy. Her family made the decision to wait to remove her from life support until her daughter Kristin could drive to Minneapolis from Russellville to say goodbye to her mother. I’ll relate why anyone in Monticello should even have any interest in someone they’ve never heard of.

   I met Carol in September 1993; both of us were in a rehab down in Dallas. She and I were in for alcoholism, although she had other problems as well. I can still recall seeing her for the first time. I was in the smoking area and this woman was pacing like a caged lion, smoking furiously and muttering under her breath. That ignominious beginning gave rise to a relationship that continued until her death. 

   Carol had a childhood that read like something from science fiction. Abuse in every form – sexual, mental and physical – as a consequence she was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Multiple Personality Disorder, Depression, alcoholism and a drug addiction. She seemed to have every right to turn her back on humanity, to give God the finger and quietly sink down into oblivion. Yet she didn’t. She acknowledged and accepted her past and used it to benefit others with the same problems. She spent nine years as a Certified Alcohol/Drug Counselor, plus over a year as a missionary in Tunisia and another six months in Mexico.  

   I was a counselor in the same facility with her. Watching her as a counselor, her only failing that I could see was she cared too much. She cared little or nothing about money, prestige or how other staff members would react to her, beyond how it would affect her clients. She cared about her clients.  

   Like a parent, she could talk about her clients in a disparaging way, but no one else could. If one of her clients needed medication and couldn’t afford it, she would attempt to find a resource to help the client. If she couldn’t find a resource, more than once she paid for the medication out of her own pocket. She was one of the few counselors I have known to be almost devoid any self-serving motive, or an expression of thanks from the client or society. 

   We spent eight tumultuous years living together, while each of us wrestled with our own personal demons, splitting up and then getting back together again. But even during the periods when we were not together, we remained close friends.  

   For two and a half years, while she served as a missionary, we lost contact. We didn’t exchange letters or phone calls. She lived her life and I lived mine, but I knew that I could contact her and resume the friendship at any time. To be honest, since Carol didn’t how to do anything in moderation, initially she threw herself completely into Christianity, which personally made me uncomfortable. I also knew that she would eventually temper her fanaticism, until she toned down her behavior to a point where I could again enjoy her friendship.  

   In November 2006, I called her parents’ house to obtain a phone number or address so I could contact her. Her father told me she was in a hospital in Duluth, Minn., diagnosed with leukemia. Last Thanksgiving, I flew to Minnesota and spent about one week with her, part of it while she was in the hospital, part after she was discharged.

   As I had hoped her behavior was no longer fanatical, but she did retain a deep and loving trust of God. This allowed her to endure indignities that I watched, but have no wish to imagine or endure. She didn’t complain. In fact when she was able to move around, she spent time visiting other people in the cancer ward, spreading humor, hope, patience and an ability to listen. After leaving the hospital, she and I spent Thanksgiving at her parents, with the two of us catching up on each other's lives. I called and checked on her during the latter part of January and found out that she would probably die, even though the bone marrow transplant was an apparent success.  

   On Feb. 4, she died.  

   Why do I tell her story? In the hopes that someone who also had an abusive childhood or is in one currently, might understand that they are not alone, that others have been through the same and emerged from the other side, relatively intact, and now live a fulfilling and happy life. Carol had given me permission to tell her story to help others to see that there is hope, that if she could do it, others could. I hope that her story will continue to inspire others. That the demons that someone may wrestle with on a daily basis can be conquered and used for the benefit of other people in the same situation.  

   Another reason is that, in this day of the new media being saturated by Anna Nicole Smith’s death, we seem to have lost touch of other people who matter, in a fervor chase to find “success,” vicariously perhaps, or to view another person’s problems in order to feel better about our own situation.

   Carol’s death will not be reported in any newspaper, except her obituary. No television coverage will be seen. Her death will seemingly have no more impression on Monticello than the impression a person leaves after removing their finger from a pool of water. And yet, Monticello and the world lost someone who was committed to improving the lives of others; who changed her life from being part of the problem to part of the solution; who viewed the world as a troubled but ultimately worthy and beautiful person who could have done much more good in this world; someone who was only getting started and now is no longer here.  

   She told me that she was anxious to get back on her feet so that she could back to counseling, when I saw her on Thanksgiving, I feel regret for those people that she could have helped get their lives back, and I can only hope that they find someone else.

   The final reason I tell her story, is an inadequate way to pay homage to her memory. A tribute to the best friend I ever had – a person that I will miss until my death. A person I trusted, loved, admired and counted on to always be there, a person that I hope to resume my friendship with, upon my death.  

   I loved you, Carol.

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