We sat and had coffee that morning, played with the dogs and nothing was different from the normal routine until I walked to the bathroom door and yelled to my husband. "Help me. I'm having a heart attack."

A week later, I opened my eyes for the first time. A male nurse was holding my hand. "You are in an ambulance being transported to another hospital. You've had one heart attack and you're trying to have another one. Don't be scared, you're in good hands."

I flat lined once in the next few weeks. They told my husband I would never be able to do much of anything. I had to give up everything. I could take a few steps to the bathroom with help. I was too sick to even read.

The vets in Laurel found good homes for 6 of my 11 pets. Being a devout animal lover, it was like giving up my children. The normal things people take for granted, I could no longer do. I couldn't feed the dogs. I couldn't drive or buy groceries. I couldn't stand long enough to make coffee. The simple things became earth shattering to me. I knew I'd never play cards or even laugh again.

After three weeks at home, my husband's company offered to hire sitters to stay with me at home so he could return to work. I hired a black lady at first. Her name was Martha Bass.

Martha was crippled and afraid of dogs but she proved to be a wise choice.

My husband called one morning and Martha was fussing at him. "You know Wednesday is treat day for the dogs. Where are the treats? You go to the store right now and bring them home. My babies want their threats."

I remembered thinking I would never laugh again but that day I started laughing. When Martha watched her soaps, I had to wait on her. Martha was one of the family and an animal lover to boot.

When we moved back to our house in Laurel from our farm in Hattiesburg, Martha helped us move. I missed her but she called me daily and still came to visit.

One morning I turned on the television and they were reporting a murder on Manning Street. I told my husband we had to get Martha a new place to live.

I picked up the phone to call Martha when the reporter said the name of the deceased. "Martha Bass."

Then my friend and my doctor, Dr. Lowrimore, died suddenly. Still suffering from heart problems and now fighting major depression, I took my heart medicine and just waited to die.

Dr. Lowrimore at age 52 was gone. Martha at age 40 was gone. Those were the people I depended on to take care of me. I was the one with medical problems. They were healthy. They weren't supposed to die first.

More and more I escaped from pain and depression into a fantasy world by writing all night.

When I had 6 surgeries in 6 weeks, I gave up trying to write and I gave up on life. My book stayed in the computer untouched.

My first e mail after my last hospital visit came from a little girl. "Dear Ms. Brent: My name is Cindy and I am twelve years old. I got into my grandmother's computer without permission, but I just had to thank you for the best 6 chapters I have ever read. Please finish your book so I can find out what happens."

Others responded with very short replies such as "WOW, you can't leave me like this. What happens?"

So from what I thought was my death bed, I finished There Ain't Enough Front Porches.

Thanks to Dr. Eric Enger and Dr. Vinay Kumar, my health has greatly improved and I'm looking forward to going on book signings and television interviews. (I can do most anything now, except housework, of course. Through all this, my brain never stopped working)

All I ever wanted was to see my book on the coffee table with my name on it. At age 65 and totally disabled my dream has come true.

I only have one problem now. Breathing is a little difficult. The air up here on cloud nine gets a little thin.

There Ain't Enough Front Porches will be released in a few months thanks to Publish America. I hope you enjoy reading it but more importantly, when you think about giving up, think of me.