The world mourns the loss of the oldest known conjoined twins, Lori and George Schappell, who both passed away at the age of 62 in their Pennsylvania hometown.
Born on September 18, 1961, in Reading, Pennsylvania, Lori and George shared a rare connection, being conjoined at the skull while having separate bodies. They were linked by 30% of their brains and essential blood vessels.
Their incredible life journey came to a close on April 7 at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital in Philadelphia, as noted in their obituary. The specific cause of their passing has not been revealed.
George, who lived with spina bifida, used a mobility device for assistance, while Lori facilitated their movements by pushing and guiding his rolling stool. Their form of conjoined twins is exceptionally rare, affecting only about 2% to 6% of cases of congenital twins, according to NBC Today.
In a landmark moment for their lives, George transitioned in 2007, making them the first same-sex conjoined twins to identify as different genders, as recognized by Guinness World Records. During their trip to London in 2011 to celebrate their 50th birthday, George shared insights about his journey with The Sun, stating: “I knew from a very young age that I was supposed to be a boy”.
Both Lori and George completed their education at the Hiram G. Andrews Center and later worked at Reading Hospital. Despite their physical connection, they each pursued their own passions and hobbies. George followed his love for music as a country singer, captivating audiences globally, while Lori thrived as an accomplished bowler.
Remarkably, the Schappells enjoyed an independent lifestyle since turning 24. Initially, they lived in a care facility, then transitioned to a two-bedroom apartment where they each had their own space. They highlighted the significance of privacy, emphasizing that even with their physical bond, they found ways to enjoy solitude when needed
“Would we ever separate? Absolutely not”, George stated in a 1997 documentary: “My theory is, why fix what isn’t broken?”
Lori echoed this sentiment in a 2002 interview with the Los Angeles Times, saying: “I don’t believe in separation”. Our heartfelt condolences go out to the family and friends of Lori and George during this challenging time.
I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.
The quietude of Elm Street, once a symphony of birdsong and gentle laughter, had been shattered. The arrival of the new neighbors, the Morlocks, had thrown the idyllic tranquility of their little community into chaos.
Initially, I had tried to be welcoming. A plate of freshly baked cookies, a warm smile, a friendly “Welcome to the neighborhood!” But my overture had been met with a chilling silence. The woman who answered the door, pale and gaunt, had regarded me with a suspicion that bordered on paranoia. “Ew, it smells awful,” she had muttered, her eyes darting nervously around as if I were some sort of disease.
Then came the fountain. A monstrosity of wrought iron and gargoyles, it stood imposingly in their yard, a constant, jarring presence. The incessant gurgling and splashing, day and night, had become the soundtrack to our lives. Sleep became elusive, replaced by the monotonous drone of the water.
The neighborhood, once a haven of peace and camaraderie, was now a battleground. Tempers flared. Arguments erupted at the weekly community meetings. Finally, a vote was taken – a unanimous decision to request the removal of the fountain.
And so, the unenviable task of filing the official complaint fell to me. I, the self-proclaimed peacemaker, the neighborhood’s unofficial ambassador of goodwill, was now the bearer of bad tidings.
That evening, as I returned home, a small, ominous package lay on my doorstep. No return address. A shiver ran down my spine.
Inside, a single sheet of paper, scrawled with menacing handwriting:
“I KNOW YOUR SECRET. YOU WILL BE POLITE TO YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS, OR EVERYONE WILL KNOW.”
Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. Who was it? The Morlocks? Or someone else, someone watching, someone waiting for the right moment to strike?
The following days were a blur of paranoia and unease. I checked every window and door lock multiple times a night. I slept with the light on, the faintest sound sending shivers down my spine. My once peaceful neighborhood had transformed into a place of fear and suspicion.
The police, after much persuasion, agreed to investigate. They questioned the Morlocks, of course, but they denied any involvement. The woman, her face gaunt and drawn, maintained her innocence, claiming she was simply trying to enjoy her own property.
The investigation yielded nothing. No fingerprints, no witnesses, no concrete evidence. The threat remained, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of our seemingly idyllic community.
I started carrying a small can of pepper spray, my hand instinctively reaching for it at every rustle of leaves, every unfamiliar sound. I avoided going out alone at night, my days filled with a constant sense of unease.
The incident had changed me. The once friendly, outgoing neighbor was now withdrawn, suspicious, constantly scanning the shadows for signs of danger. The peace and tranquility of Elm Street, shattered by the arrival of the Morlocks, had been replaced by a chilling sense of fear and uncertainty.
And the fountain, that monstrous, discordant symbol of their arrival, continued to spew its icy water, a constant reminder of the darkness that had seeped into the heart of their once idyllic community.I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.
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