Madalyn ho*rr|Special to Akron Beacon Journal
A picture on the front page of his local newspaper stopped Bob Waltz in his tracks. It showed a woman connected to a ventilator, a patchwork of skin grafts sewn to her face.
For days, the nightmarish story of the nurse, sprayed with acid by her estranged husband, Bill Slabaugh, had played out on the front pages of the Akron (Ohio) Beacon Journal. It was 2005 and up until then, Bob had never heard of Becky Slabaugh. Not until he passed a file cabinet at work where someone had tossed a newspaper.
It changed his life forever.
In Bill’s mind, the divorce would never take place. And if it did, he had a wicked scheme that he set into motion when he ordered nitric acid on the internet and had it delivered to his home.
Becky and Bill were living in a new house in Lake Township. For the year it took to construct, Becky had repeated the same prayer each time she visited the building site.
“Let there be nothing but love here.”
But it was not to be.
On a cool summer’s morning July 10, 2004, the retired corporate attorney snared the 100-pound woman. Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her to the basem*nt floor, placed his knees on her shoulders and sprayed her from head to toe with the searing contents of a spray bottle.
“If I can’t have you, no one can,” he told his screaming wife as the acid ate her skin. “I’ll make sure no one ever wants you.”
But his plan wasn’t foolproof. Bill never counted on the top of the bottle working free and dripping on his skin, burning his hands and legs. He never counted on Becky, 19 years his junior, leaping up when he loosened his grip.
And he certainly never counted on someone like Bob Waltz.
This is an update on Becky. So many dreadful events in the news end tragically, but this is a love story.
Letters from the heart
During the six-day series of articles in the Akron Beacon Journal, which began on the first anniversary of the attack, hundreds of people, as far away as Australia, emailed Becky to offer their best wishes. Many said they were praying for her. Some added that they hoped Bill would rot in hell.
“Understandably so,” Becky reasoned.
Yet Bob’s email was the only one that spoke of mercy. It was something she longed for — even in the days immediately after the ambush.
“I have found that forgiveness is the only way to true release,” Bob wrote, noting that he too had been in some pain and was on a quest for peace.
He imagined Becky was overwhelmed by correspondence and never expected a response. But just two hours after he tapped the send button on his computer, a message from Becky landed in his email folder.
“The sweet connection that I feel to a fellow sojourner was my gift for today. You … are now in my consciousness and a part of my healing.”
To simply state that Becky, 67,and Bob, 69,are spiritual souls would be a gross oversimplification. They exchanged emails that contained quotes and teachings by distinguished spiritual masters, authors and psychotherapists.
They talked about their failing and failed marriages. And though they spoke often of love in those first few months, it wasn’t romantic, rather fondness for another human.
Both were in their second marriages. Becky’s, obviously, was already over. Bob’s was nearing its final days.
A chance meeting and a lengthy courtship
When the two finally met, it was by chance.
It was Labor Day 2005. Becky was shopping at Kohl’s when she heard her name. It was nothing out of the ordinary to be recognized. Since her photos appeared in the paper, strangers routinely approached her. Wearing a mask, she was easily identifiable.
“Becky?” a man called. “I’m Bob Waltz.”
It took a few seconds to register, having convinced herself that the man she had been chatting with lived out of the area.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“I live in Canton.”
The emails continued, followed by phone calls that sometimes lasted into the night. In January 2006, they met for dinner.
“To have you in my life is the first time … that I truly felt the presence of love — the presence of God,” Bob wrote, shortly after their date.
What began as love for another human who was suffering turned into intimacy. Still, both were cautious of getting hurt again, resulting in a lengthy courtship.
Over five years, they got to know each other’s families and friends, vacationed together and fell deeper in love. And on Oct. 30, 2010, putting their fears behind, they exchanged wedding vows at Sippo Lake in Stark County.
Becky and Bob have recently published a book, “Letters from the Heart.” It is a culmination of emails that were exchanged for precisely one year after Bob first spotted her picture on the front page of the newspaper.
As for William F. “Bill” Slabaugh, he spent 11.5 years in prison for assault and kidnapping for his attack on Becky. He died in 2017, at the age of 81, following a fall.
Finding peace and love
The mother of three and grandmother of nine had five reconstructive surgeries the year after being burned. They were both physically and emotionally jarring.
Not wanting to endure that pain, she opted out of more operations. She continues to take good care of her body by doing things like yoga and walking. As for her scars, she uses her fingers to stretch the skin. Keeping it flexible is key to preventing contractures.
For two years after the attack, Becky wore full, pressurized body garments 23 hours a day. Her garb included a tight hood with holes cut for her eyes, nostrils, ears and mouth she wore at night. During the day, she donned a clear, plastic mask. Albeit hot and uncomfortable, they are credited for restoring her physical beauty.
For subscribers: This couple broke up in 1959. Could they find love again after 63 years apart?
Becky and Bob, a former engineer, are now retired. The couple delight in the peacefulness of their backyard in a private community in the northern tip of Stark County.
It’s a place where Bob might be spotted in a kayak, a feisty bass on the end of his fishing line − dragging him around a trio of small lakes. A place where trolling motors or brawn are the only things allowed to power boats. A hamlet where the streets are full of golf carts, though there are no courses.
When asked if she had made sense of the attack, Becky began to softly weep. A gentle spirit of dignity and grace, she continues to express forgiveness rather than anger.
“I feel such gratitude for all of it. I really do,” she said, pausing. “Because it brought me Bob. Remember, I had been praying for love the whole year before I was burned. It feels like an awful way to find it, but I have everything in my life that I’ve ever wanted. Love is here.”
Her forearm now bears a tattoo. It’s a reminder that despite the flashbacks and pain, love and joy have prevailed.
“Still I rise.”
Kim Hone-McMahan is a retired Beacon Journal columnist.
