Literally.

Humphrey, now 78, has been told she was the first child born at the Dix campus hospital.

She, like so many others with long histories with Dix, has strong feelings now that an Oct. 8 date has been set for moving most patients out. Strong negative feelings, make no mistake.

Humphrey's father, who started out as a security guard at Dix, used to walk the vast perimeter of the grounds, checking that all the gates were locked, making certain the fences were in good repair.

For years, her family lived in one of the small houses on the campus, houses that remain there to this day.

So perhaps it is no surprise that when she graduated from high school, she took a job on the Dix switchboard in the basement of the main building.

She wasn't allowed to leave her post during her overnight shift, so one night a young Scottish fella was dispatched to bring her dinner. All meals were provided to Dix employees in those days.

It was a memorable dinner. This year she and Melvin Humphrey celebrated 48 years of marriage.

Melvin Humphrey, who became assistant director of activity services at Dix, brought all manner of games to the patients, including a nine-hole indoor miniature golf course. He retired from Dix in 1978 after more than 30 years, but he and Louise have remained connected to fellow "alumni," as have many former Dix employees.

"We're like a family," Melvin said Friday.

After decades of dread, that family was still distraught to learn most of the hospital will close in the weeks ahead. So many memories gone.

But it is not just the past they mourn.

The Dix alumni are people who worked closely with the mentally ill; the patients were like family, too.

The former Dix workers fear what will happen to today's patients when the care is shifted to a new hospital in Butner that doctors, nurses and mental health advocates say still has significant safety hazards.

They fear that the patients here in Wake County will suffer when most beds are moved to Butner.

Thelma Melvin, a Dix nurse for 30 years, noted the cost -- in money and man-hours -- for officers to cart patients back and forth to Granville County.

Regina Alexander, who split her career between Dix and the Department of Correction, predicted where many mentally ill patients will land: behind bars.

"A lot of these people will end up committing petty crimes," she said. "When you're hungry and hallucinating, that's what you're going to do."

Frances Sanders, who died of esophageal cancer in August, must be turning in her grave.

For years, Sanders sent letters in her florid, old-fashioned script to every politician she thought might listen, begging them to preserve Dix Hill. She hoped to see the new hospital built on campus, or close by.

Before her death, she was planning the next in a long series of annual Dix reunions, this one scheduled for late October.

This year, it will be a somber affair -- if it's held at all.

Louise and Melvin Humphrey had planned to attend. They worry what will happen to the building where Louise was born, or the one where they first met.

But they, like so many of us, aren't nearly so worried about the buildings. They're worried about the people they serve.

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