He hovers above, a shining pinpoint of light, so full of unconditional love, my eyes well immediately. Meditating, I float somewhere in between, held in my father’s embrace, a reminder of the tentative consciousness we inhabit.
He was my first love, my first teacher, my safe place.
He was also the buffer between my Mother and me, loving her when I would not, an example of patience, tenderness, and compassion I could not yet comprehend.
When I ran away and got drunk in the eighth grade, he brought me home, but not before we stopped by the Hen House for toothpaste and a toothbrush.
When I was wild and rebellious, acting out and lashing out, he remained gentle and steadfast, never letting me forget my value.
An only child of Irish immigrants, Ehret Oscar had curly hair, delicate features, and a sensitivity that no bully could resist.
His parents made education a priority. With the support of Pat and Rose Nell Ramey, Ehret pursued a medical degree from Washington University after attending college on the GI Bill.
He met my mother, a diminutive 89-pound southern beauty at Barnes Hospital. Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant worked as a dietitian and he was in his residency.
They married and moved to Kansas City to begin his practice and start their family, He became a beloved OB/GYN but multiple miscarriages derailed their plans for children.
That’s how my brothers and I became a family. It wasn’t an easy configuration. With Dad at the hospital and Mom left to mind us, we fell into the chasm between our parents. He was a stabilizing if often absent force; she was minimally present, chronically overwhelmed, and woefully ill-equipped for child-rearing.
It was confusing and lonely for all of us.
It takes me years to forgive him for leaving us alone with her, and even longer for me to cut her a break. Raising my boys helped. It’s trite to say she did the best she could, but she really did.
After his stroke, my Father’s essence shines even brighter. Life’s extraneous noise rinsed clean, only his immense kindness remains. He was a man of faith; perhaps that helped him.
By then I am in my late forties and taking care of him and my Mother. It wasn’t easy but it did help me grow up.
The week of his death, he labors at the breakfast table, so winded from congestive heart failure he can barely breathe.
Between arduous bites of Honey Nut Cheerios, he smiles, reaching for my hand, “So what are we going to do today?”
My heart and eyes sting because there is nothing we can do today, except wait.
“I think we’ll just hang out here, Dad,” I answer. He pats my hand.
My father died four days later.
In those days, hospice left you with the morphine and told you how to administer it.
I find his decline so painful that I decide to release him with a fatal dose. When I tell my younger brother, we hold each other in the kitchen and cry. We determine it will be the next dose, but when we go to give it to him, he is gone.
Loving to the end, our father spares us once again.
We know he’s hung on to make sure we’ll be there to take care of our mother. Reluctant as I may be at that point, making such a vow is not done lightly. We all agree and that helps free him.
When they come to retrieve his body, I don’t cry. I’m happy his suffering was over. The thing they take away is not my father.
Dad died in 2008.
A lot has happened in my life since then. I know my dad would be proud of me because he always was.
Despite missing him, I feel his acute presence every day.
For many years, I wondered about my birth parents – why they gave me up and who they were. I was sixty before I received that blessing in the form of discovering my half-siblings. We share a father whom I finally met via Zoom.
He is not my father. He is just someone who got my birth mother pregnant.
My father, Ehret Oscar Ramey, was and is a gentleman who loved with great strength. I am so grateful for that fateful connection, my lucky destiny.
Happy 99th birthday, Dad. Thank you. I love you.
“That’s just so weird isn’t it?” I said. “Because the one thing we all have in common is him. And look at our hearts! They’re huge! We’re here loving each other and he’s missing out!”
It took me sixty years to understand that I was adopted, not abandoned. I was loved by parents who did choose us; parents who raised three amazing humans.
Sometimes it would be just me and my baby, nursing, quietly in a chair, my eyes focused on this miracle at my breast, so tiny and vulnerable and my heart would clinch tight and an immeasurable sadness would grip my heart. Why, I’d think to myself, did I feel so sad? Why didn’t I feel joy?
I guess I can be grateful that two out of three of them have forgiven me and despite their childhood wounds, want to share my life and know me as I am today.
We can all name people that have impacted our lives in a profound and lasting way; people who’ve shown up in our lives, expected and unexpected to change the way we think about ourselves, our capabilities and our purpose.
Having your heart broken also allows you to be more open; for healing and taking personal responsibility and being able to love again.
The best teacher I ever had was my Dad, Ehret Oscar Ramey. He was a gentleman, a doctor, a husband, and a man of Faith.
I’m a fifty-eight-year-old woman; I understand the nature of personal responsibility and don’t play the victim. There are simply facts that have influenced who I am and how I live in the world; one of the larger issues being my relationship with my Mother.
I sent my carefully crafted letter, with pictures of my three sons, my husband, adopted parents and siblings to my birth Mother. I assured her I was happy in my own life but also had questions; questions only she could answer. I already began bargaining with her saying that even if she could not meet me, could she please write and tell me my story.
When he got in the car, seeing my eyes and face swollen, he immediately asked, “Mom! What’s wrong?”
I wish I could say that I learned this important lesson that day, but it’s still something I remind myself to work on often. The laws in Missouri have recently changed, making all adoption records public. My friend, an attorney, is working to locate my birth records. I am not looking for the same reasons I did then, but I am still looking for my birth Mother.
I am not a Motherless Child. I’ve had two of them: one gave me life and the other just made it a lot more interesting. 
That’s because I got lucky; the Universe paired me with Ehret Oscar Ramey to be my counselor, teacher, mentor, protector, and friend. Ehret Ramey was my adopted Father.
I liked to run away when I was a kid to assert my Autonomy and Independence. One time I “ran away” to a Young Life Skating Party. When my Dad picked me up and discovered his 12-year-old was drunk, he took me to the hospital where he worked, cleaned me up in the Doctors lounge, and bought me a toothbrush. He said I’d better brush my teeth, stay away from alcohol and not to inform my Mother of my escapades. There were a few things we agreed not to tell Mom.
My Dad was handsome. My Dad was accomplished. My Dad was a man of service and his word. My Dad was a teacher, a physician, a friend, and caretaker to all. He loved to sing and dance and tell horrible jokes,
As I said, my Dad was a gentle soul and as a parent always treated us kids with respect even when we were clearly over the line. I can only remember two instances when my Dad lost it and both times it was because my older brother or I said something disrespectful to our Mother.
