My mom was 89 years when she died. She was also feisty, hard-headed, and a little more than off-center. This wasn’t a product of her age- it was just her being Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant Ramey.
Four days before she was gone I received a voicemail from her head nurse, Laura, saying that there was nothing to worry about, but my mom, angry that she was not allowed to sit in the nurse’s chair, had “put herself on the floor.”
I sighed and asked if I should come out to help; they said they’d call me back. Twenty minutes they that she had simply gotten up and walked back to her room, having made her point.
Three days before she was gone, I walked into her room to find her breathing labored, her speech incoherent and alien.
My heart sank when she was unable to navigate the warm cookie I brought to her mouth; her hand simply wouldn’t allow the task.
“You can always eat it tomorrow, Mom,” taking the cookie from her. But of course, even then, I knew that wasn’t true.
“Mom, you look a little tired today. I’m going to take your laundry home and I’ll be back first thing in the morning. You’ll feel better then.”
And then, with sudden order and clarity, she reached for my hand and said, “Be careful out there, there’s a lot of traffic.”
She weighed 89 pounds soaking wet. I was born so fat she wondered if I had a neck.
She was dainty and lovely. I was bald, boxy, and skeptical.
She taped plastic flowers to my head so people would know I was a girl.
I called her ‘Little General’ behind her back and mocked her to her face when I was an adolescent.
When he died in 2008, he wouldn’t let go until we all promised to take care of Mom.
If there was one thing my Dad loved more than anything else in this world, it was his little Dene and he was not excited about leaving this earth without her.
He’d spent 63 years loving, protecting, and providing for her; he simply couldn’t leave her unless we promised she’d be safe.
And that’s a promise you don’t make unless you can keep it.
My brothers lived out of state. They were great about flying
in and out, and generous with financial support, but the day-to-day fell to me.
When she agreed to move to assisted living, her shyness made it hard to connect with others. So I’d show up to help—organizing “play dates” and prompting table talk just to get her started. Eventually, she found her people and settled in, but the transition wasn’t easy.
She expressed her discomfort the way she always had: by fabricating stories and projecting motives onto others. It was consistent with a lifelong pattern—struggling to take personal responsibility.
Along the way, we navigated heart disease, broken hips, glaucoma, and one particularly harrowing visit to a psychiatrist when she became unusually paranoid and delusional.
We also narrowly avoided a $250,000 lawsuit. After leaving her faucet running in her third-floor apartment, my mother flooded not only her own unit but the two below. When the corporation that owned the facility sued her for damages, I was stunned.
“What in the world!” I complained to my dear friend Jennifer, “The idea of holding an 87-year-old woman with dementia financially responsible is reprehensible! Isn’t that why corporations carry insurance???”
Jennifer, one of Kansas City’s best attorneys, agreed and interceded on my mother’s behalf, refusing to take a cent for her time. Meanwhile, Mom went from apologizing for the accident to complete denial—demonizing the facility, the attorneys, and anyone else who mentioned it. It triggered her paranoia and obsession.
““Great news, Mom!” I said, when she showed me the latest piece of “hate mail” from the attorneys. “I’ve hired someone to make this all go away, so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
“Who’s that?” she asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“You know her—Jennifer, my friend at Shaffer Lombardo,” I said, pulling out the demand letter. “Here, look. It’s all going to be fine.”
She snatched the letter from my hand, squinting at the signature. Her face twisted.
“Oh noooooo! Not a woman!” she wailed.
Before I could stop myself, my hand flew up and came down hard on the table between us with a loud thud. Papers scattered in the air, matching the force of my anger.
Those three words—Not a woman!—hit a raw, familiar nerve. They triggered a lifetime of frustration with my mother: her competitive misogyny, her deep distrust of other women, and her ultimate rejection of me.
“Go to hell, Mom! I’m done with this mess—trying to help, trying to take care of you. Fuck it! Let Mike and Tim handle it!”
And I meant it. I was blind with rage, sobbing all the way home. I called Herb from the road, shrieking, “I’m done with this shit! Let my brothers do the heavy lifting—Mike’s her freaking hero anyway!”
“Come on home, babe,” he said gently. “And be careful.”
He listened to me rage for two full days. I couldn’t let it go. I felt like a child again—rejected, dismissed. The wound was deep and raw.
My brothers were sympathetic but helpless. How were they supposed to manage her doctors’ appointments, the twice-weekly warfarin tests, her medications?
That moment was pivotal for me. I realized I wasn’t taking care of my mother because I had to, or because my father once asked me to. I was doing it because that’s who I am. I wanted to.
And that shift changed everything. It freed me from a lifetime of reacting to her as a wounded child. I was no longer that girl. I was a woman now—conscious, and free to choose. And I chose her.
I don’t think anyone was more surprised than I was that I loved my Mother so much. I was completely unprepared for how deeply I wanted to be with her, take care of her and be strong for her. This was not me.
And so, as she reclaimed her innocence; when her days became indistinguishable from the other, when she wept in confusion, I was happy to be there – to learn that I could comfort her and give her peace.
We went to Applebee’s, painting class, Sonic, and JCPenney. We saw movies, wandered the museum, strolled the park. We got manicures, pedicures—even facials. When she needed to go to the dentist or dermatologist, I made an appointment, too.
But her favorite pastime was sitting in the common area at Delmar Gardens, delighting in tawdry gossip about each person who might walk by.
My Mother had a detailed imagination and once she got started on a yarn, you’d just as soon settle in and listen.
And so I learned to listen to her without having to be reasonable, and her stories made us both laugh…. and the more I laughed, the more she told them until it didn’t matter anymore- and soon we were two ladies cackling and being silly.
I wouldn’t trade a moment of the last few years of my Mom’s life because we finally got to have the kind of relationship I’d always wanted. I knew she loved me and I knew I loved her.
When I was younger acting like a know it all, my Mom warned me, “Best not to count your chickens before they’re hatched, Tina.”
It was lost on me then; I just thought she was a hayseed from Tennessee. But now I understand.
Life is a miracle that will surprise you every damn day if you let it. And so, today, on Mother’s Day, I’ll not count my chickens, Mom, just my blessings.
We love you, Mom! We miss you, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!
