A LETTER TO MY MOTHER ON MOTHER’S DAY

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.

Five days before she was gone, she was eating with my brother at her beloved Applebee’s, crying tears of joy because he’d come to visit her.

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.”   

Those were the last words  I heard my Mom say, and of course, they could not have been more caring.
 
The fact that my mother was afraid of traffic, weather, and insults real and imagined, did nothing to deter her from fighting against it all. She took names after kicking butt, not before. You don’t apologize for doing the right thing after all, even if the right thing existed mainly in your own mind.
She and I took a long road home and I’m embarrassed to say I lived most of my life in reaction to her.  I resented her for everything we did not have in common.

She weighed eighty-nine pounds soaking wet and I was born so fat she wondered if I had a neck.

She was beautiful, dainty, and feminine. I was square, squat, and bald. 

As a  baby, Mom taped plastic flowers to my head to make sure folks knew I was a girl.

A southern belle, she feigned weakness but ruled our home with an iron fist.  The fact that she covered it with a white glove didn’t fool me-  I hated her hypocrisy and made it my mission in life to prove her wrong.

I called her ‘Little General’ behind her back and mocked her to her face when I was an adolescent. 

I loved my Father and couldn’t understand for the life of me why he would love a woman like her!

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 live out of state, and though they were amazing about flying in and out and providing for her financially, the bulk of Mom’s care fell to me.  During that time we moved from her home to assisted living to nursing care to hospice.  

We suffered broken shoulders, hips, glaucoma and one death-defying visit to a psychiatrist when she became unusually paranoid and delusional.  

We survived nursing home bureaucracy, roommates that were “having sex at all hours of the night” and staffers who “cut the bottoms out of her pockets” to steal from her. Anyone could be a target including me. My Mother told anyone who’d listen that I earned my living as a prostitute and that Herb was my pimp!  

You get the picture.  I had to make a choice. Stop fighting.  Start laughing and grow the fuck up.

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 because she was so confused, I was happy to be there – to learn that I could comfort her and give her peace.  

We went to Applebee’s and painting class and Sonic and JC Penney. We went to the movies, the museum and to the park. We got manicures and pedicures and even a facial!

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; just my blessings. 

We love you, Mom! We miss you, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!

2 thoughts on “A LETTER TO MY MOTHER ON MOTHER’S DAY

  1. Tina, I love the “Letter to my Mother on Mother’s Day.” And the stories of your last years with your mother. I had such a similar relationship with my mother. I always wanted a better relationship with her, but she didn’t make it easy. She lived 98 1/2 years and in her final years it was up to me to care for her, my only sibling lived far away and moved often. I got to know her better in those years and gained a better understanding of who she was. I have treasured those days and genuinely grieved when she passed.
    I have always hoped my girls and I could have a better relationship than I had with my mother. We’ve had ups and downs, I asked forgiveness for what I came to see as things I should have done better, I so regret the things I failed to see. When it’s all said and done, we all do better when we know better. Thought it might be encouraging for you to hear that you and your mother’s relationship was not unlike so many others. It sounds to me like you came out on the right side of things. I don’t want to live with regrets, I want to make the most of what time I have left, I want to end well. It sounds very much like you did.

    1. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts Connie. The more I write, the more I understand how similar our experiences are and that is reassuring. From my view, you have succeeded in raising wonderful daughters who love and understand you and the challenges you faced with your own Mother. Much love to you, Tina

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