Ruth’s Daughter
I began working at
NASA in April of 1988, and from that day forward I had to change my name. I was
no longer Barb, or even B.J., as some knew me. From that day on I was simply “Ruth’s
Daughter.”
It’s not as if that
would be so horrible really, but I now understand what my mother must have gone
through raising five kids. On the day that my oldest brother started to school,
she became somebody’s mommy, and though her first name changed from time to time,
the second one seemed to stick. You would think this would cause an identity
crisis, but she wore it like a badge of honor.
She precariously
balanced home and career with the stealth of a tightrope walker, teetering now
and then, but never losing control. Tip-toeing with determination across that
slender line and, at least in the eyes of her family, dancing high above her
world. Her savvy and sense of humor came so naturally that we took it for
granted. We never knew there were others out there who also recognized the value
of her advice and the strength of her shoulders in time of need. We believed she
was ours alone.
That misguided
opinion changed suddenly when I started to work at NASA. My mother had been
working on the same contract since 1971, and for many of those years she worked
in Human Resources. For her it was the perfect mating of personality and
position. Everyone who came to her office left with the feeling that she truly cared
and she would do her best.
Some who visited didn’t
really come for advice, they just needed to talk. Mom called this “venting.” Us
kids had done this for years, but we never knew others did it as well. We
thought that somewhere between the Christmas stockings and Easter egg hunts she
had invented it just for us. My new fellow employees were more than happy to
regale me with stories of my mother and her ability to listen to the ranting of
otherwise normal employees. I was told that some people vented so well that
mother had to replace the potted trees in her office with the more durable rubber
variety.
Though many years ago
she transferred from Human Resources, and has since retired, there are many
people who still seek her out. Apparently they have grown to depend on her in
much the same way that we did. I remember that as I stumbled through
adolescence I found the usual faults with my parents that most teen-agers
encounter; but I have since discovered to my amazement that the older I get,
the smarter my mother becomes.
In 1996, my mother suffered
a devastating stroke. Her world and mine were turned upside down. Suddenly gone
were the quick wit and ready counsel I had come to rely on. There were days
that I believed I would lose her altogether. The doctors seemed so convinced
she wouldn’t make it through the critical first 72 hours. Or, if by some
miracle she did, how much would she have left? But my mother had always had a
tremendous faith and had taught us to expect miracles. My brothers, sisters and
I prayed that, once again, she would prove to be right.
As the days
progressed, she struggled to identify even the simplest things - where she was,
what year it was or the food she was eating. Worst of all, the woman with whom
I had once shared my innermost thoughts, hopes and dreams, was now unable to
even remember my name. Our roles were reversed and I became her caretaker,
protector and occasional tormentor as my brother and I quizzed her with
pictures and word games to help her brain re-path around the damaged area.
Through it all, she never gave up, and she never complained. Though I knew she
wanted to, it wasn’t her style.
I realize now that
even in her illness, she again taught me some of the most significant lessons
in my life–perseverance and the importance of family. Then one day in the
hospital we were going through our usual routine of questions and answers, and
I asked her who I was. I cannot begin to describe the euphoria I felt by her
matter-of-fact response: “You’re my daughter, Barb.”
As my Mother
continues to recover, I let her know in every way I can that I love her. Never
again will I take our time together for granted. I cherish each precious moment
because I realize how quickly we might lose them.
And now those words
that used to make me feel like I had no identity have helped me define who I
am, and I could never adequately express the tremendous feeling of pride that
rushes over me when someone asks, “Are you Ruth’s daughter?”
It’s still not an
easy cross to bear. She has, after all, left me with enormous shoes to fill.
But how lucky I am that she is my mom, and she is willing to continually remind
me that I have big feet.
Happy Mother’s Day
from “Ruth’s Daughter”!
I wrote this article in 2001. And though my mother has since
passed, I still feel she is ecouraging me to be the best I can be. I don’t
believe I can ever filled her shoes, but I continue to walk as straight as I
can in my own. I know that’s all she ever really wanted.