January 23, 1943—February 17, 2021
From “The Dash”:
“He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.”
What to say about such a firebrand of a woman? I guess the basics first. She was born in Perryton, Texas—a small town in the Texas panhandle. She was adored by her doting mother, Adelia, and was lucky enough to be the first grandchild in the family.
She grew up in a time when women were expected to grow up, get married, and have children. She did do those things, but she did so much more.
Mom got her teaching degree with a specialty in Special Education from the University of Texas at Austin. She did it in 3 years too. She was always an overachiever.
After getting their degrees, my parents were ready to start a family, but nature wouldn’t bend. They tried for years to no avail. Mom so desperately wanted children. She had all but given up when, at age 30, she became pregnant with her son, Sam. Eighteen months later, she had me, her feisty daughter. Then she said, “That’s enough.” Ha!
Soon we moved from San Angelo to Odessa and finally settled in San Antonio, Texas. There, my mom became a leader in special education. She had such a knack with troubled children. She later decided to get her master’s. She became a counselor at Mark Twain Middle School. And so began the best years of her life.
She loved being a counselor, especially at this tough school with so many troubled kids. She spearheaded a program for conflict resolution to handle the terrible gang problem in the school. The kids respected and trusted her. She was their safe space, maybe the one adult they could finally trust. She was also tough as nails. She’d charge hell with a bucket of water. She’d walk right in the middle of a gang fight and somehow all the kids would do what she said. She had a look that could make a grown man feel like he was in the fifth grade in the principal’s office. She never lost that look, even in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. The staff would tell me that she would give them that look and they felt like they were in trouble.
My mother was so many things in her life—a career woman, a friend, a leader—but to me, she was my mom, the one who always knew just what to say; the one who held me when my heart was breaking; the rebel who taught me to be an independent woman and to think for myself. She saved my life and my brother’s life so many times.
Alzheimer’s is a cruel disease. It took this vibrant, feisty woman and robbed her of her amazingly quick wit and sharp mind. It did have gifts, though. I know that is a strange thing to say, but it did. She forgot how to say most things, but she never forgot how to say, “I love you.” And I realized that was all that mattered in the end. It also gave me the most beautiful moment I will ever have in my life. My mom was having a particularly rough day. She couldn’t calm down. Her eyes were shut tight, and she was having full conversations with people far in her past. At one moment, she opened her eyes. She looked at me and said, “Mama? I thought I lost you. I looked for you everywhere.” (Her mom had died in a tornado three years before I was born, and my mom missed her so much). I told her, “I’m right here, baby. And I’m not going anywhere.” I held her hand, and for the rest of the day, she had her mom with her. Without dementia, my mom would never have had that experience. And I am honored and blessed to have been her mom for that day.
On the night she died, Texas was under extremely cold conditions. I was able to get to her home in time. I got into the bed with her, and I held her the rest of the night. I told her, “I’ll be ok, Mama” (even though I didn’t think I ever would). “You can let go now, Mama. You’ve done all you need to do. Mama and Grandma are waiting for you. Do you see them? They are holding out their arms, waiting to hold you and take you home. It’s ok to let go.” I don’t know if she could hear me or understand me, but I would like to believe her soul heard me. A little after midnight, my dear, sweet, firebrand of a mom took her last breath. The world is a little dimmer without her light. But I know she is watching over me. And I know she is finally with her mom again, the thing she wanted more than anything else.
Thank you, Mom, for making me the woman I am today, for saving me when I couldn’t save myself, for putting me back together when the world broke me into pieces. You were not just my mother. You were a mother to so many who didn’t get the fortune of being loved like Sam and I were.
My heart is heavy with your loss, but it is also full of all the love you gave me. Being able to care for you in your last years was the greatest honor of my life. And seeing you smile when I walked into the room was like seeing the sun after days of rain. I love you, Mama. Fly with the angels.
In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to:
COMPARTA UN OBITUARIO
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