When Mom Was My Age (#32)


By

Deborah Owen & mother Ruth Crayton

Deborah Owen & mother Ruth Crayton

“When Mom Was My Age” is an interview series between daughters and mothers. New interviews appear every Monday. If you would like to participate, contact Jane.

The following interview is with Ruth Crayton (age 93), reflecting on her life at age 69, interviewed by daughter Deborah Owen.

Where did you live at age 69?
My husband and I lived in a ranch style house in suburban Indianapolis. The city kept growing up around us and the country dwindled away. My husband used to point at the fields and say, “One day there will be housing developments or apartments over there.” Today, there are.

What was your typical day like?
I was the grandmother of six. My husband was retired so we sauntered through life piddling around. Eating out was our big thing, but you have to remember it was 1987, and fast food restaurants weren’t perched on every corner like they are now. We liked Steak n’ Shake and MCL Cafeteria and on occasion we burped on a White Castle. We went to White Castle when we were dating, way back in 1918.

What did you worry about most?
We really didn’t have any specific worries as long as the family was safe and sound. Money was tight, but it always had been. We were used to that.

What did you think the future held?
I thought we’d watch our grandchildren and great-grandchildren grow old, but reality busted our balloon. Paul (my son) was 49, and you were 45. Paul was by far the healthiest person in the family. Other than asthma, he was never sick a day in his life, until the headaches started. We didn’t think too much about it at first. Everybody gets headaches, right?

He was a few pounds overweight and carried a middle-aged tummy paunch but was otherwise in great shape. He couldn’t handle the thought of a 50th birthday so he said, “I can’t help turning 50, but I can and I will be the best looking, most physically fit 50-year-old man in the state of Indiana.”

Up to that point in time, the word cancer had never darkened our doors. He collapsed at the bank and the whole family met at the hospital to await the results of the CAT scan. The doctor gave him three to six months to live. No one spoke. We just sat there.

Grandparents died. Parents died. Neighbors died. Friends died. But it wasn’t natural to watch our child die. Four months later we stood over his grave. He never had to face that 50th birthday. Later, his father-in-law said, “If you lined up every man in the state of Indiana and tried to guess who would die last, Paul would have been at the end of the line.”

How do you feel when you look back on that age?
I don’t know how I lived through it. I think the shock of Paul’s death weakened my husband’s constitution. Within 18 months, Ray developed cancer and in another 18 months, I stood over his grave.

Just as there are no words to describe being blind, there are no words to describe the unfathomable void that consumes grieving loved ones. Every day is a lifetime. A month is thirty lifetimes. You can’t imagine the despair. The agony and loneliness.

You wake up with grief, you eat with grief, and you sleep with grief. Your body produces more tears than the ocean. You live in the past and wait for your loved one to walk through the door.

Grief is a hole in your soul. After a period of time, you learn to walk around the hole, but you instinctively know if you stare into the pit, you’ll go stark raving mad. If not for God, I wouldn’t have survived it.

From Deborah
Paul’s death was hard enough, compounded then by losing Dad, but the hardest part of all was losing Mom while she yet lived. She was in shock for 10 years, and I missed her so much. All she talked about was Paul and Dad. I wondered if she would have grieved like that for me. I used to tell her, “You still have one living child,” and for that moment she returned, but only momentarily.

Two years after Dad passed, Mom found her childhood sweetheart through a chance meeting, and they married a year later. (He died of cancer six years later.) She grieved for Paul for ten years, grieved for my Dad another ten, and still grieves for the past daily.

Then one day in 1997, she said, “God took my grief just like that (snapping her fingers). It was like shutting a water faucet off.” I remember saying, “God could have shut it off sooner if you had let Him.”

I still maintain that to a point: Grief is a choice. But as I write this, I suddenly realize my daughter is now the age Paul was when he died. I can’t imagine life without either of my children (let alone losing my husband, too), but that’s what Mom had to deal with. She was the first writer in our family and she spawned six more. Today she is 93 years old, and she has breast cancer.

  • Denice Clemmons Whitaker

    What a precious story, a piece of memory made infinite by putting it in writing. Thank You Debra and Jane for sharing it here. I lost my mother in 1999, so I understand that unspeakable void entitled “grief”. Such a tiny word to encompass such deep pain.
       My Mom was my best friend. As I am a parapalegic, she was so helpful in the early years of raising my three daughters. In Jan. 1999 I was hospitalized and underwent a major operation on my spinal cord. There were complications and I became extremely ill. But my mother was there everyday.
      What made her attendance special was that she was dying. She was suffering from Cancer that had metastisized to her liver and beyond. Still she was at my bedside everyday, even when Dad had to bring her up in a wheelchair.
       I finally was released following months of inpatient physical therapy on the first of June. My mother died on June 19th 1999. I never got to be there for her during her illness. And I will always regret that.
      Your story was a real blessing to me.

  • Deborah Owen

    Thank you, Denice. Sometimes it takes a lot of looking to find any kind of blessing in either your story or mine. I think the most painful part in my life (and also my husband’s) is in watching our mothers deteriorate before our eyes. Today, it’s as though we are raising them instead of vice versa. We’re still learning to deal with that… and the fact that their deaths loom closer every day. Thank you for your comment. You can reach me at http://www.creativewritinginstitute.com if you’d like to discuss this further. Blessings to you. Deb

  • http://www.judycroome.blogspot.com Judy Croome

    Grief traps people in so many ways; it’s such a hard path to walk however we choose to deal with it. I think losing a child must be the most awful, unnatural feeling – against the natural order of things. At 93 your Mom must have seen so many things. I’m sad she has breast cancer and hope that, when it is her time to pass to the next world,  she has a good death, one of peace and tranquility, surrounded by those, like yourself, who love her.
    Judy,
    South Africa

  • Deborah Owen

    Yes, mom saw blacksmith’s pounding iron and shoeing horses when she was a child. She saw the advent of automobiles and was raised during the depression when all they had to eat was biscuits and water gravy. She and those born in her time are a dying breed. They are kin to the pioneers of a previous era… tough people who survived death and hardships I can’t even imagine.

    You’re right. Grief is a trap – and each person has a choice as to how they travel that path.  Some turn against God. Some run into His arms. Some plod on day by day, bearing their pain, while others cave in and die. But regardless of how a person handles grief, one thing is sure. It affects them the rest of their lives. Thanks for writing, Judy. Happy day!