Farewell, dear Ruthie

She was just 7 years old the first time I laid eyes on the little blond imp, and I was 15. It was three years after my mother had died, and my father ended up marrying her mother, who had been through a rather unpleasant divorce. I was the typical sullen teenager and she was a little bit of a bratty kid. But I was thrilled at the prospect of having a mother again, sort of.
It didn't all turn out to be a bowl full of cherries. Young Ruthie was difficult at times, demanding and strident. I was withdrawn, never sure how to react to a stepmother who was unpredictable, at least in my eyes. She would be upset with me over something she assumed I knew she did not approve of, and I would often just retreat to my room with hurt feelings and no idea why. In other words, we did not always communicate well. But somehow, we muddled through.
Fast forward to about four or five years ago. I'd encountered Ruth a few times at family gatherings, but by and large her mother had managed to keep the two families fairly separate, often having family affairs twice, once for her children and once for me and my bunch. She talked a lot about her family, and so I felt as if I knew them even though I rarely saw them (she had four children altogether, but only Ruthie had ever lived in the same household as I did).
My father died at age 95, back in 2005, in January. That same year, Ruth was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember thinking how horrible it was for her mother, losing her husband of 35 years and then having to deal emotionally with her youngest and closest daughter's diagnosis.
A year or so later, I encountered Betty and Ruth in a restaurant in Salisbury, quite by accident. Ruth was wearing the "do-rag" that signals the hair loss that goes with radiation treatments for cancer. We hugged and spoke briefly.
A few years after that, Ruth was in town to settle her father's estate, a farm in Pocomoke City (which had belonged to her mother's family originally). We got to know each other a bit better then, while she was in town. In 2009, I visited Ruth in Las Vegas., By that time, it was a foregone conclusion that Ruth's cancer was terminal, but she was so full of life and sunny in disposition, it was hard to imagine that she was really that sick.
It was the last time I saw her alive. We spoke on the phone a few times, my daughter visited her just a few weeks before the end, and we texted and facebooked from time to time.
When I learned of her passing on April 16, a week before Easter, I was not surprised, but I was saddened. She'd been living in California for the past year, so I wasn't able to be involved in her day-to-day life, but she had wonderful friends and neighbors surrounding her, a loving husband who devoted himself to caring for her and she reconciled with her surviving brother.
I believe she is in a better place now, where there is no more pain and suffering. She did suffer unimaginable pain, I deduce that from things she said, although she never, ever complained to me.
Ruth was a people person, I heard that over and over again at her funeral. She enjoyed outdoor activities, but was not really what you would call an athlete. She wasn't an artist, nor a musican, nor a writer. She was purely a people person who lived in the moment, and when she was with you, she was genuinely fascinated with you, your life, your thoughts. Her smile, infectious laugh and presence could light up a room, and she didn't even have to try. That's why she had accumulated such a devoted following of friends over the years. With all the broken relationships and ways we find to abuse each other in this earthly life, Ruth was a healer of relationships, a shining example of how we should all treat each other. She wasn't bitter or angry about her illness and unfortunate fate, or if she was, she never expressed it to most of us. She posted this in the "about Ruth" section of her facebook profile:
"Every day is a gift - so enjoy!!! Enjoying each & every day of my life."
And she did, I truly believe she did. I hope that she is now resting in the loving arms of God, free of pain and sorrow, and waiting for the rest of us to catch up with her someday.