My mother, Margaret Hamtil, passed away on August 31st, aged 85. She suffered for years from a long list of ailments that handicapped her, but, mercifully, retained her lucidity until the end, affording her at least that measure of comfort in her final years.
She was from a small town in Missouri, the youngest child of a family of modest means, but she was anything but a simple person. She went on to the University of Missouri and obtained her degree, a tremendous accomplishment for a woman from that community at the time. It was at the university that she met my father; they later married and had ten children and dozens of grandchildren.
I think what people will remember most about Mom is that she always put herself last. Whenever anyone needed anything, she provided it, whether it was lending a helping hand or simply listening to us complain about a bad day. When my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s nearly thirty-five years into their marriage, she never hesitated to provide him with the intense care and attention his condition demanded. As his faculties declined and his mental acuity diminished, she never wavered, ushering him to doctor’s appointments and making sure his medication was administered on schedule. When a fall broke her hip and took away her mobility and her independence, she found other ways to maintain her watch over Dad, never once asking for relief.
When Dad finally passed in 2016, I starkly remember how at his visitation Mom greeted each person individually, thanking each for making the effort to attend. She was in a wheelchair at this point, in pain from osteoporosis and chronically fatigued, but she was determined to show her best in front of all the mourners. It had to have been exhausting, but you could not tell from watching her. I still think it was one of her finest moments.
With Dad gone, she spent her days helping with the grandchildren, always making herself available to babysit as needed. When at last her body began to fail her, it was our turn to return the compassion and care with which she had treated us when we were small children. In her own Golgotha she suffered patiently and without complaint, an example of resignation in the classical sense of the word.
My mother lived a full life, and she gave everything until her last breath. She would want to be remembered as having fulfilled her duties to the last, faithful to the end.
Uxor et mater fidelis; requiescat in pace.
