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Books A death shared by mother, daughter
MY MOTHER
DYING By Hillary Johnson St. Martins Press,
Hardcover, 242 pages, $24.99 |
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By JUDITH BROMBERG
Publishers should listen to their authors. Hillary Johnsons
title for her book was The Art of Ruth, not only a more compelling title
but in many ways a more truthful one. The book had its inception in the death
of Ruth Jones, Hillarys mother (forgive me for using first names, but
after spending time with them in this book, I feel as if I know them that way).
But what she celebrates is her mothers life, her spirit, her
anima, which Hillary came to know in her mothers final years
through her art. It was only after Ruth died that I began piecing it all
together -- my blindness, her artistry, our failure to connect on this signal
matter.
Edna Ruth Hines Johnson Jones was as complex and complicated a
woman as her name. At times I didnt always like Ruth, the
strong-personalitied, outspoken, sometimes coarse, always lively Ruth, but I
was always fascinated by her, and by the end of her life and the book I admired
and respected her.
Every daughter has a story to tell about her mother. Hillary
Johnson, a journalist and freelance writer, has not only a story but the words
to tell it. There were a whole lot of sweet little old ladies out there,
and then there was Ruth, she writes.
There is a mother-child, especially mother-daughter relationship
that transcends personalities, and Hillary has tapped that spine of
recognition. Many grown children identify powerfully with their mothers as did
Hillary, yet paradoxically we need to pull away, to separate. Many mother-child
relationships know their share of anger and resentment amidst a bond so
powerful that not even death nullifies it. Show me a parent-child relationship
without guilt or regret because we pretended not to care, when caring was the
watermark of our need for each other.
It was throat cancer that claimed Ruths physical life, the
illness that brought Hillary back to Minneapolis from New York to be with her
mother for four years before the cancer claimed her. During those years
that I spent with her, years during which she presumably was looking down
deaths jaws, Ruth was not an angry, resentful or even depressed person.
She was, instead, someone with an uncommon capacity for delight, someone who
chose to see mostly beauty and who spent the lions share of energy
remaining to her creating it.
One of Ruths friends commented to Hillary that Ruth
seemed to create art wherever she looked. And even though she held death
at bay for several years after her diagnosis, she made an accommodation for it
by preparing the room in her home in which she would die. Ruth wrote to her
son, And since Ive taken five years to die of this Im so
proud to have made such a lovely place to do it in. Its quite
lovely.
Ruths death was not entirely on her own terms. A botched
medical procedure left her without the use of her vocal cords. Hillary has
little good to say about the medical profession in general. Only one doctor and
a few of Ruths caregivers earned any of her respect. But while Ruth was
rendered voiceless, she was not speechless. Ever quick with pen and yellow note
pad, she wrote prolifically and carried on full-fledged conversations. It is
this turn of events that allowed Hillary to recover meaningful conversations
and to quote her mother verbatim.
Ruths final gift to her daughter was the manner of her
death. Not only in a lovely place, but in a lovely way. She wanted
to be a model of courage. And it seems she did just that by dying with
dignity and grace. Hillary goes on, I recognized that she had not
only faced her death with enormous courage, she had led her life with courage
and grace as well. ... Her powerful will to live had been another
revelation.
Most of Hillarys discoveries about her mother somehow trace
to Ruths art. Interestingly enough, as close as they had been at times
during Hillarys growing up, she had already moved away by the time Ruth
took up the formal study of art. Thanks to the pieces left behind and to
Ruths new artistic friends, Hillary got the chance that many of us do not
to meet our mothers anew.
Though Ruth was not at all pious, art, nevertheless, was sacred,
wherein she followed Shaker tenets that claim art comes from the spiritual
world and can only be given away, not sold for monetary gain. Her art was
an expression of her love. She made art precisely so that she could give it
away to those she loved, to those who admired it.
Always the consummate hostess, in the last year before her death
Ruth summoned great reserves of energy and good cheer inviting friends in for
lunch. As they would say their goodbyes, none of them suspected they were
seeing Ruth for the last time. That was precisely how Ruth wanted it. After
Ruths death, people in the medical profession even made a point of
telling Hillary that in their minds, Ruth had been different, had touched
them in a fashion not every dying patient had.
In this work, as in all good writing, the universal is in the
particular. In the story of Ruth Jones and Hillary Johnson, most of us, I dare
say, will see glimpses of our relationships with our own mothers. Ask for the
book by its publishers title, then get past it and enjoy The Art of
Ruth.
Judith Bromberg is a regular reviewer for NCR.
National Catholic Reporter, March 10,
2000
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