Becky’s Story

I’m Becky Fields, a wife, a mom to seven, and now a grandma many times over. But long before I ever bought a house or helped someone else sell theirs, I was just a daughter doing my best to please my parents who raised me.

In 1992, my husband and I invited my parents to live with us after my dad retired. We observed the superior environment that extended families provide, and we wanted our kids to grow up surrounded by the generations that came before them. We had just enough room in our 2400-square-foot house for all eight of us. At the time, my mother’s health was poor—she used a wheelchair—but remarkably, she improved. In time, she moved to a walker, then to a cane, and eventually walked freely, cane only in hand for public appearances. Her spirit lifted, too. For a while, I got to be her daughter again instead of her caregiver.

But one Friday in that first year, a routine asthma attack turned into a massive heart event. I was doing CPR before the paramedics arrived. They took her to the hospital with my dad riding along. Richard rushed home, and by the time we got to the hospital, she was already gone. That was the first time I truly stepped through what I call the “death portal”—when the living stand at the edge of eternity. Nothing prepares you for it. It changed me, my dad, my children. Grief is a kind of passage.

Five years later, I cared for my father through a long, hard fight with colon cancer. He lived joyfully most of that time, but the last six weeks were brutal. We were blessed to have help, especially my aunt, who stayed with us until the very end. That was 1997, the year our sixth child was born. Life and death in one breath.

Then came Christmas 2000. My husband’s mother, Myrna, was visiting. She had scleroderma, a cruel autoimmune disease that had already taken a few fingers. A festering sore on her leg turned septic, and within days she lost both legs. We brought her home from the hospital as a double amputee. For three years, I helped her finish well. She passed quietly in July 2003, with my husband and me by her side.

These stories aren’t here to make you feel sorry for me. They’re here because they shaped me. They taught me what it means to walk someone home. They taught me that caregiving isn’t just hard—it’s sacred.

And no, I’m not the one who naturally flocks to bedside ministry. I’m a problem-solver. A connector. A steward of tasks. But I’ve lived this road, and I know what it feels like to wonder if you’re doing it right. To juggle medical appointments, estate paperwork, meals, grief—and guilt.

That’s why I started Daughters of Naomi.

This isn’t a counseling ministry. It’s not medical. It’s not a church. It’s a place to come when you need someone who understands—when you’re tired, unsure, and quietly hoping for one good answer. I don’t have all of them. But if you’re wondering what you’ll do when your parent starts going downhill, I’ve been there. And I believe every woman deserves a community that can hold space for her story.

Come Sit with Us

If something in my story sounds like your story, I hope you’ll stay awhile.

Take a look around, read a post or two, or send a message if you’d like. Whether you’re in the thick of caregiving or just beginning to prepare your heart for what might come, there’s a place for you here. No pressure. Just presence.

We walk this road together, and you don’t have to do it alone.