Vickie Lou (Hatten) Cheeseman, known simply as Mimi to those closest to her, passed away on August 6, 2026, at the age of 77, surrounded by family in her home in Marshall, Texas.

Born in California, Vickie lived a life marked by independence, determination, generosity, faith, and an unwavering belief that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing well.

First and foremost, Vickie considered herself a nurse. It was not merely the profession she chose; it was an important part of who she was. She began her career working as a nurse's aide while raising her children and earning her LVN license. Over the decades that followed, she cared for patients in nursing homes, clinics, hospitals, and prisons.

Vickie had high standards, and she made no apologies for them.Opinionated, outspoken, fiercely independent, and possessed of a strong sense of justice, she expected people entrusted with the care of others to give their very best. Younger nurses often found in her an informal teacher—one who would tell them exactly what she expected while also taking the time to explain her methods and the reasons behind them. At the heart of those expectations was something deeply important to her: every patient deserved to be treated with dignity and respect and to receive the best care possible.

Titles impressed her far less than competence and character. Whether someone was a new nurse, a young doctor, or a hospital administrator, Vickie willingly shared what she knew with anyone genuinely interested in learning and becoming a better professional. She respected education, but she respected what a person did with that education even more. To Vickie, knowledge that did not translate into practical care had missed the point.

That same concern for people extended beyond her profession. When Vickie had extra money, she shared it. She quietly helped people she encountered who were struggling, including strangers, and regularly gathered food for young families who were having difficulty feeding their
children. She understood that sometimes caring for someone meant advocating at a bedside, and sometimes it simply meant making sure there was food on the table.

She also served as one of the unofficial keepers of the family story. Vickie knew what was happening in every branch of the family tree and took considerable pleasure in making sure everyone else knew, too. Although she was not a woman given to frequent sentimental declarations, there was never much doubt about how proud she was of her family. She bragged about her children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephew and celebrated their accomplishments with considerable enthusiasm.

Vickie carried the title Mimi with pride.

Her grandchildren held a particularly special place in her heart, and she held an equally special place in theirs. In the final years of her life, her love for her family was increasingly expressed through prayer. She faithfully prayed for them through difficulties, gave thanks for their
celebrations, and entrusted the people she loved to God.

Her faith was personal rather than performative. She read her Bible, prayed consistently, and tried to live according to what she learned. She knew she was imperfect, as we all are, and rested in the grace and mercy that our Lord extends to us.

Vickie loved her two sisters deeply, her twin sister, Connie, and her older sister, Barbara. The stories of the sisters and their various shenanigans have long since passed from ordinary family memories into family legend—and will undoubtedly grow even better with every retelling.

She also appreciated some of life's simpler pleasures. No one should have expected a meaningful level of conversation before her morning Dr. Pepper, and several family members learned that part of loving Mimi meant making sure her freezer remained properly stocked with caramel Frappuccinos. She enjoyed Lotto tickets, trips to the boats, winning at her computer games, and listening as her sons made music on the back porch.

At a large family gathering, there was also an understood order to things: Mimi expected that first plate of food to find its way to her.

She loved her country and held great respect for the military and law enforcement. She also loved growing things. When she was physically able, she enjoyed getting her fingers dirty in the garden. Later, when mobility made gardening difficult, she found a place where she could still
watch the flowers, bushes, and trees grow and thrive while the hummingbirds flitted to and fro.

Perhaps that was fitting for a woman who understood something about surviving difficult
seasons herself.

Vickie's life brought more than its share of challenges, but surrender was never particularly compatible with her personality. Her declaration was, "I will survive." And when the solution she believed was right did not necessarily conform to what everyone else expected, she was
perfectly capable of deciding to "Do it My Way."

And so she did.

Vickie taught the people around her that courage matters. She taught them not to back down simply because standing firm is uncomfortable—especially when you know what is right and when someone who cannot speak for themselves needs you to speak for them. She could be
formidable, occasionally exasperating, frequently funny, deeply generous, and absolutely herself.

Those who knew her would not have wanted her any other way.

Vickie is survived by her children: Tammy Houck, Dana Ellis, Michael & Dee Bubp, and William "Pony" Bubp; her grandchildren, Lyric Lain; Chelsey and David Woodall; Thomas Jones; Joshua Ellis; Lauren and Jose Robles; Ben and Nikki Ellis; Ethan and Secret Anderson; Michael and Aubrie Bubp; Tristan and Angela Bubp; and Ashlee and Spencer Windom; and her great-grandchildren, Bryn, Jayden, Kyran, Kaelan, Aedyn, McKenna, Evelyn, Shiloh, Daxton, and Hudson.

She was preceded in death by her husband, Thomas "Bud" Cheeseman, and her beloved sisters, Barbara and Connie.

Memorial service information will be announced when arrangements are complete.

Vickie leaves behind generations of people who were cared for, taught, defended, fed, prayed for, bragged about, corrected when necessary, and loved in the unmistakable way that was hers.

Her voice may be quiet now, but what she taught, what she gave, and the family she loved will continue to grow.

Mom, have a great day in your Heavenly neighborhood.