Two women who mean the world to me

It was 10 years ago this coming November that my mother made her last visit to Montana, when she came to Kalispell to stay with me and my two children on Thanksgiving.

As it turned out, there wasn’t much to give thanks for. Though we had been looking forward to her visit for some time, my 7-year-old son, 3-year-old daughter and myself were in the midst of a family crisis at the time as we dealt with the unhappy circumstances of my failed marriage.

I thought mom would be able to help me navigate those troubled waters, as she had guided me so many times before, but alas it was not to be. It turned out my mom had much more serious problems than I had ever dreamed of.

Even when I picked her up at the airport that afternoon, I had a glimmering that something wasn’t quite right. She seemed confused about why I had been a bit late picking her up, even though I had explained my schedule to her just the night before when we finalized our plans.

But I got her home, had a quick conversation with her, told her to make herself lunch and left her several Sunday crossword puzzles out of the Inter Lake to help her pass the time till I returned at the end of my work day. My children were in day care and an after-school program, so there was no one with her that afternoon, but to my surprise when I returned to the house several hours later, mom was still sitting where I had left her, still dressed in her heavy winter coat, puzzles untouched in her lap, suitcase unopened at her side, and a blank expression on her face.

Was there anything wrong, I asked. Nah. Are you OK? Fine, just tired. But mom was never too tired to try her hand at a crossword puzzle. She had brought me up to toil over the Sunday New York Times puzzle with her, for as long as it took, till we solved every nook and corner of it. Of course, when I was a youngster, she used to make sure she saved me a few clues that she knew I could answer, and years later, I used to do the same for her.

But now here was a puzzle I couldn’t answer: What is wrong with mom? I called my older brother, who lived in Michigan near mom, and asked him if he had noticed any problems before she flew to Montana. No, everything seemed normal. He had had a conversation with her just the night before and did not notice anything unusual.

OK, maybe it’s just me. Or old age. Or even the onset of Alzheimer’s. My mom had just turned 74, and though she was an energetic, lively woman, it was certainly possible that she was slowing down. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, made it through the week with her as best I could, tried to help her and the kids have a good time with each other, and then put her on the plane.

I called my brother and told him I wanted him to check on her that night to make sure she still seemed all right to him. He had lived just a few miles from her for many years, and was more likely to know whether anything was seriously wrong.

Unfortunately, that night, we found out just how wrong things were. Mom had gotten off the plane in Detroit, found her car in the parking lot with the help of an attendant who said she seemed confused, and then got on the highway and drove toward her hometown and then kept driving past it for a hundred miles or so. My brother had called the police when she didn’t turn up at home as expected, and the Highway Patrol found her pulled to the side of the road, lost and unsure how to make it home.

She stayed lost after that, too, and never again would be herself. My brother relayed to me the news (or lack of it) from a variety of doctors, technicians and brain specialists who would study her over the next week to 10 days, and finally after lots of questions, we had the answer.

Creutzfeldt-Jakob Syndrome. A disease that none of us had ever heard of before, but which we discovered was sudden, unforgiving and unstoppable.

My mother’s brain had fallen victim to a type of organism or entity that chewed away not just memories, but the actual gray matter itself, leaving holes and empty spaces behind where a person once was.

My brother was with her every day, helping however he could, seeing and hearing and feeling things that made him think he could not be strong enough to go on. But he did. He did it for mom — and for me. I was here in Montana with two kids and a feeling of helplessness, but I don’t know if I ever could have been as strong as my brother those six weeks before mom died. He did her proud.

I got to see mom one more time, when I went back to Michigan to spend time with her in the nursing care facility where she was receiving hospice treatment in her final days. I believe that mom recognized me when I first got there. She let out a guttural cry, and I felt a strong pressure when I took her hand, but after that she sank back into that place where she was going.

I stayed with her for four or five days, tending to her as best I could. She could no longer eat, and she refused to take water, so it was just a matter of time before we lost her forever, but she surprised everyone with her strength — everyone except my brother and me. We had been with her too long to be surprised by her resilience, her toughness and her will power. It was what she had fed us when we were children, what she taught us when we were teen-agers. It was in her DNA, and in ours too, I guess.

And it’s in our children, too. My son and daughter who were robbed of their grandmother at a young age both show signs of being wonderfully creative, eccentric and individualistic people just like she was — and let’s face it, just like I am. I regret that they can’t see their grandmother’s enthusiasm and zest for life first hand, but they can share it nonetheless, by dedicating themselves to being the best people they can be — no matter what life throws their way.

We all know that mothers are irreplaceable. They shield us, they shape us, they comfort us. I’ll always miss mine, but when I look at Carmen and Meredith, it’s not hard to see their grandmother staring back at me — questioning, challenging and understanding.

And since that day a little over nine years ago when mom was lost to us, I’ve also discovered that life goes on in unexpected ways. I married a woman who was just like mom in so many ways — tough, thoughtful and maybe even more resilient. She’s carried on where mom left off, teaching me how to get the most out of life, and how to keep growing into a better person — even when it’s hard to do.

She also brought another son into my life, our baby Huzhao, who is now almost 2 years old, and just as much of a handful as I was at that age. Sure, it’s a regret that he can’t ever know his grandmother, but I know he’ll turn out to be a caring person. For one thing, it’s in the genes. For another, he’s got a mom who is just as special as mine was — who always has time for him, who strives for perfection but settles for reality, and who (like most mothers) gives 110 percent of herself 100 percent of the time.

And she doesn’t just take care of our little one; it’s also a full-time job looking after me and the two older children. I don’t know how we would get anything done without her.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of two special women — my mom and my wife — and I just want to say thanks for being there, for blessing my life with your presence, and for making every day together one that I will treasure.