Overdue appreciation for women who cared for me when Mom died

Sometimes you only recognize extreme kindness in the rear-view mirror.

My mom died of breast cancer a month before my eighth birthday, which is obviously a watershed moment in my life.

In retrospect.

At the time, I was too busy processing it, adjusting to life without her, recognizing things were going a little crazy in my family and beginning third grade.

And really, is any soon-to-be-8-year-old ready to process such a thing?

My sisters, older than me, "processed it" (and some of the chaos in our family) in their own ways. But at 13 and 10, can you fully process such a thing? No.

My mother's death – and subsequent events in my life, including my dad remarrying (bringing the addition of my stepsister Jana) – affected me in ways that I've only unpacked in adulthood. One clear result was a feeling as a kid that anything can happen at any time, which led to my attraction of the Christian faith (where I know that ultimately, regardless of what's happening, God is in control). There are many other results, too – including many things that I've probably not unpacked yet and may never do.

However, I recently reflected on some unsung heroes in my life that 7- and 8-year-old Brad couldn't recognize: The women who recognized that I'd lost my mother and stepped in, however they could.

My teacher that year undoubtedly had a soft spot for me. Mom died on the Saturday of the first week of school, so my teacher knew she had a damaged little boy in her classroom. I don't remember anything special, but all of my memories of Mrs. Zwiefelhofer (real name!) are good. No other teacher in my lifetime gets a 100% passing grade, but every memory I have of her was that she was nice and gentle and kind.

I recognize now that she probably took care of me in ways that a third-grader doesn't recognize as special.

That was also the year I started Cub Scouts. I was a terrible Scout, partly because my dad wasn't an outdoorsman, partly because it just didn't fit: I couldn't whittle or start a fire or even tie knots (except for a necktie. My dad taught me how to tie a single and double-Windsor knot, skills I retain).

However, the two women who were my pack leaders in third and fourth grades – the mothers of my friends Jeff Stone and Todd Coleman – made me feel comfortable and paid attention to me in a way that probably reflected the fact that they knew my mom had died recently.

I don't know for sure that they were aware of my mom's death, although I suspect the early 1970s communication systems made them aware that one of their son's schoolmates had lost a mother. But I know that Pat Stone and Alice Coleman were kind and helpful and never made me feel bad for the fact that I couldn't do any of the traditional scout things.

Decades later, I look back on the loss of my mom and feel bad for the lost memories (after my dad's remarriage, we never really talked about my mom). Sadly, I have few memories of my mom. It's clear that a childhood incident (like one or more that likely occurred in your life: Maybe a divorce or another major disappointment) had sweeping impact on the rest of my life.

But I also realize that people like Mrs. Zwiefelhofer, Pat Stone, Alice Coleman (and others in my life) were adults who helped a little boy navigate what to them (and to me) probably seemed like an unimaginable tragedy.

Losing my mom was terrible and it unleashed a season of chaos and dysfunction in my family that my sisters and I are still processing. But part of the chaos was mitigated because of some women who had their own children and were invested in others – and somehow made the third-grade version of me feel better.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.