It was a Michigan blizzard that could swallow a town whole, the kind of night that makes you question every step you take. That’s when a stranger named Derek carried my 91-year-old mother through the storm—saving her life when her own sons failed to act.
My mother, Ruth, is tiny—four-foot-ten, ninety pounds, sharp one moment, lost the next. She has dementia. She also has two sons: me, Michael, living in Florida, and my brother Tom, twenty minutes from her assisted living facility in northern Michigan.
Eight years ago, I moved south, telling myself she’d be better cared for in a professional setting. That was the lie I needed to sleep at night.
On January 17, the facility called Tom: Mom had fallen and needed X-rays. He refused to pay the $800 ambulance fee and shrugged off responsibility. I didn’t step in. By evening, she had been left at urgent care for six hours—frail, confused, alone. By 7 p.m., the clinic was closing, and nobody had picked her up.
Then Derek appeared. A biker, snow-covered, checking the weather before heading north. He saw my mother crying alone. She whispered, “My son’s coming… Tommy promised.”
The receptionist explained she’d been forgotten. Outside, the wind cut like blades and the temperature had dropped to 19 degrees. Derek called our numbers. No answer. So he made a choice.
Continue reading on next page…