Strong.
Hard working.
Good-natured.
These are the words I first think of when remembering my father. Even though I have two sisters and one brother, I was daddy’s little girl and I knew it. I had him wrapped around my little stubby fingers. Of course, my younger sister had him wrapped around her finger, too, but I ignored that. ha ha. He never, ever admitted that I could possibly be his favorite - up until his final days when I tried to trick him into saying he loved me best - he said, "I love you, too. I love all my children."
Daddy was born on Oct. 20, 1912 and I was born on Oct. 19. He always said that I was his birthday present, and I always thought that made me special.
My dad wasn’t given any breaks in his life. He was a hard-working man, making the best living he could in order to give his family a comfortable life. From working in the mines in New Mexico, to the ship yards in Indiana during World War II, to delivering gasoline to filling stations in Southern Illinois, to supervising several stations in South Florida, Daddy worked hard all his life. And never one to rest on his laurels, he continued to work long into his retirement years – repairing lawn mowers, pumping gas, mowing lawns, bagging groceries and making deliveries for local businesses.
The best legacy he could have left us is the legacy of integrity and strength. For me, he did that by instilling that sense of pride I get when doing the right thing; speaking up against injustice; speaking for those who cannot speak for themselves; doing everything in my power to make things right.
My dad wasn't a community advocate, but he understood the important role one plays when helping those who can't help themselves. I made him proud, which still today gives me great pride.
A day doesn’t pass without a thought of my dad. I look to him for strength, I look to him for pride, I look to him for a sense of humor, but mostly I look to him for love. In the same way I thought of my mother, I never imagined life without Daddy.
In looking back – my family realizes that my father showed signs of Alzheimer’s disease a good 10-15 years before he passed away. But relatives called it hardening of the arteries back then.
My father was a proud man – unable to accept that anything was wrong with him. So, eventually when things became too difficult for my mother to care for him, we made the family-decision to place my father in nursing home care.
Not too long ago, I read with interest a story about whether or not jokes or funny stories about Alzheimer’s disease were in bad taste or were they funny. The response was overwhelming. 92% of those polled said that they were necessary in order to keep sanity, while caring for a family member stricken with Alzheimer’s disease.
My dad had a fabulous sense of humor – teasing and playing tricks on friends and family all the time, so I will share one story that might be considered humorous.
While in nursing home care, my father kind of deemed himself the leader. Whenever the residents from his wing were gathered to be taken to the main dining hall for afternoon entertainment, it was my father who lined everyone up before and after the show.
One afternoon following the presentation, my father lined everyone up for their return to their wing and asked, “Are we all here?” To which the woman at the end of the line responded, “Well, we’re all here, but I don’t think we’re all there!”
My take-away from that statement that afternoon is that those stricken with Alzheimer’s disease know something is wrong, but they are trapped inside their thoughts without a way to express them.
Only research can learn the truth and only research can find a cure.
I believe we are closing in on answers that could affect those of us that are next in line.
I believe there is an end in sight and it will enable our children and grandchildren to live in a world free of this mind-stealing disease.
And the next time someone says, “You’ll always have your memories,” it will actually be true.
Growing up, I never had my own birthday party, because we’d celebrate my birthday and my dad’s at the same time. As a child, I’d often wish I didn’t have to share the “spotlight.” I just wanted my own party with my own friends. Today, I’d give anything to be able to share it with him, again.
In memory of Maurice Gail Jackson - son, husband, father, grandfather and friend
