In 1961, my mother packed me up and moved me to Detroit, without my father. I was two and a half years old. Daddy was a bartender by trade, and while my parents lived in Florida, he used to hustle quite a bit (pool halls, etc.) like most young men during that era of the forties and fifties. My mother, on the other hand, having worked since the age of ten, had decided that he would either follow his family or never see us again. This time she would not go back as she had once before, while still pregnant with me. So Daddy followed and eventually got a job in his trade working at a local bar. Over a period of years, he worked his way up to assistant manager before leaving to accept a position as a custodian for our local Board of Education. He finally retired after suffering a minor stroke, having served for ten years.
Prepare.
At times, I’d arrive home from work, sit in my car in front of my house, and cry. This outburst would last anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes—a feeble attempt to “get it all out” and to fortify my strength before going inside. From day to day, I never knew what to expect, what type of crisis I would face once I walked through the door (one time I had to call the police because of a rare violent outburst). More often than not, I’d find Daddy sitting in a chair against the wall in the dining room, not really knowing where he was. There he would sit; waiting for mom to serve him dinner, only to forget a few hours later that he had already eaten. I would sit with him, coaching him as he ate, reminding him not to stuff his mouth with too much food—reminding him to swallow—my mind and heart ripped apart by the fact that he had forgotten how.
I’d seen many news reports on Alzheimer’s and the affects this debilitating disease could have on family members that were caregivers. Yet I never expected to have to deal with it myself. This sort of thing always happens to other people, right? Then I realized that there was only one way for me to begin coping with this new way of life. I had to understand that this sickness was not happening to me—it was happening to Daddy. So I asked God for strength. I asked God to meet my father where he was, to comfort him and care for him as only God could do. Then I proceeded to love my Daddy through his illness, to press through the devastation, to uphold my mother, and help her to not take his verbal attacks personally. And I prayed for her daily. I prayed for her strength and for her faith in God to sustain her. And I prayed for me daily. I prayed that I would not internalize the sickness that had overtaken the father I once knew.
