0n August 26, 2008 at approximately 445pm, I received a phone call from my mom telling me that my Dad had been rushed to the hospital because he hadn’t been acting like himself. On August 27, 2008 at approximately 845am, 2 days before his birthday, I received a phone call from my Mom telling me that his heart had stopped and the medical staff was working to bring him back. At approximately 1045am, I received a phone call from my Uncle and was informed that my father had passed away. Worst day of my life.

On January 2, 2001, my father had a stroke. I was at basketball practice when my girlfriend at the time rushed in and pulled me off the court to inform me of the news. She drove me to the hospital where I saw him convulsing on a hospital bed. I felt helpless. There was nothing I could do as I watched the doctors and nurses restrain him. Tears rolled down my face as I yelled for someone to help keep him calm and return him to the man that had raised me. Next thing I know, he was in a coma.

My basketball coach brought me back to see him the next day. I cried hysterically. Nobody wants to see their parent laying there in that state. It was extremely tough, but I grabbed my Dad’s hand and talked to him. I was hoping that he could hear me. Though he couldn’t respond then, I eventually found out that he could hear every word that I said.

I went off to college that year. Ever since he had that stroke, I had a feeling of nervousness and anxiety every time that my Mom called me. I’d see “private number” on my cell phone, and I’d always hoped that it wasn’t the awful news that my Dad had passed away. It’s now 2008. After years of fretting the worse, that day has finally come. My Mom has called me a few times since he died, and I haven’t had that anxiety. However, my heart just doesn’t feel the same. I’ve lost at least half of myself, from a physical, mental, and spiritual perspective. It’s a terrible feeling.

My father meant a lot to me. It’s taken a week for me to even begin drafting this blog entry. You won’t see anything from Slim Jackson on this blog for at least a week from the time I posted this. He deserves a tribute that won’t be overshadowed by my random musings and the race to become president of the United States. There are things that are more important. Family is more important. Though this entry will be long, I encourage my readers to follow it to the conclusion. Take a step back from your regular lives to internalize every word that I’ve typed. If you’ve been through this already, please understand that I share similar feelings.

Since his passing, I’ve had many moments where I struggled. There are some things that have stood out more than others. I’m going to attempt to capture each of them. This isn’t a blog where I expect comments. I just want to get a lot of stuff off my chest that I wouldn’t and cannot vocalize because of the emotion that it stirs within me.

I’m taking your suit to the cleaners.

I dry clean my suits for work on a fairly regular basis. On the day that my Dad passed, I rushed home with the same black suit that I wore to work. On August 28^th, I took my wrinkled suit and my Dad’s favorite suit to the dry cleaner for the last time. As I grabbed both suits from the back of my car, it hit me that this was the last time I’d be running an errand for him. I walked across the parking lot, tears streaming down my face. My friend sat in the car and waited, while I tried to “be strong” carrying both suits to the cleaners. Once I got to the door of the shop, I had to stop. I felt weak. I was ready to crumble. I knew that people could see the man behind the sunglasses, and I simply didn’t care. There were enough tears on each side of my face to make it obvious that something had gone terribly wrong. Why now? Why him? Why my mom? Why me?

After dropping off both suits, I hurried back to my car. I was destined to get home and “be a man”. I put the car in reverse, and then put it in drive. Within a few seconds, I broke down and lost it. Real men don’t cry is bullshit. I pulled my car into a parking spot and let go of all the emotion that had bottled up inside from the time I got the news to the moment that I dropped off his dry cleaning for the last time. Again, this was a terrible feeling.

Writing is my talent. Now I do it for him.

Rappers write rhymes. Poets write poems. Authors write books.

I’ve acknowledged that I’m a strong writer. My dad always told me the same. He praised me for my ability and suggested that I eventually needed to write a book. As much as I enjoy writing and letting my creativity flourish, nothing has ever been as challenging as writing the obituary and creating the program for his funeral. To write three detailed paragraphs, it took me over 5 hours. I wanted to make sure that every word was perfect, and that I caught the sentiment of his brothers and sisters, my mom, my sister, and myself. I searched for every typo. I made sure that every word was perfectly placed. I wanted to capture every possible thing I could to ensure that those who attended the funeral got the best picture of my father that one could create with words. I’ve been complimented on what I put together. I’ve looked time and time again at the program that was printed at Kinkos in the late hours of the night. No matter how many times I review it, my heart doesn’t feel any more relieved and my mind doesn’t feel any more at ease. Yet, it is done.

He picked me up and he never put me down.

This was his quote. This is what he wanted me to call the book. He was proud of me and everything I had done. It was important to him that he and my mom had accomplished everything they had planned from my birth. They had sacrificed for me financially. They had done everything in their power to ensure that I succeeded. I got that elusive Ivy League degree. My Uncle Tony drove both of them up to my school to ensure that they got to see the fruits of their labors when I graduated. It was bittersweet. I had neglected the significance of that shiny degree on my wall until now.

It’s no secret that the economy has put a squeeze on a lot of people, including myself. Though I haven’t been poor, I’ve had many moments where I wished I had a bit more money. Moments where I said “If I hit the lotto for just x amount, my life would be so much different.” In his passing, I didn’t inherit a jackpot. My struggle is still a struggle. However, the timing of his departure couldn’t have been more in synch with my life. I hate the fact that he passed. But in the same instance, he left me a small portion to help stabilize me financially at a time where I really needed the help. Nothing grand. Nothing spectacular. Just enough for me to hear him say “I told you. I picked you up, and I’ll never put you down.” I couldn’t be more grateful.

My Mom. The Ultimate Strong Black Woman.

Since my father had a stroke, my Mom has always been there. When a lot of other people would have quit, she made the trips to the hospitals and the nursing homes to make sure that he was comfortable. Even when he was home and appeared to be headed to recovery, she continued to cook the meals, iron his clothes, and make sure that he was in good spirits overall. A lot of people would have said fuck it at this point. I’m talking about over 7 years of dedication. “Til death do us part” was not just a cliché said during wedding vows. It was reality.

My mom doesn’t drive a car. When my Dad was in a nursing home over 30 minutes away from my hometown, my Uncle Eli drove her there every week to make sure he was ok. When my Uncle wasn’t around, she took the bus to check in on him. It didn’t matter if she had to take a cab home or call someone to pick her up. She was always there. Whenever I get married, I will expect no less from my wife. My mom is the ultimate Strong Black Woman. Anybody who says differently to my face will be slapped in the face. That is written with 100% seriousness. I love my Mom for the dedication she had for my Dad, and I can only hope that I have a woman as good as her.

And it is done.

If you made it through this entry, you get my respect. There’s more to blogging than obscenities, off the cuff jokes, relationship advice, and Youtube video clips. If you haven’t lost a parent that has been critical to your upbringing, that day will come. You will hurt. If you have lost a parent or both parents, I’m sure you understand everything that I’ve presented in this entry. As I go forward, I can only hope to demonstrate the greatest traits of my father, and the endurance of my mother.

We’ve seen a lot of people pass to the next life. The news has talked about the Ray Charles, the Bernie Macs, the sportscasters, the actors, and whoever else is out there. I just wanted to take this opportunity to talk about my Dad. He’s done more for me and those in my family than any of the celebrities that have gotten coverage. I miss you Dad. I thank you for all that you’ve done to turn me into the person I am today. You will not be forgotten. I can only hope that I’ll be able to emulate your best qualities. I look forward to being reunited with you again. In the meantime, look over me. Offer me advice in whatever way you can. When I’m driving in my car without music, sitting at my work desk feeling down, or laying in bed thinking about the troughs of my life, I’m still going to look to you for advice. Just because you’re not here physically doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you mentally or spiritually. Keep me on the right track, and I will continue to make you proud.