Editor’s Note: Jason Greene is a long-time member of the NYC Dads Group and contributor to this blog and its predecessor. In recognition of his many years with our group and given his family history, we’ve agreed to publicize his fundraising quest for the Alzheimer’s Association.

I entered my great-grandmother’s room to see her frail body sitting by the window. Her glassy eyes stared at a nearby tree. My dad walked over to her and called her name, waking her from her daze. She smiled at my father.

“I know I’m supposed to know you,” she said.

He ran down who he was and who was with him as she nodded politely.

Alzheimer’s disease has plagued my family for generations. And I’m not alone. More than 6 million people in the United States suffer from Alzheimer’s. If something does not change, that number is estimated to grow to 13 million by 2050. Studies show that those with a family member with Alzheimer’s have an increase of 30% to get the disease.

Anyone who loves someone with Alzheimer’s knows the cruelty of the disease. It robs you of everything — your memory, your ability to think clearly and perform even routine activities. My earliest memories of my great-grandmother are of a strong woman working on a farm. My last memories of her are painful. Unfortunately, these final years of her life are what I remember the most.

Dads want what’s best for their children. Most of us work to squash generational trauma, anger issues, self-loathing or myriad other obstacles that rise deep within our chests; however, medical conditions are one thing we only have limited ability to control. No one wants to pass on that kind of legacy. That is why I decided to run the New York City Marathon on Nov. 3 to benefit the Alzheimer’s Association.

I turn 50 this year and I wanted to do something big to celebrate. I have a friend, Patrick, who has run the NYC Marathon for the Alzheimer’s Association and he put me in touch with the organizers. A few clicks later, I was on the team and began my training.

During my training, I’ve encountered a lot of obstacles — plantar fasciitis, Achilles tendonitis, blisters, back pain and lots of chafing just to name a few. I’ve also been challenged by simply being a dad in a busy family. I’ve had to find time to fit in training while juggling my kids’ hectic schedules, cooking meals and overall exhaustion. Getting out the door is hard enough even without facing physical challenges.

On those days when I want to give up during my runs or I don’t feel like running at all, I remember the why. I’m not running just for my health, but for the hope that one day families will not endure the pain of watching a loved one fade away.

Donate to help fight Alzheimer’s disease

You can support Jason and his cause to find ways to prevent, treat and cure Alzheimer’s disease by donating to his fundraising page.

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Alzheimer’s woman photo by Mario Heller on Unsplash.

I recently lost my mother to Alzheimer’s. The disease made the last few years especially painful, but she lived to age 85 and led a full life. Perhaps the only silver lining was that the disease’s slow progression gave my five siblings and me time to process her death, reflect on her life, and arrange an appropriate memorial service. After some debate, my family elected me to compose and deliver our mother’s eulogy. I was honored.

Because there were so many of us, we grew up in a noisy family. My mother, who had a way with words, might have said we were “multivocal.” Thus, I thought my mother’s eulogy should be multivocal as well, and I asked each sibling to help me by sharing a favorite memory or two that paid tribute to some of her values — e.g., sacrifice, dedication, humility and a sense of humor.

As everyone took stock of our family’s past, I learned a surprising lesson: Memories borne through touch, taste, sound travel well. I had expected my siblings to focus on their grand milestones that my mother had been a part of, but they mainly focused on small, sensory details that continue to reverberate across time.

For example, one of my sisters recalled how Mom overcame her disdain for cooking and managed to have dinner ready at 6 p.m. sharp, basically every night of the year, for decades. Granted, my mother never learned how to cook as a child, which meant a lot of creative variations of instant and frozen food with names like chicken loaf and porcupine rice balls. The taste of her cooking, however, remains prominent in our memory bank. My mother also had quite the sweet tooth, which resulted in a small, beloved room off our kitchen that we called “the cookie closet,” but which I later learned other people call a “pantry.”

One of my older brother’s favorite memories of my mother’s commitment to family involved the sense of touch: specifically, how she washed our hair over the kitchen sink when we were kids, no doubt to save time and mess. One year at a family event, my siblings and I started reminiscing about this practice. We all described how vigorously Mom would wash our hair, almost violently digging into our scalps with her strong fingers. When confronted with the question of why, Mom laughed and said: “I don’t know. I probably wanted to throttle you and I was taking it out on your heads!” We all laughed hard, then noted how long it took for each of us to realize you don’t have to shake your head violently to wash your hair.   

Another older brother of mine cherished the sensory memory of hearing my mother’s footsteps. As a child, he always associated the clippety-clop sound of her approaching shoes with a sense of comfort, a sign of someone coming to provide care and security. Alas, as teenagers, the sound of those approaching footsteps often signaled we were in trouble, but I left that part out of our mother’s eulogy.

Ironically, it seems fitting that such body memories ended up dominating a eulogy for someone who died of Alzheimer’s disease. They say that one’s “deep” childhood memories are the last to leave a brain invaded by Alzheimer’s, in part because they are literally “embodied” in one’s skin and bones. And I can attest that one of the last memories my mother shared with me consisted of her as a child, sledding down a hill, excited to reach her mother’s outstretched arms at the bottom. Again, a sensory memory of security became the most indelible legacy of a loving parent.

I try to remember that inspirational lesson as I parent my own children. For it’s easy to lament what seems like all the invisible, underappreciated toil of parenting. But you never know what small, barely noticeable gestures and habits might become your most visible, defining characteristics in the eyes of your children someday.