Remembering Our Fathers (and Mothers), and Ourselves

At some point, most of us will have lost one or both of our parents by the time we hit our own middle age. My father died a short time before my lung cancer diagnosis, blissfully saving him, I suppose, from this additional parental stress. (My mother, meanwhile, has remained one of my staunchest supporters, pulling double-duty in his absence by also becoming an active advocate for research and awareness by creating her own fundraising events.) When a parent dies, we often find that there are very specific things that remind us of them. And I wonder, what will be left behind to remind my child of me.

Memories of my father

I love the fact that simple little things remind me of my dad: when I stir hot dogs and onions in with scrambled eggs, or if someone lights incense inside this little log cabin we have. These bring back happy memories and a comforting sense that my childhood is still safely with me even though I am fifty years old. I love that there are easy ways to conjure his presence, like drinking a bock beer or listening to some Big Band recordings from the 1940s (or doing both together if I really feel the need to have him around). I know he could relate to a lot of what I am going through now, especially after his final tough years, even if he did not have cancer, himself.

But there is another side, too; I think of my dad every time I lose my temper over something that should be a small concern. When I was on steroids, it felt to me like I was channeling the worst of my father, and I have no doubt that he would be mortified to know he was remembered that way. Now that I am covered in a painful rash, I find that again I am likely to channel my father's short fuse unless I work conscientiously to avoid it. So I try to keep his better parts with me, reminding myself of what made him a good role model to me in much the way I approached my own philosophical and spiritual development over the years: taking the best and leaving the rest.

How will my daughter remember her father?

We are all flawed, some of us heavily, but that does not preclude us from having something to offer. With a lung cancer diagnosis hanging over me, a disease which claims on average 433 lives a day in the US alone, I have thought heavily about my own legacy and what meaningful memories I will leave behind with my child. She may hear stories, much as I often did of my father, from people who extoll my virtues. But I do not want her experience of that to be about a different man than she knows. I was fortunate to be able to get to know my dad as an adult, a peer. The decade before his death was probably when I finally got to know him best, when he let himself open up to me (and when my own questions were more pointed and meaningful).

I may not have that luxury of time. Creating moments with meaning becomes more important. The trick is ensuring that the meaning is both positive and lasting. I want my child to remember the best of me, and more than that, I want the best of me to be what drives how ever many years I have left. Yet I recognize that, ultimately, I am not in control of how I will be remembered or what little quirks will spark an image of me in those I leave behind.

Leaving a legacy

I just hope there are enough months left to erase the images of me picking scabs off my mostly-bald scalp and replace them with a smiling face (once this rash isn't so tight around my mouth). Of course, I want those future memories of milestone events to include me, as well. But if I am not fortunate enough to be there, hopefully, there will be an easy way to conjure my presence, bringing my best and leaving the rest to history.

Editor’s Note: We are extremely saddened to say that on October 21, 2018, Jeffrey Poehlmann passed away. Jeffrey’s advocacy efforts and writing continue to reach many. He will be deeply missed.