“Oh, it doesn’t matter—Lynn or Lynne, either works,” I replied.
“You must be one or the other!” she pressed. “How did your parents pronounce it?”
I opened my mouth to respond, then hesitated. To my dismay, I couldn’t recall.
It shocks me to realize that it’s been 15 years since my mother passed away. The thought that the time I’ve spent without her is now nearly equal to the years I had with her feels surreal. And my father will have been gone for five years this June. How can that be?
People often say that time heals, and while I can see some truth in that, it doesn’t erase the pain of loss. The intense sorrow of early grief gradually transforms into a dull ache that is somewhat easier to endure. When I dream of my parents now—which still happens regularly—I no longer wake up engulfed in sorrow. Instead, there’s a comforting feeling, as if one of them has visited me in my dreams, sending a warm “hello” from the other side.
Yet, there’s an unsettling truth: as time passes, you begin to lose hold of the very memories you wish to cherish. For instance, I struggle to remember how they pronounced my name.
I can still vividly recall many details about my parents: the comforting scent of my mother after a bath, the distinct aroma of my dad’s leather jacket mixed with smoke from his evening cigarettes. I remember his laugh, his loud sneeze, and the way he called out to our dog. My mother’s voice, full of emotion as she sang along to her beloved Harry Chapin songs, is also etched in my memory. But the sound of them saying my name? That memory is elusive, just beyond my reach, swirling like a cloud that refuses to take form. It seems my brain has categorized this as less significant compared to the daily experiences I encounter.
There’s a poignant scene in the film Beaches where Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, who is battling terminal cancer, frantically searches through a box of photographs. “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” she exclaims, in a frenzy. Eventually, Bette Midler’s character finds a picture that captures her mother’s hands, and Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a teenager—when I watched this movie repeatedly—I grasped the deeper meaning: Hilary feared her daughter would forget her, just as she had begun to forget her own mother, piece by piece.
The fear of forgetting is deeply linked with the fear of being forgotten.
A friend recently shared a somber yet profound quote from the renowned street artist Banksy. To paraphrase, he suggested that we die twice: the first time when we stop breathing, and the second when our name is spoken for the last time.
I pondered whether there might be a third time: when the individuals who brought you into existence—who named you and nurtured you—have both departed. Who will recall my first words, my early steps, or the spirited temperament of my childhood now that my parents are gone? Lynn or Lynne. Which one resonates with my essence? Only my parents could affirm that—or could have, in the past.
But perhaps not. My older siblings, aunts and uncles, my grandmother and stepmother, and my parents’ long-time friends are still here to contribute to my story. While they may not hold the complete picture, they can certainly fill in some gaps. Losing my parents early has taught me a hard lesson: they may have given me life and a name, but what I make of it is entirely up to me.
So how did I respond to the inquisitive stranger? After a brief moment of contemplation, I recalled how my older siblings, grandmother, and other family members pronounce my name. I thought about my preference and then confidently stated, “Lynn.”
I’m fairly certain that’s how my parents said it too. It would be lovely if the last person to utter my name gets it right, but if they don’t? I still carry the scent of my father’s jacket and the memory of my mother’s voice singing “Taxi.” My family and friends will continue to remember me, even if some details fade. They are the ones still voicing my name today, even if not always correctly.
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In summary, the passage of time can blur the memories of our loved ones, leading to a fear of being forgotten. Yet, the connections we forge with family and friends help preserve our essence, allowing us to carry forward their memories alongside our own.
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