Reaching 41

Not too long ago, I realized that I’ve been alive longer than my dad was alive. That may sound weird or even morbid to some, but for those of us who lost a parent as a child, it’s the birthday that is most poignant. For many, expect their fate to be the same as that of their parent, there even is a fear of dying at that age... For me, it’s about identifying with my dad and trying to understand who he was as a person.

My dad was 41 when he died. To be exact, he was 41 years, 5 months, and 14 days old. I was 13 at the time, so my perspective, like that of any young teenager, was that my dad was old. Also, my dad’s parents had preceded him in death, one by five years and one by eight months. In some respects, it was the natural course of the life cycle.

Once I came of an age that would roughly make me my dad’s contemporary, I tried to put myself in his shoes and imagine what his life was like. Most people that I speak with who lost a parent when they were a child express some apprehension as they reach the age their parent was when he/she died. Many are surprised when they actually live past that age. I understand the sensation of reaching that age and thinking about how life would be for my family if I were to die, but I never felt the fear of dying myself. I have always said that I’d like to skip 41 and just jump from 40 to 42, but facing my own mortality is not what made the milestone so salient for me.

Of course, there were some unsettling emotions when I was diagnosed with the same disease (lung cancer) that took his life, and it didn’t help that I happened to be around the same age (39) that he was when he was diagnosed and died from it. I do think about the fact that my dad probably had lung cancer earlier and how different life would have been if his cancer had been caught sooner. I also wonder what my fate would have been at 41 if mine hadn’t been caught early. I don’t let that thought consume me, but there are times I look in the mirror, and I see the image of my dad.

It was a strange feeling to approach the relatively young age that my dad was when he died, and it gives me the chills to actually hear myself say, “41,” when asked my age. For 27 years, my association with the age 41 has been significant, but I never realized that it meant I would lose a connection to my dad. There will be no more “‘following in my dad’s footsteps,” and I will no longer hear, “When your father was that age…” It definitely threatens my identity a bit. But my dad will forever be 41. After I erase the terrible images in my mind of my dad when he was sick, I will always remember him as young, healthy, and active. It’s actually a beautiful thing; the positive side of me that always insist on finding the silver lining in unfortunate circumstances.

I will never again be able to correlate anything in my life with my dad’s life, and that is why it’s so important to me to understand who he was. I never got to know my dad as a person. Sure, I have great memories and stories, but only from an egocentric adolescent perspective. As I got older and my grief evolved, I began to yearn for that adult relationship and understanding of my dad. I search for any story or memory that will help me discover who he was and I try to find any connection I can that will help me feel closer to the man I never got to know.

What I never expected to feel or understand is what he felt as a parent during his illness. My son Jack and I have the same age difference as my dad and I. From the moment Jack was born, I knew I would look at him differently when he turned 13, but I never expected our lives to be quite so parallel. In a way, I was living my dad’s life, and Jack was living mine. It’s been a little eerie. Not only could I relate to the anguish my dad must have felt, but I could also identify with the fear and uncertainty that Jack was feeling. I’m not sure which is worse. As a parent, I felt heartbroken and helpless, and as a child, I felt lost and confused. Thankfully Jack‘s story ended differently from mine, but it brought new emotions to the surface for me; the 13-year-old girl inside of me is envious of my son.

I now understand why my grief was so intense and why my ability to process my dad’s death has been a long and difficult road. I see where Jack is in his life as a teenager, trying to manage the normal stresses of adolescence, struggling for independence, and fighting to create his own identity. I cannot change what happened to me at 13 and I cannot change being diagnosed with lung cancer when Jack was 12, but after following a little too closely in my dad’s footsteps, I did change the path; I will celebrate my 42nd birthday (and I plan on many more!). I feel sad for my dad, but as a parent, I am grateful that Jack and my other three children didn’t have to experience the outcome that I did when I was 13. They (we) got the happy ending. In a way, I feel like my survival of lung cancer was my ‘do over.’