A long battle. Small victories. And a sticky beer stein filled with irrelevant things.
These are what remains of my father’s tags from the 50′s. They are not his issue tags, but recreations of them that he’s had since the 50′s. When he died I inherited them, and as a child I was always fascinated by these little stamped pieces of tin. He kept them in a dirty brown ceramic stein he got in Germany when he was in the service, along with assorted other keys and oddities he collected throughout his life. By the time it came to be in my possession the stein was in a dusty box in his closet. It was filthy and sticky, the years of chain smoking with this stein sitting just over his shoulder had left it unsavory to the touch.
But not to me. I reached for it instantly while my sister and I were going through his possessions. The Latin and Germanic text on the sides was now almost invisible beneath the sickly yellow cake that held on to this artifact of his youth, but I knew it instantly from years of reverence. I recall when I opened the lid to dump out the contents and saw those tags my heart raced and my eyes widened to their zeniths. I had forgotten about them as I got into my twenties, you see.
My twenties were a blur of his different cancer diagnoses and treatments, surgeries and follow-ups. While friends were touring Europe on student visas, I was removing needles from my father’s chest implant. And these needles carried chemotherapy drugs so toxic that I was to be rushed to an emergency room for treatment should any have leaked on my skin during the removal. I had forgotten all about the tags and the stein they lived in. They were just things at that point, and pretty irrelevant things at that.
And then dad died. And then we found that box. And in that box we found that stein. And in that stein we found these tags. And in these tags I found the value of irrelevant things. Touching them for the first time in what must have easily been twenty-two years or more, I felt like I was doing something mischievous. Dad would never let us touch that stein by ourselves, and had always supervised me when I was allowed to hold those 30 grams of rigid metal. I remember looking around to make sure the old man wasn’t looking. I rubbed the two tags together and heard the metal scrape together, a delicate tinny sound that reminded me of ice skates. I asked my sister if I could have the stein and the tags on the spot and she said, “absolutely, I don’t want that smelly old thing in my house.”
I couldn’t fault her, it was a smelly old thing and it contained irrelevant things. Also possibly a treasure map, but that’s a different story.
I took the stein and it’s contents home and immediately got a chain for the tags and wore them under my clothes for about a month after he died. I wore them to his funeral, as well as the Hawaiian shirt I am wearing today in that photo above. You see, they were a symbol of everything I loved about my father. They were a symbol of my childhood, and my reverence. But they had also become something else: These stamped pieces of tin became my dog tags for the years I spent by his side, slogging out of the despair and hardship of his cancers, his Parkinson’s disease, and his eventual dementia. They became my reward and my remembrance for fighting in a battle 15 long years with only small victories, and one casualty. They became the symbol of the man in that desperate foxhole next to me, that I laughed with, fought with, fought against, and held while he cried. My friend. My father.
I took them off after about a month partly because I felt I needed to move forward but in all honesty mostly because I was afraid I’d lose them. To the rest of the world they were irrelevant things, but to me they were everything that made me who I am and I would be heartbroken if they were lost. I don’t wear them often now; only on special occasions really.
I wore them the first year I rode support with my mother on her first 3 day Breast Cancer Walk. I wore them the first two thanksgivings and Christmases he missed. But really now, I only wear them twice a year.
One is on March 12th, the anniversary of his death. One is today, November 15th, his birthday. He would have been 78 years old today. I’ll turn 38 years old tomorrow. He was 40 years and one day older than me, a fact that becomes increasingly more poignant the closer I get to 40 myself.
The only other times I will wear these tags is on my wedding day, the birth of any of my children, and the day I’m interred myself; because on that day they become once again just irrelevant things.
I love you dad, I miss you every day. And as much as I hated it at the time, the most important years of my life were spent in that foxhole with you. Happy Birthday.
P.S. Thursday I get a pink mohawk carved into my head, as I have every year after the first year my mom walked the three day. Friday I go support her as she and her team walk in San Diego. She’s a cancer survivor as well you see, and while some people look at shaving my head into a ridiculous pink mohawk is an irrelevant thing; to my mother, myself, and the five thousand walkers on that three days it’s a symbol.
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this post first appeared on http://boomoy.wordpress.com
Adam, Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings. Most people can not express themselves in such a way. You are really special!!! Totally awesome!
Communicating a deeply personal experience has effectively as you have is both a rare skill, and a gift. Having never lost a parent, I lived this with you in your retelling. Well written words are simply just words on a page until they are given life and depth by a human voice. And sir, your voice is extraordinary.
Adam, what can I say – you are amazing – the care and love you give to your family, the beautiful way you write your life story and the fantastic ability you have to make everyone visualize & feel your feelings at that time. Your dedication and support for your mother and to our team on the 3 day walk, and yes the pink mohawk are true human kindness and love.
thank you so much for sharing this part of you.
So very sweet of you to say, Deb. The 3 Day is such a wonderful reminder of the people we have kept, those we have lost, and possibly most importantly, the people like yourself that we have friended along the way. Whereas Dad and I found ourselves in a foxhole, fighting back his very isolated and lonely cancers, with the 3 Day I feel more like we’re storming a beachhead. Climbing the slate walls of funding and research, and taking the fight to the enemy.
Once more into the fray! We’ll mobilize before dawn, and the next stop, Torrey Pines!
Adam, what an honor it is to know you. It’s not the big things that bring memories, but the small , sometimes insignificant things that seem to bring back those special times and thoughts. I have no idea how our team of 3 day walkers would get bye without your support and dedication to us and the cause. My life is so much better having known you and your loving family.
My bags are packed, my Cliff’s Crew shirts sit proudly amongst a visual cacophony of pink spangles and doo-dads. Can’t wait to ride along with the team again. You are an inspiration, Mr. Meyers, as much as you like to think you aren’t sometimes, the number of folk you’ve brought together under the common banner of “Cliff’s Crew” is far beyond what the ordinary person could ever hope to achieve in their life. Thank you for being extraordinary, and for letting us all be a part of it!
Absolutely loved the story! So inspiring!! <3
Adam, this is really great. I feel like that beer stein with the dog tags and keys in it is now part of my shared consciousness too. In some ways, your story reminds me of my own father — he had died when I was 16. And although much of my child was difficult, what I remember about him with real joy was how he would beep the car horn every time we crossed a state line. Talk about irrelevant! But now, when I’m with my own kids — I always beep when crossing state lines. To the point where… Read more »
What a great story! It’s become part of your children’s emotional lexicon now, something they’ll pass down to their kids, and so forth. It will always be a way to remember that generation that came before, and a learned behavior in your family. All because of your dad. What a great legacy! Thanks for sharing, and taking the time to read!
That’s a beautiful story, Adam. Thanks for sharing it. Now about that treasure map…
That one is coming…
Adam, This is beautiful! The love you had for your Dad was never questioned as you cared for him day after day. Now you are there for me as I continue to take the steps that are my therapy. To say you are awesome doesn’t do it! Looking forward to seeing the mohawk tomorrow and then Friday stepping off for another incredible journey and weekend with you! Love you, Mom
And you know I’ll be there every year mom. Thanks for your support through the years, I only hope that giving my head the shivers every November in some small way shows how much you mean to me, and how much of the person I became comes from not only Dad, but the lessons you taught me about compassion.
Adam, BEAUTIFUL piece. Symbols and rituals are so important, and you really do that idea justice.
Thank you very much, Lori.
Awesome article Adam!
Great piece Adam. I am with you on the things that hold meaning and the way in which our parents mold us, better or worse. I have a box for my kids filled with a few small objects for their youth and from mine that I will give them one day to remember me by and to rediscover themselves.
Thank you Tom. I think the most fascinating thing to uncover is what your children will ultimately hold as the iconography of their memories of their lives, of you, and your impact on them. I’m sure when the day comes, they’re going to dive down a rabbit hole of memories long forgotten when they open that box.
Beautifully written, my friend. I watched in you in that foxhole – fighting, struggling and selflessly helping others – as I got to experience some incredible adventures. I felt sad. I wished that you didn’t have to go through what you went through. But, now, I see that, over those ten years, you got 40 years (and one day) of life experience. You went into those years as a boy, emerged as a man… a man who sees beauty in “irrelevant things,” a man who grabs a hold of life and lifts it up for everyone else to enjoy, a… Read more »
Thanks Brett. I was always jealous of the adventures you and others took, but I’m so glad for the time dad and I had. I know you’ve had to go through your own foxholes with your brother, so you understand better than most I think. It’s still so weird for me that you have a son now, seems almost make-believe. And I’m something of a jerk for not having met the little monster yet. I hope it’s something to be remedied very soon.