What's in a Name?

Do our names really influence who we will become?

I mean, we don't get to choose them, that honor is left up to our well-meaning, but occasionally clueless, parents. And for the most part, we live with whatever moniker has been foisted upon us by emotionally-compromised fathers or mothers who may or may not have had a little too much pain medication prior to completing our birth certificate. It is not a typical matter for deep philosophical reflection. Unless you were the victim of an extremely malicious parent like that unfortunate boy named Sue, then you probably suffered no lasting trauma associated with your name.

Not long ago, I was asked, "Do you love your name? Or hate it?" The question itself implies that people fall in one of two very distinct camps. But after a great deal of reflection, I decided there are too many gray areas involved to give a definitive answer. Over the course of my life, there have been many times I didn't particularly care for my name, but for better or worse, it is mine. So, here is my answer to that well-meaning, but poorly phrased, question.

It Could Have Been Worse

Before I came to live in this world, my mom and dad engaged in a typical debate held between couples readying themselves for the arrival of a new family member. They could not agree on a name. Although they each produced solid arguments for their choices and tenaciously defended their positions, my mom emerged the winner. Victorious, she named me Carey – but it could have been worse.

People have always struggled with the proper spelling of my name. In an attempt to make a common name less ordinary, Mom decided a change in spelling was necessary.  Businesses, employers, friends, and even family have frequently misspelled my name over the course of my life. My own grandpa never learned to spell my name accurately, which led to the receipt of yearly handwritten birthday greetings addressed to C-a-r-r-y, C-a-r-r-i-e, C-a-r-y, and even K-e-r-r-y. Of course, it could have been worse. Even though the name is misspelled, I still know they are talking to me. They could have gotten the name completely wrong. Can you imagine being referred to as Terry or Sherry or even as Mary. Misspelling doesn’t seem quite so bad when compared to misidentification.

Elementary school was no picnic either. Do you know how many words rhyme with Carey? A lot, that’s how many. Fairy Carey, Merry Carey, Scary Carey, Hairy Carey. Small children love to speak in verse, and when you have a name custom-made for rhyming, that is exactly what you get. However, it could have been worse. These monikers could have followed me into adolescence. Can you imagine being saddled with ‘Hairy Carey’ throughout puberty? That could have been truly devastating.

In high school, I discovered another problem with my given name. It was boring. While my friends possessed beautiful, interesting names – Yvonne, Gwendolyn, Katrina – I held on to plain, old Carey. I was the third Ingall’s sister, the one that never had any exciting adventures or whirlwind love affairs. The clumsy sister that fell down trying to run through the field during the opening credits – yep, that was me. During these years, I sampled new names. I became Talia for several months, and then adopted Meike for nearly a year. Ultimately, I returned to Carey because it could have been worse. My mom could have chosen an old family name like Gladys, Agnes, Gertrude, or Mildred. Can you imagine trying to live with one of those unusual names around other teenagers? Talk about character building! No thank you, I will just stick with simple, traditional, awkward Carey.

In the end, I decided to embrace the name my mom fought to bestow upon me. It is my identifier, and I cannot imagine having any other appellation. I am Carey. Carey is me. Besides, it could have been worse. My dad could have won. Then, I would have been Cadence. Can you imagine being named after a military march song? Yeah, me neither.

Lessons Learned: Tales from Midwest Memories

A current collection-in-progress - Lessons Learned: Tales from Midwest Memories is a collection of personal essays tracing the long, often humorous, occasionally angry, and sometimes emotional journey of my life growing up in the rural Midwest.

Today's offering is a decidedly emotional essay from this collection. 

How I Learned Moments Matter

Humanity measures the progress of life through a series of signposts. Graduations, marriages, births, moves, jobs, and deaths pave the pathways we each travel during our time on this plane of existence. These milestones, although important, are not what truly shape us into the people we will become. That honor is reserved for less consequential incidents. Seemingly insignificant experiences profoundly influence our interaction with the world around us, but only after time and reflection reveal their fundamental importance.

Tuesday, July 13, 1999 began with an argument. My grandpa was in the hospital for a minor cardiac event – the most recent health issue in a long line of difficulties that stretched back nearly six years. This episode only landed him on his back for three days, which was no more than a hiccup compared to some of his previous illnesses. Although he was due to be released the next day, my husband kept insisting we go visit him. I was twenty-five years old, four and a half months pregnant with my second child, and in no mood to be told what to do. I argued vehemently against making the forty-five minute trip to the hospital.

My protests stemmed from a combination of practicality, experience, and all-day morning sickness. I spent the entirety of my twenties traveling back and forth to my grandparent’s home to help care for them during my grandpa’s many infirmities. I kept house, ran errands, set meds, and prodded Grandpa through his various therapies. It became a quietly running routine. I knew what to expect and what was expected from me. “They’re releasing him tomorrow, and I’m going out on Friday to spend the weekend. Make sure he’s all settled in and that he and Grandma have everything they need. I feel like crap today. I was just there yesterday and spoke to his doctor. He doesn’t even have any physical therapy orders this time. Of course, I’ll stay longer if they need me.” Today, I was wasting my breath.

My husband ignored both my objections and explanations. He would not take “no” for an answer. He headed to the car, declaring that we were going, and I followed reluctantly. I pouted the entire trip and continued to mutter my arguments while staring out the passenger side window.

When we arrived at the hospital, Grandpa was in good spirits. He smiled broadly at me, reached out, and grabbed my hand tightly, “They’re springin’ me first thing in the morning, Sis.”

We sat, holding hands, and visited for nearly two hours. We talked about my son, the light of his life, and the pending arrival of his great-granddaughter. When I told him about the never-ending ‘morning’ sickness, he laughed and commented, “Yep, that’s a girl for ya.” We reminisced about my childhood, discussed his current medical condition, commiserated over the inedibility of hospital food, and negotiated my upcoming visit. At 2:30, we said our good-byes. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and received my kiss in return. I told him I loved him and would see him Friday. He was smiling as I waved from the door.

The doctor released him from the hospital the next morning as planned. He and Grandma headed off to bed about 10:30 p.m., as usual. Sometime between midnight and 3 a.m. on July 15^th, Grandpa went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. An aneurism burst in his brain. Grandma rushed to him when she heard him fall, but it was too late. He was already gone. He died on the kitchen floor in the home he built for his family with his own two hands with his wife of fifty-one years by his side. After all the heart attacks and strokes, this hidden weakness took him from us. None of us saw it coming.

On July 13, 1999, I spoke to my grandpa for the last time. Of course, at the time I did not know it would be our final visit, and it almost did not happen at all. If not for my husband, I would have missed the opportunity to sit and talk with him. I would have lost the chance to hold his hand and kiss him good-bye one last time. I would have regretted the decision not to go see him for the rest of my life. Instead, I learned a valuable lesson that has influenced how I live and love the people in my life. I discovered every single moment we have with our loved ones matters because life guarantees nothing more than the present.