When Your Child’s Name Is a Bar Song

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The familiar tune starts blaring from the car radio. “Make it stop,” my 9-year-old daughter, Lily, pleads. “I don’t like this song.”

“Lily,” I respond, “this is your song!” I belt out the classic lines: “Sweet Lily, good times never seemed so good.” She shakes her head, stuck in the backseat at 35 miles per hour, with no way to escape. I’m not changing the station.

It feels like forever ago, shortly after 9/11, when my family and I attended a Neil Diamond concert. We craved the warmth and familiarity that his music brings. I remember the ’70s hits from my childhood and the ’80s anthem “America.” My dad, beaming, gave me a high-five during “Sweet Caroline.” Surrounded by 20,000 fans singing along, I felt an overwhelming joy.

But just two weeks later, my world shattered. My dad, a vibrant 58-year-old, was diagnosed with brain tumors caused by melanoma. Darkness loomed over us. The only thing I could do to lift his spirits was to ask a former colleague to arrange a signed letter from President Bush—a small token of hope. When my dad read it, he smiled and said, “He’s a good man, isn’t he, Sarah?” I thought, “You’re the good man, Dad. This isn’t right. Make it stop.”

He passed away six months later in a stark hospital room. Initially, I dismissed my fatigue as grief, only to realize I was pregnant the whole time I sat by his side. I dug out the infant car seat and a copy of Goodnight Moon. The pregnancy offered a brief respite from my tears, but I worried about how a newborn would fit into my life of sorrow.

As memories flooded back—Dad taking me to my first Broadway show and blasting “Midnight Train to Georgia” on Christmas Eve—I longed for him to be here with me, sharing his love for family, music, and Cleveland sports.

When my daughter arrived a month early, we hadn’t settled on a name. She lay nameless as tests were run. We wanted something meaningful, but names like Gordon wouldn’t work, and Cleveland-Teams-Who-Haven’t-Won-Any-Championships-Since-I’ve-Been-Alive was a mouthful. As I held my tiny girl, the lyrics “how can I hurt when I’m holding you?” echoed in my mind. In that moment, I felt my dad’s spirit and decided to name her “Lily,” a tribute to the last joyful memory we shared.

As a preschooler, Lily would sing along to “Sweet Caroline” whenever it played, excitedly exclaiming, “I came down from heaven as Papa was going up!” But as she grew older, she lost her enthusiasm for the song. Maybe it was when I wrote to Neil Diamond and he sent back a signed photo, making her the only 3-year-old with a glossy in her room next to Elmo.

Now, as we ride in the car, I see her hands covering her ears, trying to block out the tune. I want to tell her that one day she’ll hear that song at a bar, joining others in the chorus. I can’t believe you tried to sell Neil Diamond’s classics at our garage sale. I wish you could’ve known your Papa, sweetie, because you have his love for music and his joyful spirit. Instead, I just catch her eye in the rearview mirror, realizing she’s slowly pulling away. I smile at her, who’s now searching for Selena Gomez on her iPod, and silently sing the words I hold dear.

This touching experience illustrates the bittersweet journey of parenting, loss, and the connections we keep alive through music. For those exploring their own fertility journeys, check out this excellent resource on in vitro fertilisation, and if you’re interested in more about home insemination options, visit Make A Mom.

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