Zibby Mag

By Karin B. Miller

Throughout my pregnancy with our first daughter, my husband, Thom, was valiantly coping with cancer.

Doctors’ appointments, weeks of chemo, CAT scans, myriad prescriptions were coupled with my own doctor’s appointments and ultrasounds. It was a roller coaster we rode while gripping with white knuckles and squeezing our eyes shut. Though, undoubtedly, it was the hope and joy of expecting a new baby that helped pull us through.

That’s why my mom suggested we give our daughter the middle name Hope. And we did: Gabrielle Hope arrived just a week after my husband’s final successful surgery. And like Thom, who’d shaved his head before chemo could take his curly locks, our little Gabi emerged without hair. The two baldies were adorable together. And shortly thereafter, Thom was declared cancer-free.

Four years later, we were expecting Gabi’s younger siblings: twins, a boy and a girl. This time we took naming cues from family. We named our son after Thom’s dad and grandpa, Joseph, and Marcus, respectively. We named our daughter Mia, after a beloved cousin. But there was a problem: We wanted to give Mia the middle name of Joyce, my mom’s name. But Mom had always hated her name.

“Joyce” carried so much baggage. “Joyce, what have you done now?!” her mother would yell throughout her childhood. “Joyce, can’t you do anything right?”

After a childhood full of verbal and sometimes physical abuse at the hands of her mother, her name, even in adulthood, delivered the sting of guilt and shame. To most of my grandmother’s circle of friends, she was the epitome of a gracious hostess and a generous friend. But in her own home, my grandpa, my mom, and my uncle knew the truth — her cruelty, her belittling comments, and her silent treatments, which lasted for days in some cases.

That didn’t end after my mom’s childhood. When Mom was pregnant with my little brother, my grandma came for a visit as Mom returned home from a salon appointment. It was a particularly hot July and we had no air conditioning, so she’d decided to chop off her long, beautiful hair in favor of a pixie cut.

But upon walking in the front door, she met the eyes of her mother. “Well, now you’re fat and ugly,” my grandma announced. Tears stinging her eyes, Mom sent Grandma home. From then on, Mom mostly took charge of their relationship, but “Joyce” still weighed heavily.

And so, on the day of the twins’ arrival, we called Mom to say that Joey Marcus and Mia Joy had arrived. And that Joy was a name given in her honor. After all, Mom was someone who’d brought joy to her husband and her children, to myriad friends, to countless kids she taught in elementary school, and to the many young readers of her children’s books.

That phone call proved to be transformative.

The next day, Mom announced she was adopting her granddaughter’s name. At age sixty-four, she’d call herself Joy. Mom spread the news quickly, sharing the happy news of her new grandchildren’s arrival—and her new name—with family and friends.

My incredible dad made the switch instantly, as did her brother and sister-in-law, her nieces and nephews, her friends. She changed her voicemail to say, “You’ve reached Joy.” And for the next sixteen years of her life, wherever she went, she introduced herself as Joy, with a huge smile on her face. Even her nursing home caregivers called her Mama Joy.

She would have turned eighty-four on October 7; I offer this remembrance in honor of her birthday. To me, she was always Mom. But she was also pure joy.

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Karin B. Miller is an award-winning writer and editor, best known for creating and editing two national anthologies, The Cancer Poetry Project 1 & 2. She lives with her family in Minneapolis.