The end of a genetic line

Every time I'm invited over to visit or have dinner with my extended family I'm faced with a horrible yet unavoidable truth...I am the only and last of my mother and fathers genetic line. I remember when I was in my very early teens my grandfather said to me one day, "Debra don't you let your branch of the family tree die, you're responsible for passing your moms side of the Carlsen name on." I recall feeling a mixture of emotions crash over me...pride in my family name and heritage, a sense of great burden and guilt if I were to let my mothers memory fade. These days I don't worry so much about passing the Carlsen name on as there are many others in the family that carry it. But the guilt and sadness that pulls at me over being the genetic end to my mothers memory is sometimes more than I can take. With respect to my fathers genetic markers...I again am the lone carrier. There are nights this understanding breaks me and I cry myself to sleep, but I don't want to have a child. And I don't want to raise a child in the kind of world we live in. It would almost be a punishment to sentence a child to such sorrow. So I feel stuck trying to figure out a way to make sure the world does not forget my mother and father...so that their existence has ongoing meaning even after they have moved on to a better place and time.

For now, until I find a more effective way to share my genetic memories of my mother and father, I will start trying to share more photos and memories of my childhood...not for me, I'm not sure if I care much about people remembering me, but I do care about my mother and father.

 This is a young photo of my dad, Dwight.

 This is a my father and my mother while they were dating.

 This is my mother, Marsha.

 Just me, my first 8 track tape was the smurfs sing along. 

 My mother and father on their wedding day.

 This is my first best friend, Coco. Some of my earliest memories are of riding him.

 Wedding cake.

 My second best friend, Tigger. She slept with and/or on me until I was 11 or so.

 Bath time with dad.

 I showed mom this picture and she laughed about how big her glasses were.

 This sums up a lot of my childhood, guns and horses. Why not?

Dad's mustache kind of creeps me out. I will have to find photos from his "amish" days.