In Tribute to my "Poppa" Dr. John C. Lowe
1/22/1946- 1/9/2012
by his devoted daughter Michele
It wounds me deeply to inform you that my father, Dr. John C. Lowe died suddenly January 9, 2012 due to complications following a head injury that he sustained on November 14, 2011.
Please forgive my lack of structure on this site. The page is a work in progress and although I'm sure the majority of you have already read my mother's beautiful tribute to the man of which she spent her life with, this is mine...my own individual way of memorializing the man that I felt privileged to call family.
I didn't always know that Dr. Lowe was my father. It wasn't until I was about 20 years old, un-well, and struggling with medical issues from childhood. I had been re-routed to several different physicians, a handful of which, willingly released me from their care. It was at this time, in a mother's despair, my wonderful mother Tammy contacted her old friend and confidant, a man I knew as "Dr. John".
I can still recall the day I met him. I use the word "met" lightly because I had met him before. I had known him my whole life. The pictures in albums proved it. I'd be lying if I said that we connected right away, it was a journey in its own rite...my relationship with him was different from any other I'll ever know. It began with little things that led two anti-social people to create a bond like ours...things like our intense love for 60's music (he, being a forever-hippie and me not quite understanding my love for icons such as Jim Morrison and peace emblems), our love of literature (it wasn't unusual for us to use a classic piece to jumpstart our conversations), our outspokennes (although my poor mother dealt with us on that one...sorry momma), but most of all, our connection came from our passion for the things we loved.
I watched him over the years as he stood up for what he believed in, when everyone else told him not to. I watched as he defended his family and defended his work with such intense emotion and animation. I watched in awe as he held steadfast in his idea that 'thoughts were things, and that the 'starting point of all achievement, is desire' in order to create this movement...espcially when his mind was tired, his body worn out, and when his body needed to heal. He didn't endure these things for fame, nor for money, he didn't endure these things for any reward whatsoever except to achieve his goal. And while no death is easy to deal with, I believe that facing it in the light of your passion is a good one...and I find solace in that.
In the years that I have had with him; in the moments that I've had to hear him, and watch him, and get to know everything that IS him.... our short years together were enough to imprint my heart for the rest of my days...and I feel overwhelmingly privileged to have the opportunity to have had the time we shared.
My Poppa taught me that temporary defeat was not permanent failure. He taught me to believe in myself, when (like him) everyone told me no. He gave me verifiable data, proving that I was as beautiful as he saw me to be. He helped me realize that I was destined to do great things. He made my quirky nature, (an inheritance from him I believe) a characteristic with quality. He made me who I am. He was my mentor, my teacher. He was my push when I needed one, and he was my want and need to test my limits. He was my friend, someone I could tell anything to and my sidekick when I wanted or needed someone in my corner. He was my comfort, he was my family, he was my father.
He was a good Poppa.
You know, he always told me that the love between family is eternal, and Poppa for you, my love is everlasting.
Your respectfully devoted daughter,
~Michele
