Three days after my Dad died, I got a tattoo. My very first tattoo.
Lemme back up: I had never- never- wanted a tattoo before. Even with the magnitude of incredible events I’ve been privy to in my 34 years (like, you know, creating THREE PEOPLE), there was never a symbol that I needed have on my body. Certainly not one dug into place by a whirring and rather sharp needle. (The fear trifecta, for those of you playing along at home? Rats, the dark, and needles. Not necessarily in that order. And one thousand percent never ever at the same time.)
That said, as I watched my Dad struggle and suffer and just keep on going during the past two years of chemo, I started to get this nagging feeling that maybe there was a symbol I could get which would commemorate, celebrate, and encapsulate everything I loved about my Dad.
Which is a ridiculous statement, because of course there isn’t. No tattoo ever tatted could hold a candle to the Aurora Borealis of my father’s soul. (But a friend had tattooed her Dad’s name- in his handwriting- after his passing, and I always thought that looked insanely amazing. So I started from there.)
Back in January, I asked my Dad to write down his initials for me. He never asked me why, and I never explained via my nervously oversharing small talk. But I know we both knew what we both knew, you know? (Besides, if I had come right out and said what I was going to have done, he would’ve rolled his eyes and emphatically told me NOT TO TATTOO ANYTHING AT ALL, LET ALONE SOMETHING BECAUSE OF HIM, GOOD GOD HE WASN’T DEAD YET. <—This is just a guess. A completely accurate guess, but a guess all the same.)
So I went ahead and scanned the monogram, sent it to one of my best friends, and implored him for help. (If you’re lucky, you’ll have a friend or two in your lifetime to whom you can send some handwriting with the message “Please make me a perfect tattoo- I don’t know what I want” and they’ll not only get what what you’re thinking, but they’ll come back with designs that are better than anything your sadness-mangled brain can vocalize. Wilder is one of those friends, and I’m eternally grateful. Not for the first time, either.)
He sent me Celtic knots, delicate shamrocks, and musical notes intertwined with my Dad’s initials. And after a bunch of back and forths that consisted on gently worded ideas on his part and a lot of “Gaaaaaah you have to decide for me,” he designed a couple of eighth notes and incorporated my Dad’s initials in as the flags. It made me cry. Which is the mark of a great tattoo design. (Or a terrible tattoo experience.)
And three nights after my father died, I found myself sitting in a bar with three good friends and a round of Stiegl Radler grapefruit beer, and I casually mentioned that I was getting a tattoo later that night. Barbara amended the evening’s plans, Megan called for the check, and Renee informed me that it was going to be great (and great fun to watch that go down). Half an hour later, we were here at Old Town Tatu (a rumored-to-be haunted, converted funeral parlor which I highly recommend):
Cheer up, ladies.
(Related: If you ever want to get your first tattoo, take three mothers with you. The tolerant, crazy competent, and sweet as heck tattoo artist was barraged with all manner of personal questions, and the (clean n’ shiny) parlor was inspected within an inch of its life. Poor Neal. But yay me. Having three pals there actually gave me the shivers with how meaningful the whole event was. It could also have been the vibrating needle digging into my wrist. Or it could’ve been the post-tattoo shopping trip for the four of us to Walgreens- to “help” the Easter Bunny- and the ride perched atop multiple kiddo convertible car seats because we were all entirely too lazy to remove them from the smallish sedan. But I’m pretty sure it was mostly because of the warm friendship.) And so here’s the tat:
I love it. I love every millimeter of it- even though I’ve inherited a tiny bit my father’s tendency towards keloid scarring and it’s slightly puffier than Wilder’s delicate drawing. And it didn’t hurt in the slightest, which was a wonderful relief after being told wrist tattoos rated up there with drug-free dental work. (Also, do you have any idea how impossible it is to take a good wrist picture? It’s either “Hey, look at my giant Man Hands” or “”I didn’t know Keely had drug veins!” But back to the emotions.)
My Mom thinks it’s beautiful, even in its healing stage. My sisters are duly impressed. And my friends- obviously- think I’m the coolest thing in the carpool lane. I’m pretty sure my Dad loves it too, in his head-shaking, can’t-ground-her, promise-me-that’s-your-last-tattoo way. And it totally is.
For now.
***
And while I’m on the topic of Wilder, I wanted to take a sec and give a shout-out to his production company’s newest soon-to-be blockbuster, Cold War. It is funny, people. I worked with a good cross-section of this crew throughout college and beyond, and they’re darned terrific. This here’s a link to their Kickstarter campaign because a) they’re witty, savvy, wonderful folks, b) indie arts ain’t gonna fund themselves, and c) they’re shooting on location in Chicago this Fall and I’m so excited I could pee. I won’t, because I’m cooler than that, now.
I have a tattoo and everything.
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