Physical Change

Going through a traumatic experience alters you, forever. I decided to alter my body, forever.

Even a year ago, if I had been asked about the probability that I would get a tattoo, I would have laughed.  No chance.

Somehow I began to consider it. I wanted to carry my children with me all the time.  I have my rings with their names and initials, and a necklace, but wanted something more permanent.  The idea of wearable art was appealing. I searched the interwebs for something that would catch my eye, and found the inspiration.  Their four birthdates. Typewriter font because I am a writer. It was exactly what I was looking for, in a perfect spot – where I could show/hide as I wanted.

A tattoo artist was recommended to me and I made an appointment. It was several weeks out, so I could only wait with nervous anticipation.  Nervous about both the pain and the permanence.  A friend thought the pain might be therapeutic for me and I tried to think of it that way: the pain I would need to endure, much like the pain I have endured to date, as part of this unwanted journey.

I drove to the tiny hole-in-the-wall shop in another suburb.  The artist was easygoing, and before I knew it, it was over. Fifteen minutes of prep, fifteen minutes of application. I was prepared for much worse pain.

I commented to someone that apparently this is what trauma does to you: you alter your body. His response was that people do a lot of new things when they experience trauma. At least this one is constructive.  Fierce, strong… Those still are not words that I am comfortable with. I am healing.

In a small way (or perhaps, a big way) I want it to prompt conversation. I want someone to say “What are the dates for?”  And I will respond “The birthdates of my four children.”  I can almost hear the words “You have FOUR children?”  To which I need to gain the courage to say “Yes, I have four children, two living.”

And now I carry them with me, always.