Momma's First Tattoo

When I was young, a woman I knew got a tattoo of Bugs Bunny on her upper arm. I didn't know many women with tattoos back then and I'd never been a fan of Bugs. I wondered what would happen once her arms, then as firm and toned as Michelle Obama's, succumbed to age and gravity.

Over the course of a few decades, I suspected the ink would fade, Bugs would become piebald as age spots appeared. That preadolescent prankster would become a portly provocateur. "What's up Doc?" would take on more somber undertones. Rabbits are not rodents, but it would be hard to tell the difference. How will she explain the fat rat on what remains of her deltoid?

My daughter, Lydia, started planning her tattoos when she was 13. The intricate drawing would be inked on the back of her slender neck. She might've shaved her head again to show it off, or kept it secret under a veil of hair—blue, purple, or natural soft brown with sun-kissed highlights. In Maryland, it was illegal to tattoo a minor so I didn't worry about it. It was a very nice design.

When Lydia ended her life before she was old enough to get her coveted tattoo, my son Daniel, 12 years old, designed a memorial tattoo in her honor. He refined his original artwork and had it inked when he was 18, a freshman in college. It's quite large and colorful, although after two decades, not as vibrant as it once was.

Daniel's Tattoo

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By this time, many female friends had tattoos, ranging from a tiny wrist butterfly, a delicate rose above the breast, to a giant tramp stamp that lunged like a baleen whale out of the seat of tight, low-cut jeans.

Fascinating. I wanted to know all about every bit of body art I saw. It turns out, people are happy to tell their tattoo stories. Some are funny, many heartbreaking, all anthology-worthy.

Thinking about getting a tattoo of my own, I considered Lydia's name, maybe on my hip, because I'd carried her there when she was a baby. Not for long though—my independent child demanded to be put down, to do her earthly research untethered.thought again of age and gravity, envisioning myself being turned and bathed by surly underpaid caregivers in a tight, ammonia-scented room. They'd see the name on my hip and assume I'm another old lesbian—maybe they'll laugh. We've all seen those videos of nursing home abuse. But, as usual, I digress.

For two decades, I never got around to getting that tattoo. But I've decided I want one and refuse to die before I get it. At 70, with a family history heavy with heart attack, stroke, and breast cancer, I figured it was time.

I stopped at a red light and impulsivity struck like 220 volts. I typed tattoo into my GPS. There was a place 2.2 miles away. Lydia loved palindromes so I had no choice.

My tattoo idea was not unique. The tiny semicolon, sometimes enhanced with butterfly wings, cat whiskers, or musical notes has, like a team sweatshirt, has become the designated identification for membership in the club of people bereaved by suicide.The Semicolon Project started in 2013 when Amy Bleuel's idea took root and the semicolon became the universal logo for mental health and suicide prevention. The tagline was "Your story isn't over."

My tattoo artist proudly mansplained the use of the semicolon. He'd learned that using one in the first paragraph of any paper he wrote in college meant a guaranteed A. Such power wielded the little period-comma combo that it could stop a sentence from ending.

About to be on the receiving end of the buzzing needle, I smiled. I didn't tell him what my desire to have one inked on my arm meant to me. Or that for many, it symbolizes the choice to continue living. A reminder of strength and perseverance. A signal to some that we are kindred.

Months after getting my tattoo, I sometimes startle catching a glimpse of it on my wrist. Seeing it upside down, it resembles a giant ant. Abdomen, thorax, antenna. Ever hypervigilant, I jump or swipe at it and I imagine how Lydia would be amused. Because although her life has ended, as long as I'm here to tell it, her story is not over. And neither is mine. I'm thinking about my next tattoo.

my first tattoo

This essay was first published in Newsweek's My Turn, May 2024