ink and memories: a permanent tribute

a love story in five tiny tattoos

My friend Nate says I have the preppiest tattoos he has ever seen. This feels on brand and accurate. And it makes me happy. They are rather sweet, discreet, and iconic in the truest sense of the word. Five in total. All post-decree and A.E. That's After Ellen. You see, my Mom, who died at 50, would likely be horrified.

For nearly a decade, I ran a vintage jewelry business. We sold loads of charms and helped folks craft instant heirlooms. I think of my ink in much the same way—like little hand engravings. We helped add special dates, initials, and meaning-filled memories to the charms, and just like that, so too were, or rather are, my tats.

A loopy interlocking monogram was my first. I had it placed on my left hip and spaced in a way that it discreetly tucked behind undies, but would peek out just so when wearing a swimsuit. Somewhere between my divorce and dating for the first time at 41, I decided this would be a great Saturday afternoon get-together. I had never changed my name to my "wasband's" and so did not need to alter my monogram when we divorced. I was still and always had been BML. The large loopy L would be placed at the center and kissed by my first and middle initials in an interlocking swoosh.

almost ten years old now, remembering mom

Next, an anchor. Very tiny on the back of my right wrist. Above the cluster of bracelets I wear daily and never remove. Once in a therapeutic drawing session, I named an anchor my lifeline—the cross of the sea. Just the thing an unmoored girl needs to feel safe, settled, and grounded when she becomes a single Mom of two girls in her 40s. The three points seem to represent us. I also ditched my wedding ring and treated myself to a Cartier rolling ring. Three bands are said to represent friendship, loyalty, and true love. The thin, rounded yellow, pink, and white gold bands twist together. Like the magic of the design, they stay linked, and even when they sort of fall apart, they are always connected. And that is the magic of our newly formed and trusty trio.

On the morning of my 50th birthday, I head for Pioneer Tattoo Studio. Harlan, the shop owner, is a friend of my husband's. (If you are following along here, I have remarried.) He and Harlan have designed an entire sleeve for Alex. It is filled with meaningful and iconic art representing his memories of summers since the early 70s, spent in The Outer Banks. A Highway Gothic 13 as emblazoned on the cottage mailbox is a beauty. My other favorites include North Carolina’s state bird, a fiery, stunningly detailed cardinal, and the poetic flowering dogwood—a well-known N.C. duo. Outside of a beautiful B for me, which I adore, is a stunner of an etching that depicts the elusive Scotch Bonnet. This is the state shell we found before sunrise on Ocracoke Island. This is on the morning of our surprise September engagement. It is the southern-most part of “The Outers”, as my kids call it, and due to a process where iron in the shell reacts with sulfur in the sediment when buried in low oxygen, the conditions create a dark dye that stains the shells nearly black. Waves uncover the shells in this special point at the end of the island, so luckily, we found them with the help of a local who pointed us to a just-right mile marker in our off-road Jeep. I hold out my hand and share, “Look what I found”, and share an impeccable beauty. He holds out his hand, and there is my engagement ring. Their darkest inky grey makes all the shells from that morning easy to pick out from the many collections we have from travels we’ve strewn about our home.

I am not certain why I woke up and decided I needed to commemorate the day of my 50th by getting Mom’s signature on my wrist, but I did. It was not the greatest of plans, but Al texted Harlan without details of its importance, and I was in! I guess a tattoo artist always thinks it’s a good day to get a tattoo, and I am certain they rarely ask why.

The last tattoo I got (most recent, but not likely the end of my ink journey) was when my father was still alive. Dad signed every note to us, ILYMTTWWW--- which, in the endearing language of Neil Leiner, translates to "I love you more than the whole, wide world."

After he was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment, which led to a decade with varied stages of memory loss, I decided to add this to my mix. A note he’d sent me with his signature sign-off becomes art. I asked Harlen to add it along my ribs to the left of my heart. I did not wait until he died to get this one; I thought it might stir his memory. I’ve shown him many times. Some days, he knew. Other days, it just made him smile that I was lifting my shirt, doing something he perceived as goofy. When he died this past January, it meant even more. Dad believed that if you had a tattoo, you could not be buried in a Jewish cemetery. I know this was important to him. My brother now sports the same tat. We have also since learned that many rabbis do not believe this to be true.

The 444 on my arm above the anchor is my angel number. It has appeared at least daily in some way, shape, or form since my Mom died—receipts, bakery numbers, license plates—name it. On the same day, my youngest added hers, an 11:11, to her mix. We catch the clock at least once a day in her West Coast time zone or mine, and it helps us know we have all of the souls of our loved ones around and that all is well.

My eldest has her fair share, too. She has a recent grief tattoo for her dear friend Julie, a canoe made memorable on a work trip, and a hilarious video of the two. I have treated each of them to at least one. It tells their story: of hope and memories, of time and travel, of home and family, of dreams and meaningful dates, of young days and warm nights by the fires of remembrance.

There is a badassery and resilience to tattoos. A permanence that defies but also commemorates my grief. It represents an idea I wonder if I might have considered had Mom been alive. Probably not. These types of decisions I have had to make without her have often rubbed against the norm. It feels much like a teen, breaking rules, only now I am only decades without her since I was 27. Still learning to make my way in the world, navigating and recalibrating year after day after year. There are the “what would Ellen do” decisions and the “f-that” because she is not here choices I try on, and the push pull and ache of all of that is now part of my motherless daughter DNA.

In thinking long and hard about my “why”, I believe that knowing who you are on the other side of great loss creates a shift in identity and reclamation of autonomy. My tats provide a means to express the me I am on the other side of divorce, the death of my beloved and amazing mother, and the heartbreaking Alzheimer’s diagnosis of my brilliant Mad Man of an ad man. It has allowed me to define, remember, and reclaim a new me or meet me where I am. A grief as permanent as the long arc of longing for most of it all to be untrue but real.

Tell me about your ink in the comments.

How do you remember your loved ones?

Today is World Alzheimer’s Day. This year’s theme is “Ask About Dementia”. It asks us to open conversations that so often feel hard to begin. It is a reminder of the importance of asking, listening and learning together. If you or someone you know has dementia ask them about the journey if you are able as well as their loved ones, caretakers or care partners.

Asking opens doors to understanding.

Questions create connection.

Curiosity lessons the stigma.

Listening eases isolation.

Every question is an act of care.

You don’t have to hold this alone.

If dementia has touched your life, what’s one question you wish more people would ask?

If you are a caretaker or care partner, the new, New York Times bestseller, The Unexpected Journey, is a must read. If you need support, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. I support many grievers alongside their journeys.