I make a habit of asking people about their tattoos.
I’ll call her Tiffany. She’s predictably friendly and bright — the genetic markers needed to work as a server at a family diner in God’s Country, aka Tennessee. I ask if she could recommend a citrusy IPA; she tells me there is no IPA, citrusy or not, so I end up with a Yuengling. I forget how not-good this beer is.
Tiffany has many tattoos, but they’re more scattered than themed. Her skin is a canvas more like an anthology than a novel. As our meal winds down, I ask her permission to ask about one of her tattoos, whichever one she feels like sharing.
The many small birds on her right leg are for her sister E, who passed away too soon. The single large flower on her left leg is for another sister, M, who died 18 months later. Her mother has since pleaded with her often, “Don’t you die on me too! Don’t you dare!”
Tiffany then pulls down her open-collar shirt to reveal a long vertical scar, about six inches. “My heart doesn’t beat on its own,” she says. She exposes her upper left chest to reveal the outline of a mango-shaped pacemaker. She squeezes the area the same way I last clutched my heart when I thought it hurt. Tiffany adds, “I had this thing put in right after I had a C-section to get my daughter out.”
She might be in her mid-40s. Definitely younger than I am. Everyone goes through tough things we may know nothing about, yet some of them are the kindest, most positive people you’ll ever meet. Tiffany juts out her chin, “I get up every morning and do it all over again!” Then she repeats the exact same sentence — not sure if she meant it for us or for herself.
That evening, out on a “sunset cruise” courtesy of a Vietnam veteran and his wife, I keep thinking about Tiffany. I’ve often said that if anything happened to one of my kids, my heart would stop. I wonder if that’s what happened to Tiffany.
Don’t you die on me too! Don’t you dare!