On my way to a recent medical appointment, I got into an elevator with a local obstetrician who cared for me while I was carrying my son. As we shook hands, he gathered both of mine into his and admired the surgical scars along the bases of my thumbs. Almost immediately, he let go and apologized for some supposed breach in protocol. I took no offense. I’m proud of my scars and my tattoos. Each tells a story of time, place, and circumstance.
Decades ago, only men wore conspicuous tattoos. Now, tattoos are ubiquitous. Numerous fictional characters and celebrities proudly wear their scars and tattoos. Singer-songwriter Seal’s voice is as recognizable as the facial scars he bears from an autoimmune disease. Top Chef and writer Padma Lakshmi rarely covers the seven-inch scar on her right arm from a car accident she survived as a teenager.
I had two different surgical procedures to correct the same arthritic condition in my hands, brought on by years of photography, of hand-holding heavy telephoto lenses without a tripod or a monopod. The trapezium bones in my thumbs popped in and out of place so frequently, I wore my camera by its neck strap, lest I fumble it and end up in the Bears backfield.
I sought out the care of Dr. M., who diagnosed me with osteoarthritis in both thumb joints and began treatment. On a snowy February morning in 2010, he replaced the worn-out bone in my right thumb with a tiny champagne cork-looking carbon joint. It hasn’t failed me yet. My recovery lasted six weeks and I wore two different casts throughout to accommodate the swelling. I got quite adept at using my left hand for everyday tasks, including legible handwriting. The only tasks that eluded me were using scissors and applying mascara. One poke in the eye was enough for me. I was a way ahead of the no mascara trend.
Eight months later, Dr. M. used a tendon graft procedure to correct my left hand, because the damage to my thumb joint was too severe for the champagne cork cure. Ben, my physical therapy intern, asked if he could observe my surgery since he needed a surgical observation to complete his educational requirements. I readily agreed. I’d photographed so many medical procedures in my journalism career, and I was delighted to be there for him.
I’m also an identical triplet, and I’ve differentiated myself from my sisters by collecting tattoos. Unlike other forms of physical pain, there’s something quite lovely about the pain of having a tattoo applied. After the initial jolt subsides, it’s hypnotic. I started with a red rose with a yin-yang symbol in the middle on my right bicep. It’s so cliché now but it was so fetch in 1993.
What I remember most about that experience is that my husband and I had to travel to another state to get them, since tattoo parlors were not yet legal in Indiana. I also remember that my husband passed out when he got his and still has only one. Three years later I got another one; a Māori tribal anklet, this one also out of state. I never quite got into the pain of needles on my bony ankle. It hurt worse than two midwife deliveries.
My two favorite tattoos are the quote across my upper back and the one on my left bicep. The quote is from one of my favorite books, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It states: “They were made of thin, invisible steel,” and it describes the women in the novel who raised the children and worked a job while their alcoholic husbands swilled away their wages. On my left bicep, I wear a tribute to my father, who I lost in 2011. I love it since it honors him and since I designed it myself. It features his name and his dates of birth and death placed vertically, topped with a stylized Jackalope, his nickname. A waxing moon is set between its ears. It’s the same moon I saw in the sky the night my dad departed this world.
While traveling in Japan in the late 1990s, I took part in communal ritual bathing with other women at a mountain retreat. I didn’t wear my glasses and I can’t see without them, so I stupidly thought that since I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. As the local women observed my tattoos, I heard the word “yakuza” muttered several times. It’s the Japanese word for gangster. My tattoos and scars are hardly gangster. Their stories are etched upon my skin and their memories woven into my heart.
Music: "Celebrity Skin" by Hole
