Joy Rising

Megan was all of fifteen years old when she asked if I would sign a parental waiver so she could have a big butterfly tattooed on her ankle/calf.  My emotionless, steely eyed response to her under-age request was ‘never gonna happen.’

Pulling out all of her God-given district attorney arguing abilities, she attempted in vain to pit her compelling argument against my unwavering reaction.   As a reader you should remember this was fifteen years ago, before body art was the norm.  I told Megan I would hate to have her lose a court case in her future district attorney job as a stodgy old judge made a value judgement on her character because Madame Butterfly was floating up over her conservative high heels toward the hemline of her Republican blue suit.  She told me it’s not fair for people to make value judgments on appearance.  I told her ‘Welcome to the real world.’  I rested my case with “When you come of legal age, choose your tattoo wisely.”

Many friends are surprised that I’m not a tattoo wonder, after all I did go to art school.  In my New Orleans college years I did wear vintage clothes (long before it was the celebrity rage) and I’d like to think I invented the double pierced ear (adding to a life long list of reasons for my parents to worry.)  College for me was the 80′s, two decades before Miami Ink, LA Ink and Kat Von D.

The next tattoo to surface belongs to my son, who in loving memory of his sister that passed on Easter Sunday 2008,  drew a calligraphy “M” with angelic wings.  The symbol embodies his amazing creative talents, and surely represents his most personal thoughts concerning his big sister.  Days after Megan’s death, Ryan sent me a picture mail from Liquid Courage displaying his new tattoo over his right shoulder-blade.  I cried.  A sacred moment.  A wonderful son.  A beautiful memorial.

Fast forward to March 2011.  Tattoos were the farthest thing from my mind.  After 30 years I decided to go back to college to upgrade my computer drawing skills into the 21st century.  ”Terrified” is hardly the word as I thought of being lost in a sea of 18 year-olds.  Hearing of my great adventure, two of my friends (Kathy Rosenthal and Cherie Phelps) signed up with me.  I won’t deny that on that first day I sent Kathy a text from the Metropolitan Community College parking lot to find out if she was in the building.  She wasn’t.  I had to enter the educational mecca all by myself and figure it out on my own.  I reminded myself that my dad survived living in a tent in the midst of land mine-filled fields in the Korean war.  Why was I afraid of being in a heated building with free cookies at the check-in table with helpful workers to map my way to class?  And what is more frightening than losing a daughter to cancer?

My friends arrived, flanking me on the computers on each side.  Class started, the information began to roll, and I found myself down the river, paddling to keep up.  I cried when I got home.

I kept going to class.  Kathy and Cheri continued to lean in to help me.  In the process I realized that I may have graduated top of my class, but after four caregiving years with my daughter’s survival at the forefront, and all the reality of adrenal cancer in the shadow, I lost sight of the fact that somewhere in there was an artist who loved to be creative from early on.  In the moments that I struggled in class, I wanted to say to Kathy and Cheri, “You know, I used to be an artist….”

Then one day it happened.  The computer language of Adobe Illustrator that had been so foreign to me started to be a recognizable language.  That day I brought a line drawing of Ryan’s tattoo.  I imported it, outlined it, expanded it, changed the appearance, and before I knew it, work I never imagined was on the screen.

From the non-tattoo mom, I need to say that my son’s tattoo began to call me back to life.  It made me realize that while I love Megan, and loved caring for her, I am more than a caregiver.  To rediscover the part of me that was lost in the cancer journey is truly “Joy rising.”

Key Notes:

• Do one thing every day that scares you. – Eleanore Roosevelt
• Kathy Rosenthal is the employee that worked for me for over eight years.  Our working relationship ceased when Megan’s health became critical.  She remains a crucial part of my life, and I account much of my success to her.
• Cherie Phelps, owner of C Phelps Photography, is my competitor in the sticker business.  The quality of her character was best demonstrated in 2007.  She was but a stranger and a competitor to me, but in Megan’s dying days offered to come photograph me and my girl (free of charge) in our final moments.  Megan felt so assaulted by cancer, she declined to be photographed.  It is one of my few regrets…I wish Cherie could have captured our last sacred moments.
• From my heart, I believe Kathy Rosenthal and Cherie Phelps signed up for class to support me in yet another life transition.  One sits to the right, and the other to the left.  Neither really needed to take the class.

On a Lighter Note:

• Cherie brings me hard candy every week to class, even though she nags me about working out.
• Sorry I have not blogged in over a month.  They have this thing in college called homework.

Tags: C Phelps Photography, Liquid Courage Omaha, Metropolitan Community College