Scars You Choose
I chose to not go to the hospital early today. I did another 12.5 hours there yesterday and I'm exhausted. When you've been there through as many shift changes as I have, you start to understand why everyone keeps telling you to take care of yourself, even as you look at them in disbelief. How is that supposed to happen? How are you supposed to be there to see rounds? To question the medication changes, the plans if you're not there? And on the same hand how does your laundry get done, or bills paid or your hair washed if you don't take the time to stay away for a few hours? I'm not sure yet because I tend to do everything with a force of a tornado pushed by a hurricane. I'll figure it out eventually. Yesterday I knew I'd hit a wall so I told Dad I was coming in late today. I needed to do laundry, make calls and wash my hair. So today will, hopefully, be productive at home and not just a hospital day. I'll still worry all morning and feel this draw to leave and be there though.
I pulled out my planner this morning, my trusty hobonichi. I love that stupid planner. I've been buying a new one each year for the last several years. It has weekly pages, monthly pages and daily pages and it's been my loyal companion. I obviously haven't been using it as faithfully this past month but when I have to call people I use it to take notes. I normally flip to the daily page and scrawl whatever pertinent details I know I won't retain so I can refer back later. Today I decided to try sketching out the idea of a tattoo that's been percolating in my head for the last few weeks.
I'm no artist. Give me some type of needle or crochet hook and I can whip up a beautiful piece of wearable art, but pen/pencil and paper have never been my craft. I've never had what it takes to turn the things in my mind into actual sketches. I can barely draw a stick person. But I knew I could at least get the basics down enough for an actual artist to see my vision and turn it into an actual piece of art. I could give them something resembling the thing I see in my head. With words and the equivalent of a 5 year old's sketching ability, they should have something to work from is my hope.
So I just flipped to an empty daily page and started sketching. I looked at the top and it was dated April 26. That was Mom's last day with us. And the tattoo I was sketching? My version of a memorial piece for her. It's not a traditional memorial piece. No heart with Mom written in it. Just one of my nature scenes that I picture her in. But one of her places not one of my cold harsh landscapes.
Some people believe in signs. They believe in glimpses, winks, whatever you want to call them. I do too. Mom and Dad have always said to listen to your intuition. Mom would say, "Girl, listen to that voice. It's ignoring it that gets you in trouble." She was never one to love tattoos. She was soooo pissed when I got my first one. Not because I got a tattoo, or the tattoo that I got, but because I didn't tell her I was getting it done until AFTER I had already done it. After each one she would just tell me to think them through. Be careful of where they were and think the design through, I was stuck with them for life. I know she didn't really like a lot of them, but she never really gave me hell for them.
I think she would approve of this one. It's representative of her, but of me too. And it doesn't scream memorial tattoo. But it matters to me. Some people have a dislike of tattoos. Some people really love them. I view them as art, as a story of my life. They really only have to matter to me, since I'm the one wearing them. They are the scars I choose. The story I've chosen to tell.
I pulled out my planner this morning, my trusty hobonichi. I love that stupid planner. I've been buying a new one each year for the last several years. It has weekly pages, monthly pages and daily pages and it's been my loyal companion. I obviously haven't been using it as faithfully this past month but when I have to call people I use it to take notes. I normally flip to the daily page and scrawl whatever pertinent details I know I won't retain so I can refer back later. Today I decided to try sketching out the idea of a tattoo that's been percolating in my head for the last few weeks.
I'm no artist. Give me some type of needle or crochet hook and I can whip up a beautiful piece of wearable art, but pen/pencil and paper have never been my craft. I've never had what it takes to turn the things in my mind into actual sketches. I can barely draw a stick person. But I knew I could at least get the basics down enough for an actual artist to see my vision and turn it into an actual piece of art. I could give them something resembling the thing I see in my head. With words and the equivalent of a 5 year old's sketching ability, they should have something to work from is my hope.
So I just flipped to an empty daily page and started sketching. I looked at the top and it was dated April 26. That was Mom's last day with us. And the tattoo I was sketching? My version of a memorial piece for her. It's not a traditional memorial piece. No heart with Mom written in it. Just one of my nature scenes that I picture her in. But one of her places not one of my cold harsh landscapes.
Some people believe in signs. They believe in glimpses, winks, whatever you want to call them. I do too. Mom and Dad have always said to listen to your intuition. Mom would say, "Girl, listen to that voice. It's ignoring it that gets you in trouble." She was never one to love tattoos. She was soooo pissed when I got my first one. Not because I got a tattoo, or the tattoo that I got, but because I didn't tell her I was getting it done until AFTER I had already done it. After each one she would just tell me to think them through. Be careful of where they were and think the design through, I was stuck with them for life. I know she didn't really like a lot of them, but she never really gave me hell for them.
I think she would approve of this one. It's representative of her, but of me too. And it doesn't scream memorial tattoo. But it matters to me. Some people have a dislike of tattoos. Some people really love them. I view them as art, as a story of my life. They really only have to matter to me, since I'm the one wearing them. They are the scars I choose. The story I've chosen to tell.
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