The closer I get to the first anniversary of Christopher’s death, the harder it’s been to write even though I desperately want to. I feel like I’m in the path of a slow-living freight train with my feet glued to the tracks and my mind is so scattered that I can hardly track a thought.
I mentioned that on Twitter the other day and got the kindest response. “So write about Christopher. Bring him back to life for us.” Would that I could bring him back to life, but the message meant a lot because people rarely (if ever) ask me to talk about my son. That’s not an indictment, it’s just how it goes in these situations and it’s all right.
But, hey, since I’ve been asked, I’m gonna.
In the summer of 2018, Christopher was a few months shy of 17 and we were about to leave for Indianapolis to attend GenCon with Michael and his son. Just before we left, Christopher asked me if I would be willing to sign off on a waiver for him to get a tattoo while we were there.
Now, I have a ton of tattoos, so clearly I had no philosophical issue with this request. However, I also don’t think they should rushed into, what with being permanent and all. But I knew Christopher’s request wasn’t coming from a place of spontaneity. He had a reason for wanting it and the specific location where he wanted it placed.
Like other parts of Christopher’s story, the details of wanting a tattoo aren’t mine to tell. Suffice it to say, I understood it wasn’t an off the cuff request nor was it the first time it had come up. I agreed to find a place in Indy to take him while we were there. Together, we worked on the design and exact placement so he’d be all set when we arrived at the tattoo shop.
Christopher chose an image of an antlered deer with a forest in the background. He was an avid hunter, something I am most definitely not. Fortunately, he was also an ethical hunter, humanely killing only what he knew could be eaten without going to waste. The image held a lot of meaning for him, as well as representing an activity that was important to him for a variety of reasons.
What Christopher didn’t know at the time is that I’d been thinking about getting another tattoo, also in a specific location and for a specific reason. For years, I’d carried a very visible scar of a word someone carved into the back of my neck during an assault. I’d always worn clothing that covered it, not an easy task in the heat of Florida. It was time to reclaim my skin by marking it in a manner of my choosing.
The day before our tattoo outing, I told Christopher that I’d be getting inked right along with him, and why. We spoke a lot in the next day or so about the meanings behind our chosen tattoos and what it meant to each of us to be able to tell our own stories instead of people inferring whatever they wanted by looking at us.
Christopher got immense joy out of his tattoo. It suited him so well and he got compliments on it all the time. I can’t count the number of times he’d excitedly tell me about how “cool and badass” his peers thought it was. His tattoo made him so happy and I’m forever grateful that I was able to share the day he got it with him.
Christopher’s tattoo took on additional meaning after his death. A relative had a duplicate of it inked onto her ribcage and another relative wants to travel to Indianapolis to have the same one done by the same artist. My oldest son had a variation of it tattooed onto his leg in remembrance of his brother.
I see 10-point deer images everywhere I go these days. I know it’s simply confirmation bias, but I’ve decided to harmlessly assume it’s Christopher giving me a little wink and nod as I try to go about my day.
Now, here’s where the story comes full circle. That day in the tattoo shop, we both committed to images that would help us manage a past that made us who we are and remind us that we can go on, even when things seem insurmountable. You’d think that every time I look at the tattoo I got with Christopher on one of our last trips together would cause me a lot of pain. On the contrary.
Instead, it reminds me of the promise I made to myself the day I got it, the promise that has since become even more critical for me to remember. When I think of how I can best honor Christopher’s life and continue to plod on since his death, I recall the phrase he saw permanently etched on my body that hot summer day and try to live by those words for him.
