March 26, 2010--Snowbirding: The Tattooed Girl

We had been in the surgical waiting room for two hours when she showed up. My cousin was having a heart ablation procedure and we were sitting nervously with his wife awaiting the outcome. There were some dangers associated with the procedure, and it took an effort to come up with enough small-talk topics to keep us distracted. So, we welcomed her presence.

Before she arrived I had been chatting up a 92-year-old women whose son was having spinal fusion surgery. She was taking it quite casually. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” she said with conviction, “We’ve seen worse, but we’ve also seen better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, not really knowing how to respond. “I mean, about the ‘worse’ part. Seeing ‘better’ is of course better.” Even to myself I was sounding like a cliché.

“That’s the way life is,” she nodded, “but I’ll take better any day. Today, I feel sure will be one of those.”

“Better days?”

“Exactly. And I hope for you and your family as well.” She took a small bottle of what looked like chocolate milk from a large carryall. She noticed my staring at it. We were sitting side-by-side on an uncomfortable Naugahyde sofa. “I have my whole life in here. My special foods, my medicines, my car keys, all my emergency numbers, and a couple of sweaters. In my condition, I’m always feeling cold.”

I tentatively asked, “Your condition?” My cousin shifted closer to us so she also could hear. Anything to take our minds off what might be happening in the OR next door.

“Too many to talk about.” She tapped her chest, kidneys, stomach, and right knee. It was easy to figure out that she indeed had too many conditions to want to talk about any. But she was smiling at us as she tried to unscrew the top off the bottle.

“Here, let me help you with that.” It was the girl who had recently arrived. She untangled herself from her chair, where she had been sitting on her folded-up legs, and came over to us. She looked no more than sixteen and was dressed as if she were the third Olsen sister. All hanging vests, key chains, and a slouch cap pulled down obliquely on one side. Everything patterned, nothing matching, but, in totality, quite attractive.

My couch mate handed the bottle up to her. “Thank you, honey. I have such trouble with these. It’s my arthritis.” She stiffly flexed her fingers to demonstrate. “I have to drink four a day, every six hours. It helps with my diabetes.” Another condition to add to the growing list. “If I do this, I can stay off the shots, but I still have to watch what else I eat. And of course take my pills. I’ve got a whole sack of these sugar free shakes with me at all times.” She again gestured toward her bulging tote bag.

“No problem for me,” the girl said, all cheer and generous smiles. “There are a lot of older people in my life. Like my grandmother who’s here having her gall bladder removed. I took the day off to be with her.”

“From school?” the woman asked.

“No, from my job.” Neither of us followed up, feeling that it must be an uncomfortable story for a girl so young to have had to quit school in order to work.

As the girl was standing close to us I had the opportunity to examine her more closely. Characteristic of many her age she had numerous facial piercings. In each ear she had at least four studs. There was a tiny one through her right nostril and at least one more beneath her lower lip. And when she smiled I thought I saw another halfway up her tongue. Nothing that unusual for me since up in New York it is common to see teenagers similarly, in my old-fashioned view, figuratively and literally defaced.

I could see the woman beside me peering at her. This must not be as familiar a sight for her. She reached out as if to touch the girl, her hand trembling, I assumed, from yet another condition. “That is so lovely,” she surprisingly said. I saw then that she was pointing toward a tattoo on the girl’s forearm.

“Oh, that one.”

“You have more?”

“Many.” The girl was grinning with delight. “But this one is for my father. You see it has his name here.” He pulled her sleeve up higher and extended her arm closer to the woman. “It says, ‘Phil. My Dad.’ And has these leaves all around it. Vines really.”

“That’s lovely, dear. And how unusual, isn’t it, for a girl to have one for her father?”

“He was a special man. He died when I was only twelve. I miss him every day. He was raising me after my mom left.”

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry.”

She gently touched the woman on her shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry about. I had twelve wonderful years with him. Not all my friends can say the same thing. I could tell you some stories about that. But I don’t want to upset you. And then I have my Granny, who they’re working on right now. She’ll be fine. When my dad died she took me in and finished raising me.”

“Aren’t you lucky.” The girl nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“And as I told you I have more tats. I mean, of these. Tattoos. Wanna see?” She had already sat down on the arm of the sofa and had her arm around the old woman. “I’m Jennie.”

The woman said, “I’m Mrs. Miller. I mean, Mary. Call me that, please.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Miller.” Jennie reached out to shake hands and Mrs. Miller reciprocated. “This one on bicep has my name, also surrounded by vines and flowers. See that one over here?” Mrs. Miller put on her reading glasses to get a closer look. She was sipping from her medicinal drink.

“I love the colors. It’s nice that you like flowers so much. I do too. One reason we moved to Florida was so that I could grow them all year long. Up in Wisconsin where my husband and I came from, we had such a short growing season. We were married 62 years before he passed almost ten years ago.” She dabbed a tissue under her eyes. Jennie reached across to gently take it from her.

“I have more!” Jennie bubbled. She was pulling up her trouser leg. “Here, on my ankle. It hurt to have this one done. But it’s one of my favorites. It’s a single red rose. See how the stem reached down into my shoe? I like that. That’s why I wear these high-tops.” She was wearing unlaced black combat boots.

Mrs. Miller bent forward to get a closer look. “Now, don’t make yourself dizzy. Folks with diabetes get woozy so easily.”

“For someone your age, you seem to know a lot about medical things.”

“Not so much about medicine, but, as you called them, ‘conditions.’ So what do you think? Do you like the rose?”

“I do, I do. I think it’s an Heirloom. One of my favorites. I grew them in Wisconsin. That’s one thing I miss being here. Roses. Being able to grow them. The climate is so hard on them.”

“I have more. But in public here,” she looked around and touched her stomach and breasts, “I don’t think I can show you. But I do have one here on my back.” She leaned forward and pulled up her T-shirt. She reached around so that she could get her hand back there to show off some of the tattoo’s special features. And it was quite spectacular—an image of a huge eagle with it’s wings expanded so that they almost wrapped around to the front of her body and long enough so that its tail feathers disappeared below the belt line of her jeans.

“I wish I could show you everything, but that would get me kicked out of here.” She winked at Mrs. Miller.

“Well, I never,” Mrs. Miller said with breathless excitement. “I of course know about these . . . what did you call them?”

“Tats.”

“Yes, tats. Billy had one. My husband. But he was in the Navy during the war and all the boys got them to show they were really men and how tough they were. He had an anchor. It was done in the Philippines, I think, and was quite faded. More like a smudge. And yours? What do you think will happen to them?”

“They tell me that with the techniques and inks they use these days it should last longer than me.” She laughed at that thought.

To shift the subject, Mrs. Miller asked, “You said you work, darling?”

“Yes, I do. With everything happenin’ in my life I worked since I was a little kid. Right after my dad died. Not full time then—I did have to go to school, where I was doing very well. I loved school.” He voice softened. “But as soon as I turned fifteen, I quit and began to work full time.”

“I do understand. You seem like such a nice girl.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I do try. It wasn’t always easy.”

“How I know.”

“Well, my first full-time job was delivering groceries for Publix in Hallendale. If you can call that a full-time job. I really worked for tips. They hardly paid me anything. Then I did some waitressing in a luncheonette, and when they went out of business I got an OK job at Denny’s. I made good money there. Of course no benefits. But I was young and didn’t really care about those. Now, as I’m gettin’ older I’m beginning to think about them more.”

“Older? Why, you look like you’re sweet sixteen.”

Jennie grinned. “Not exactly. How old you think I am?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Take a guess.”

“You do look sixteen but I’ll say seventeen since you said you’re getting ‘older.’”

“You’re not even close. I know I look like I’m twelve, but I’m twenty-one. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my driver’s license.” She was reaching around to her hip pocket. She was clearly used to be ID’d.

“Of course I believe you. It’s just that you look so young after all you’ve been through.”

“And so do you, Mrs. Miller.”

“But you don’t even know how old I am.”

“Whatever it is,” Jennie responded diplomatically, “you look much younger than you are.”

“Well, dear, at my next birthday I’ll be ninety-three.”

“You see, to me you look as if you’re not a year older than eighty.” In fact, Jennie was right. Mrs. Miller was quite youthful looking for someone her age and, to quote her, her condition.

“How do you know so much about old ladies? I’ll bet your Granny is not even,” she paused to do the arithmetic, “sixty-five.”

“She’s younger than that. My people start havin’ babies real young. Not me, though, I’m building a career for myself. She’s only just sixty.”

“Really? But how nice. Aren’t you lucky. You’ll have her around for a long time. And I am happy to hear about your career. You’re . . .?”

“I didn’t say but I’m working in a home for folks with Alzheimer’s.” She smiled proudly. “That’s how I know so much about older folks. I’m a nurse’s aide. But I’m going to school at night to become a PN. A practical nurse. And after that, who knows? Maybe even an RN.”

“That’s wonderful. But for someone as young as you, isn’t working with people like that depressing?”

“Not at all. I love all my patients. They inspire me. Even when they are still at the confused stage, when they know what’s happening to them, they figure out their own ways to be happy. They like being read to, even if they can’t follow every word. I read them my favorite poems and short stories. I think they like the sound of my voice.”

“I can see why. You have a lovely voice. You could read to me any time.”

“I would love to do that one day. I don’t mean in the Unit, of course. I mean at your house. If you would have me.”

“That would be my pleasure. Maybe, one day. And what else do you do for your patients?”

“I play music for them. They even like the music I like. Not Rap, which I can’t tolerate, but jazz and even some country music. They like the classics. Dave Brubeck, Patsy Cline, folks like that. I have my IPod all loaded up with things they like and play it for them every day. For some it’s their favorite time. And, you know what else? There’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.”

“What’s that dear?”

“These.” She was pointing again at her tattoos.

“What do you mean?”

“They love my tattoos. This includes some of the patients who are pretty advanced. In a bad way, advanced.”

“I know what you mean. I had a sister who . . .” She trailed off and again dabbed at her eyes.

“They may have forgotten a lot of other things—words, faces, even some of their own family members—but they seem to remember the tattoos and . . . me. In fact, I had the eagle one put on just for them. And the rose. To me they are my flowers.”

“You are such a wonderful girl. I mean, a very special person.” Mrs. Miller reached up to embrace Jennie who slid down to her knees so she could fully return it. They rocked in each other’s arms for a full minute. Tears on both of their faces.

Soon after that Mrs. Miller got good news from the surgeon about her son. He would be fine. They should expect a full recovery and with any luck, after he’s healed, he should be pain free. Jennie’s Granny, as well, came through successfully. She would be able to go home in a few days and Jennie told the surgeon that she would take good care of her. That she was experienced with that. In fact, they didn’t have to send any aides to the house. “No need to waste any money.”

And my cousin too handled the procedure as well as could be expected; and also with any luck would be symptom free very soon and in a week or two could resume his normal life.

One final thing, before we left and before Jennie and Mrs. Miller tried to see their loved ones in the Recovery Room, I noticed them exchanging phone numbers. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jennie one day before too long wandered over to Mrs. Miller’s to visit and to read her one of her favorite stories.