The artist wasn’t accustomed to creating imperfect tattoos, but I asked for imperfection; a single word scribbled on my forearm like a note from someone – a note too someone.
No computer font, so precise and formal, or florid script, so graceful and expressive, would do. I explained why my tattoo should be flawed. As artists are want to do he found meaning in my request.
He went to work with pencil and talent and returned with something perfectly imperfect, precisely imprecise.
My dearest friend died recently. Her body gave out and for the final two weeks her only response to doctors and family was a strong heartbeat.
I called from 2,000 miles and a friend placed the receiver to her ear and promised that she could hear me. I sang Bob Marley, off key. Don’t be afraid I said, I love you, it’s ok to loosen your grip now. Then I joked that she was never much good at letting go.
In our marathon conversations we often talked about the word, now as permanent to me as addiction.
I promised that after our final farewells I would get the tattoo in honor of her and how hard she tried, but also as a warning to me. My friend died because she was sick, but her illness was a wild animal feeding off fear, more aggressive as her trust in the taming power of the word faltered.
The cunning baffling demon – our shared peril – conquered her because she thought she could conquer it.
It’s Ok to go, I told her again — we will all be fine. Your fight is ended.
I have to believe that she came to understand. As her heart weakend, she became resigned to her fate. She finally let go; somewhere beyond the silence, her ragged breathing and failed body, she accepted the blessing.
She was powerless and her life had become unmanageable.
Now we who love her are left to find our way through the over-analysis, guilt and regrets of grief. Or we can find acceptance in all that she was: vibrant and ill; strong and weak; engaging and lonely; a beautifully imperfect person who sought — too often — to please everyone she encountered, blinded to the impossibility of such a feat.
I must not be deceived; I look at the word on my arm to recognize the arrogance of believing I had the power to save her, to prevent her suffering and death.
She and I used to joke that people who are able to drink in moderation have a superpower. They might as well be able to fly, because we can do neither.
My tattoo is fresh and new today, the single word is simple and rough-edged. I remember my friend and long for one more phone call, to laugh and cry and learn answers to unanswered questions.
I try my best to reconcile her struggle against life and escape from herself with the liberation that death offered from all fear and torment. Maybe the word, so elusive to my lost friend, will provide me with faith, or maybe not.
I look at the tattoo and one thing is certain.
For today, “Surrender” is my superpower.