I

At nearly 40 years old, I’ve recently gotten a couple of tattoos. I had wanted tattoos for years, but always told myself that I could get them once I lost a certain amount of weight and kept it off. Thank goodness my older, wiser self eventually said, “Whoa! Way harsh!” So inspired by the winter solstice, last year I decided that I wanted to get a star tattooed on my right arm.

The process of finding a tattoo artist was not easy. The people my friends would suggest all had notes like “not taking new clients” in their Instagram profiles. I’d cold email others and never hear back, or people would reply asking me to describe in detail what I wanted (“a star tattoo in a Swedish design pattern”) and THEN wouldn’t email me back.

Some friends suggested the Salty Siren in Greenwood, Indiana. I emailed a few people, and one emailed back… Anna.

She told me that she also has Swedish roots that she’d been really interested in exploring, and that she’d love to work on this design. So that was that. On March 31st, a few days before my 39th birthday, I went in to get my tattoo. I loved the outcome of the artwork, and didn’t think it hurt that much, so an overall success.

On a high from my first tattoo, I called my Mom to check in. My Dad was in the hospital, as he sometimes had been over the last 10 years or so. But this time Mom said, “I don’t think your Dad is going to come home from the hospital”. Thus began the week of his death. And, thankfully, he did get to come home, for four days of hospice care.

II

It had been less than two months since our family took a trip to Memphis to celebrate our Mom and Dad’s 40th Wedding Anniversary… less than two months since we – my Mom, my brother Johnny, and my sister-in-law Stephanie – witnessed a miracle.

My Mom surprised my Dad as we entered Memphis City Limits with the news that he was to be the Honorary Duck Master at the 5:00 pm marching of the ducks, from the fountain to the elevator in Memphis’ famed Peabody Hotel. Dad was elated, which was a small relief to us all, because he had been relying heavily on his favorite cane (a gift from his dear friend Jennie DeVoe) for mobility, and he’d expressed a little bit of nervousness about the trip.

As we arrived at the hotel, and checked in, we were met by Kenon Walker, the actual Peabody Hotel Duckmaster. Kenon began to give Dad the run-down for the duck march. Dad was dazzled by him – we all were – which was evident in the column he wrote about the experience.

We were seated at a special table in the Lobby. Dad received a Duckmaster cane, a rubber duckie, and an official Duckmaster certificate. When the time came and the children gathered along the red carpet, the Duckmaster introduced the Honorary Duckmaster, John Carlson. Then the ducks exited the fountain, and the two Duckmasters escorted them to the elevator, where my Mom was gleefully waiting to accompany them up to the Duck Palace on the top floor. 

It’s as if Dad floated down that red carpet with confidence and a boy-ish grin. With all eyes on him, there wasn’t the slightest trip or stumble. 

I captured a picture of this moment, of course, though I was scolded by a southern not-so-gentleman for blocking his view. I just looked at him, and said nothing. He probably didn’t realize that that was my Dad, and that that moment was Dad’s last big hurrah.

But Mom, Johnny, Steph and I were all overcome with joy.

We went out on Beale Street that night, and Dad took a pretty big fall. 

The next day, we were having family portraits taken. The portraits were an Anniversary gift from Johnny and I. Up to that point, we’d been more of an Olan Mills kind of family, and had never arranged a formal photo shoot. But thank God we had these photos taken. And with the loveliest photographer, too, Adonis. 

Dad had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the Memphis Botanic Gardens for the photo shoot. He had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the National Civil Rights Museum. We stuck around the Peabody for dinner that night (which was perfectly okay with me). The next morning, we ate breakfast and headed home.

Dad would go back to the hospital not long after that trip. I saw him one more time at home before hospice. In one sitting, Mom, Dad and I watched the entire miniseries “Bad Vegan” in which the main subject had a tattoo of a duck on her arm. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it so much had I not been sitting next to the Duckmaster himself.

III

I cried on my way to Muncie on April 1st. I cried because my birthday was in a couple of days. I cried because I felt stupid for caring about my birthday at all. I cried because I’d been signed up to take classes with a visiting teacher at Cityoga – one class on the 1st and one class on the 3rd (my birthday). I’d really been looking forward to it, so when I called to give up my spot and hope I wouldn’t lose my money, the sweet person on the phone held space for me as I cried that my Dad was dying. And there was a waiting list so I didn’t lose my money. I cried because when I called to cancel the 1st, she canceled the 3rd, too. It was the right thing to do, but I hadn’t realized I was giving up on it yet.

Dad came home to begin hospice on my birthday. We’d made the decision not to mention it to him. We didn’t want him to feel helpless. But at one point he looked up on the board in his hospital room, noticed the date, April 3rd, looked at me and mumbled “Happy Birthday, Kate”. Around 10:30 that night, Mom, the nurses and I ate some cake that had been picked up earlier that day from Concannon’s Bakery.

The next several days were excruciating. There was nothing to do but watch him slowly die. And greet the line of his dearest friends coming to say their final goodbyes. 

He died the evening of April 7th. The next day, as I headed back to Indy for a couple of nights, my brother gave me Dad’s Duckmaster cane to take home.

In the days following his death, my Dad was remembered in so many ways. He was remembered as a local favorite newspaper writer, and as a pilot and aviation nut, nicknamed “Ace”. He was remembered for loving clouds and his long-standing membership to the Cloud Appreciation Society. He was remembered as a loyal friend and beloved bar patron. He was remembered as an amazing husband, father, brother, uncle and cousin. Among these many remembrances, there were none who called him “Ducky” or mentioned an avid collection of ducks. He loved all birds – certainly ducks among them – but they weren’t one of his trademarks.

Even before Dad’s death, I met Johnny and Steph downstairs at the hospital, and showed them my new star tattoo. In the same conversation, I told them that I already wanted to get another one, of a Swedish-styled duck. I didn’t have to explain to them why. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom and I were on a hike at Mounds State Park when she pointed and said “look, there are some ducks” on the opposite side of the White River.

The association with ducks may not have been life-long, but they would be forever connected to his spirit.

IV

Back to waiting until I was almost 40 to start getting tattoos… This time I had told myself that if I trained for and finished a half marathon, I could get another tattoo (man… old thought patterns die hard). Thankfully, this exercise-based mission was less about weight, and more about processing grief and directing excess energy.

After completing the half marathon, another appointment was made with Anna, and she brought my vision of a duck in a Swedish design to life. The duck tattoo was placed on the back of my arm which was significantly more painful, but I remain in awe of her work, and the one-of-a-kind works of art that now grace my body.

Still, I know some people wonder why I would get such obvious tattoos at a later age. Well, first of all, because it’s my body, and I can do what I want. Second, I don’t know when my Dad got his first tattoo, but it was well into his 50s. But mostly it’s because my tattoos tell a story. One tells a story about my proud Swede of a Dad, and the miracle we witnessed at the Peabody Hotel. The other side tells a story to me.

It can be a little awkward, but people sometimes ask me to explain what the tattoos mean. To say “oh the duck is for my Dad” is simple. The star is a bit more complex. 

The star is about finding light in darkness. It’s about allowing yourself to take up as much space as you need. It means that you don’t have to shrink your body down to a certain size to be whole and be loved. It means that you don’t have to make yourself small or dim down your light to get approval from anyone else. It means you deserve to be where you are. And that your stories deserve to be heard.

And that’s good, because I’m a storyteller (and proud Swede), like my Dad. The star is there to remind me of that.