My grandmother’s signature on my hand, 2015.
Edith Fisher was my best friend during the first half of my life. She was my grandmother on my dad’s side, but more importantly, my friend. Growing up, my folks would ship me to Grammy’s house in Southern California to spend the summer. I was sent to the local Jewish Community Center for day camp, and when I wasn’t at the JCC, we kept to a busy schedule. Everyone loved my grandma Edith, and she had friends everywhere we went. She had worked at the perfume counter in Macy’s for many years, and when we went, we would get stopped by former coworkers and friends who had to hug Edith and tell me how fabulous they thought she was.
Along with her cohort of other elderly Jewish ladies, we went to museums and plays, saw so many movies, and ate so much deli food. At night, we would snuggle up and talk about the world and our lives, laugh and be silly, and fall asleep giggling about something or another. My grandma was whip smart and had an excellent sense of humor. She had honed her comedic timing over the years and could instantly pop off with a comeback.
I was (and am) an odd duck, and my grandma supported my weirdness and nurtured it. I was always encouraged to draw and create art; she would marvel at my creations and instantly hang them up in the house. When I got older and decided that I wanted to tattoo as a career, she didn’t quite understand it, but she supported me nonetheless. I was never discouraged from this dream nor told it was impossible. After I became a tattoo artist, she told me she wanted a little tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder, which regretfully never came to pass.
As we both got older, Grammy had a series of health issues that did a number on her body. She had heart bypass surgery, survived bone marrow cancer, became diabetic, lost sight in one of her eyes, and had trouble walking. Through all of this, I would visit, and for a few months in college, I stayed with her to help her transition from being independent to relying on in-home care. She became lifelong friends with some of her in-home care workers, and they grew to love her like we all did. Grammy could still make a room full of people burst into laughter despite all her illnesses and pains.
After a number of years of being able to stay in her own home, she deteriorated to a state of needing to be supervised 24/7. Grammy went to live in a small nursing home as her health continued to deteriorate. I would call her there and have nonsensical conversations, but it didn’t matter because I could hear her voice.
Edith Fisher passed away on November 15th, 2015, and was buried next to my grandpa Irvin a couple of days later. My grandmother was religious and had a traditional Jewish funeral, full of customs that I, as a non-practicing Jew who had never been to any kind of funeral, was unaware existed. I am an atheist, and while I was raised with Jewish culture, no one ever pushed the religion on me beyond celebrating an occasional holiday. In my sadness over losing my best friend and being surrounded by a religious service, I found comfort in some of the rituals.
I realized that being able to follow through with physical acts like wearing a piece of torn cloth or keeping a candle lit was helping me feel like I was actively moving through grief.
When I came home from the funeral, I was still so full of sadness and searching for something that would help alleviate the emotional pain. In opposition to this religious service, I attended, but in keeping with the spirit that my grandma shone so brightly with, I decided that I needed my own ritual to work through my grief. I found an old card from her when her handwriting was still crisp and copied her signature that I then tattooed on myself. It was difficult because I couldn’t “check out” from the pain since I was focused on actually doing the tattoo. It ended up being a worthwhile ritual and felt like a trial by fire. I felt like I exorcised some of my emotional pain. I tattooed “Grammy” on the side of my left hand, which I see multiple times a day, every day. It makes me think of her and her smile, how she smelled, how much she loved me, and how much I still love her.
Resilient A.F. means acknowledging your feelings and allowing space for them while still being able to move forward.
A tattoo sure can make grief a teensy bit less heavy.
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