Sometime last week, in the course of a conversation with the hubby, I realized that my very strong aversion to tattoos had ebbed a bit. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I view tattoos as a symbol of white trash. Dirty and green and without rhyme or reason. My bio-parents have some pretty ridiculous tattoos, which is of course the origin of my aversion. But suddenly one evening last week, I felt a shift, a loosening of my judgment, as if there was shift in the health of one or both of my bio-units. I have joked that once they are both dead I might be more open to colorful body mutilation.
Thursday night my brother left a voice mail. Mind you I haven't seen my brother in 20 years and haven't spoken on the phone to him in almost 15. He wanted to let me know (in an upbeat and conversational tone) that mom is dying. The doctors have given her a couple of months and she wanted me to know.
Ah. Now I understand why tattoos don't seem quite so bad.
As if a message like that isn't bad enough, it was also left on the eve of my birthday. I can count on one hand the number of birthdays my mother has remembered or acknowledged. Off the top of my head I can't actually remember one, but I'm sure there are a couple One year she actually got married on my birthday. I think that was husband #6. Two husbands ago.
She knew my brother called me. I know this in part because the call came from her number (thank goodness for call id) and because her voice can clearly be heard in the background feeding information to my bro. He left me his number and a basic schedule of when he is home in case I want to talk to him. And pointed out that he would be at mom's house on Friday. No mention of the fact that Friday is my birthday. Happy fucking birthday.
I think I'll wait until she's buried. Then I think I'll get a tiny dragonfly tattooed on my wrist.
All things happen for a reason, I suppose.
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