Penguin buddies ease pain of grief
We asked readers to send us photos of their tattoos and tell us the stories behind them.
Those stories told of joy, accomplishment, friendship, love, remembrance and sadness. Today, we print a selection of them.
If you want to tell the story of your tattoo, send it with a high-resolution photo to features@timescolonist.com
Inever thought I would ever get a tattoo. That all changed with the death of one of my closest friends in June. Ian and I started out dating more than 27 years ago, when I was in my early 20s at the University of Victoria. He was older than I was, and besides being phenomenally handsome, he had the added appeal of having travelled the world over after he graduated from university.
He had lived in India, Australia and Europe, and had driven a tour bus through the Soviet Bloc. He’d had adventures galore. Dating evolved to living together and in time, we adopted a six-week puppy, then later bought a house together.
Ian was a Renaissance man — despite being self-trained, his ability to build or fix things was unsurpassed. He could fix motors (cars, trucks, motorcycles, an old double-decker tour bus that had a habit of breaking down in Morocco). He could renovate any old home into a work of beauty. He was able to do joinery and finishing carpentry to a standard of excellence that would make most ticketed carpenters bow down to acknowledge his artistry. He was fiercely independent, self-supporting and wise beyond his years.
He was also the man you could never truly break up with. He maintained close friendships with the women he had loved, and I was among them. We were together as a couple for five years, but we never stopped being together. He built beautiful things for me in the house we bought together, where I still live.
He could make me laugh if I needed that. He was always a phone call away if I needed someone to have a beer with, or talk to, or a shoulder to cry on, or an enthusiastic pal to watch the Canucks game with me. The dog we had lived for 17 years, and Ian was by my side and the dog’s side when his end came.
Ian was diagnosed with Pseudomyxoma peritonei more than 12 years ago, on the eve of his 49th birthday. He lived with this rare and slow-moving abdominal cancer for many years before it incapacitated him, and ultimately ended his life. The fabulous care from the Palliative Outreach Team at Hospice allowed Ian to live at his sister’s home in relative comfort, but most importantly, it bought him time where he could be reasonably comfortable and have a quality of life so that he could share his considerable love with family and friends. In the end, he chose to avail himself of medical assistance in dying. It was a brave choice, and he left the world as he lived in it — bravely and on his own terms.
I love to sail, and I grew up in a family where we always had a sailboat. A moored boat is kept safe by a series of ropes (lines) that snugly hold the boat to the dock. The boat probably has rubber fenders tied to its guard rails to provide extra cushioning. If a person is that boat, and the mooring lines and fenders are the friends and/or family who keep that person safe and grounded in the potentially stormy weather of life, when Ian died, an important line for me was cut abruptly and irrevocably. My boat was no longer secure at the dock. I needed a way to feel that Ian was with me, even though he had died.
For some reason, Ian collected penguins for most of his life. He loved those birds. So when I decided to pay homage to Ian with a tattoo, it was an obvious choice to find a penguin image. I found a tattoo artist who mixed some of Ian’s cremated ashes into the ink.
That was not a simple task. Many phone calls inquiring about that got a response that it was not advisable or possible. I took a chance by going in person one day to a West Shore studio, and I got a positive response. Having the ashes mixed in did not cause me any discomfort or skin irritation.
For me, dying is an inevitable part of life. As much as my heart has broken for the loss of my friend, my grief is somewhat eased knowing I will carry a little bit of him around with me until my last breath. It has eased my sadness considerably to have the penguin buddies on my arm. And I am grateful to the artist who agreed to do this for me.
— Sue Loney
Music has always been a huge part of my life. When I hear a song from the past, I am taken back to a particular moment in time, instantly. Music has the ability to bring emotions of joy, sadness, inspiration and many others. When I retired, I decided to take guitar lessons! Seven years later, I am playing in small groups and have made some wonderful friends.
For my 67th birthday, my daughter gave me the gift of a tattoo. I did not hesitate to choose a treble clef with a small heart, symbolic of the musical passion, drive and a fire within me that will never die.
— Janet McDonald, Lantzville
As a young military lad, my husband, Trevor Hallam, was stationed in Cold Lake, Alta., and joined the hockey team. He was considered quite tall at 61⁄2 feet, but when he donned his hockey skates, it brought him up close to the seven-foot mark. He was fondly given the name “Bigbird.”
He was stationed in many places throughout his military career, both in Canada and Europe, and the “Bigbird” handle stayed with him as he worked his way up through the ranks. Back in Canada, while stationed at CFB Comox, “the boys” bought him a stuffed Bigbird toy and hung it over his office doorway.
After retiring, that Bigbird stuffee hung from his toolbox out in the garage. A couple of years ago, with tattoos becoming all the rage, he wondered if he should get one, and what better design than his career-long handle of the popular “Bigbird.” What better design to remind him of his work-hard, play-hard career and the unforgettable comradeship he enjoyed.
— Barb Kayes