The Tattoo

Empty beds, one gets used to them. You have to - in this profession. Everyone moves on in one form or another. It proved difficult at first. It took some getting used to. Afterwards, staff swab, clean, or cleanse the room. Cleansed is a better word than purged. It carries connotations of purification. Patients leave, the door shuts, and the room is reset. Spotless. Odorless. All senses scrubbed away. Even her perfume.

A bed does not stay vacant for too long. In my formative years, I used to worry about my patients, how they were getting on out there, those that survived, of course. Going on to their rehab, their new lives, few being able to return to their previous lives. It’s the profession. And it can get you down if you let it, if you worry too much. Dwell too much. You must learn, or at least I had to, to focus one’s attention on the new patients. Those arriving. Those you can help. It’s a revolving door.

Some patients stay with you. For varied reasons. I have thought about this. There appears no set pattern or type, but if I had to guess, I suggest the majority of those I remember are because of their graciousness. They appreciated what it is we are about, what we are attempting, and sometimes it is an attempt as we don’t always know. I never pretend. We don’t always get it right. Those I remember. But let’s stay with those that we can help and do. Often it is because they say to the staff, say to me, “Thank you”. A ‘thank-you’ endures, or even a smile.

One lady preoccupied my mind. She arrived, in a bad way, after her accident, and despite her injuries, she had what I ended up calling nobility. I struggled to find a label for her. Nobility, dignity, definitely stoic. Always a kind word. Enquiring about and remembering our stories. Quick to tell me how well the nurses had looked after her. Knew our children’s names. She was with us a while, given her injuries. We all liked her. We tried our best. She was old but not elderly. She did not have to go. It was her choice. I tried to talk to her. On more than one occasion. But she just smiled her smile under a knowing gaze as she looked at you, really looked at you. She saw. It was her bridge to burn.

Working here, you meet all sorts. The unique personalities, the characters, the weak, the strong, the overwhelmed. She presented as a person who had seen life, lived it, and I liked to think she had not shied away from living her very best life. The way she had listened as I delivered to her the extent of her injuries, the path ahead, then her acceptance. No tears, no emotional outburst, no sense of wanting to cling to something, more a sense of an ending. So, this is how it ends. I argued strongly, and she smiled her smile and thanked me for my concern and told me, “It will be alright”. Without the surgery, all I could do was make her as comfortable as possible. I visited more than I was required to, though mindful of my training. Kept my distance. And I regret not becoming better acquainted. I do.

When she was awake, I kept my best pleasant bedside manner but always held her hand, so petite. Her nails manicured and telling. And she would always give a little squeeze of my hand before I hurried off, another casualty, another patient.

I used the word nobility because while lying there in the clinical white of the hospital bed, she still kept herself, not immaculately groomed but tidy. An attractive grace. But her willpower sustained her. Her quiet acceptance. Life was to be lived, not clung to.

I wanted to ask her about the tattoo. I should have. I don’t think she would have minded. I am sorry that I did not. It may have helped to understand what her life had been.

Many tattooed people come through here. For many, the form of expression suits their personalities. Mostly. She did not seem like that type, which intrigued me. Still carrying an accent from the subcontinent, I am aware India has a rich centuries-old tradition of indigenous and tribal body art, but from what I gather, not in modern-day India, not permanent ink, not there. She kept it hidden, close to the mons pubis. Away from the public, not modesty, something more deliberate. Not in the try-something-new category. It seemed more targeted, more well-thought-out. Not to cover a scar. Emotional healing, self-expression, maybe. Or commemoration.

The image was small: a pot, terracotta in colour, too small to be decorated. All other artwork was in black ink. The pot was surrounded by or floating in water. There was a female figure, too distorted on old skin to determine age, looking upward at a flock of birds in full flight. Was this artwork what she wanted to take with her? Why so personal? Why not an image to leave to someone?

A painting could capture and freeze desire, but not slow time. Maybe the idea was to capture the moment but not time, letting the picture age as the body ages. A silent private history, not left, not bequeathed. More of a personal philosophy. Always look up or away. Wings of flight, or freedom. The scene of ink had a simple beauty and a truth. What had she known that I do not? In her final hours, she was calm. Smiling, even.

I couldn’t tell if the figure was celebrating the freedom of the birds or mourning their departure. Yet that moment in time, that exact scene, is no more. The scene appeared vibrant, yet frozen, aging on the skin. I had wanted to ask her, no, plead with her not to give up on life so readily. Surgery carries risks, but hope remained. A chance at existence. But she had already decided. I argued, as my profession is wanted, but I never questioned her. I never asked why. Those questions, so many questions. I should have. Why leave when a possibility remained? Had I asked her to explain about the tattoo, I might have understood.

Is it possible to have such clarity to be able to depict a scene of such simplicity, with such power, for one’s own life? There would be a beauty in that truth. The small human form, the animal kingdom, even the water in the terracotta pot, all held, or maybe apprehended for that moment only. Lives lived, but only for oneself. It’s not arrival, no.

Voices reverberate in the corridor. My phone vibrates. I reach into my pocket. I reach for it, then hesitate. I already know who it is from. I have been expecting it. My own results are ready. I asked for a second opinion. It is a text requesting me to visit his rooms. It is not a phone call.

I walk to the doorway and turn and look at the cleansed bed. I leave and close the door.