Mum was always a rebel. She spent her youth sneaking into discos and living with rock bands, so it was awfully tough to shock her with anything we did growing up. However, in 2001, when my older brother, Mathew, phoned home to say he got a tattoo in a back alley in Thailand, well, that just about did it. Mum was never religious, but that night, so concerned Mathew would catch some horrible disease or infection, she prayed.
Then, right after my 18th birthday in 2008, my own tattoo journey began. My mother’s fears around the risk of diseases from tattoos, such as hepatitis, had faded, but other stigmas still lingered. When I told Mum I had made an appointment to get my first tattoo at a professional studio in Sydney, it was my prospects, not my health, that worried her – how it would affect my ability to find work, or whether I would end up regretting it.
At the time, Mum had been living in a different state for nearly a decade, relocating from New South Wales to Queensland to find her peace after my parents’ divorce. We visited when we could and called often, but communication wasn’t our strong suit. My sister was already fixing to finish high school by the time Mum moved away, and my brother was into his 20s. It was hard on us offspring in different ways; for me, Mum missed the most formative years of my life and, for that, we both suffered.
Mum worked in administration at the local hospital’s oncology ward, where her warm presence was a much needed salve for the patients. Patients would tell stories from their lives and talk about the things they never had a chance to do, the most outrageous of which was getting a tattoo.
Meanwhile, by my early 20s, tattoos had progressed into a full-blownraison d’êtrefor me. I was covered neck to toe – Mum wasn’t thrilled. From the outside, it was easy to see this as antisocial; a short-term thrill with long-term consequences.
Tattoos became my way of communicating with the world. For me they were both a sword and shield; my thoughts and feelings in technicolour. So, in 2012, when Mum called me to ask if I could help her move back to Sydney, there was only one way I knew how to capture the moment. I suggested she get a tattoo about it and, to my surprise, Mum agreed without any hesitation.
I flew to Sunshine Beach to help pack. With the car loaded, we stopped off at the first, now shut, local tattoo studio. Mum had done her research and picked the top of her arm, a spot she learned would age well, and the piece – an infinity symbol dedicated to her late friend from the oncology ward.
It took an hour. Maybe less. Mum hardly felt it and couldn’t understand what the carry-on with pain was all about. She enjoyed the experience and was surprised by the gentle side of the process – the meditation it provided. To the hum of the needle, she thought of her dear friend, the last 10 years, her children and what was next for us all.
A lot happened in that hour. Mum saw that, for me, tattoos are a way of processing the world, not rejecting it. In turn, having spent a decade in another state, she had communicated to me that there would never be distance between us again.
Mum now understands tattoos aren’t a rebellious and risky practice but a way to express yourself creatively. She never got any more, although she plays with the idea of adding colour. To this day, Mum is content with the large story contained within the small, fine lines of her tattoo.