X Marks the Spot

I did not go to kindergarten, however, my older sisters, wise in the ways of elementary school, provided me all the preparation I needed to survive and thrive in first grade. I knew the alphabet and how to print my first name. I could count to one hundred. They taught me how to tie my shoes and my right hand from my left, and I also learned bonus insider information about which teachers were mean or nice, and that the boys' slide on the playground was on the right, proving that it was indeed helpful to know your right hand from your left one.

I did have an advantage when it came to the whole right/left issue. On the back of my hand, just above the wrist, on the thumb side, was a mole. It was my biological cheat sheet and I constantly referred to it to validate my right/left choices. Instead of an ace up my sleeve, I had a mole on my wrist, and it turned out to be even more special than that.

When your name is Dexter, and you grow up in small town Texas with a class full of Tammys, Gregs, Davids and Belindas, a name like Dexter stands out, and I was not someone who craved that attention. Again, fortunately for me, my sisters had some experience in that area. Nelda and Loretta weren't run-of-the-mill names either and they passed on to me their coping mechanism which was simply to know the meaning of your name so that when someone makes fun of it you can educate them and, in the process, let them know that you are proud of your name (or at least pretending to be).

Dexter is from the Latin, meaning 'on the right' or 'right-handed,' and so I took my right hand mole as some sort of validation that the name fit. I also learned that the opposite of dexter in Latin, 'on the left' or 'left-handed,' was sinister. This knowledge led to some interesting discussions with classmates over some popular cartoon characters ... Simon Bar Sinister from Underdog and Poindexter from Felix the Cat.

All of the above is necessary background for what is apparently going to be a major change in the direction of this post, because I can't figure out a way to make a smooth transition from cute little Dexter from elementary school to crazy old man Dexter just trying to sort it all out, so here goes. Within the past week my wife Cindy passed away from breast cancer and the next day I got a tattoo. There. I've just executed the equivalent of a handbrake turn within a blog post. I hope it all makes sense in the end, but you'll need to bear with me.

One winter, while living in Victoria, Cindy and I took a ski trip with a group of 4 other couples. We all stayed in one big condo and one night it was decided that the guys and the girls would go their separate ways for a night on the town. We joked all day about what the evenings activities would be and the guys all settled on the story that we were all going to go drinking and get tattoos, which was exactly half true. This was the 80's, well before tattoos became trendy, and our plan was to go buy some temporary tattoos, put them on a discrete body location, and surprise our wives. This worked to a large degree and a good time was had by all.

This prank became one of those running jokes that couples fall back on throughout their marriage.

Cindy: Where have you been?
Dexter: The tattoo parlor.

Dexter: The blue tie or the green tie?
Cindy: The blue one matches your tattoo better.

Cindy: What do you want for your birthday?
Dexter: A winning lottery ticket and a new tattoo.

Neither of us actually ever got a tattoo. For me, even though I secretly wanted to get a yin/yang or lightning bolt on my butt on the ski trip, the attraction wore off once tramp stamps and tribal bands became popular, and besides that, permanent body art is not something to undertake lightly. Cindy did, eventually, get a tattoo, or rather a couple of permanent dots on her chest, back and sides so that they could line up the radiation treatments consistently. She said in the grand scheme of things it was no big deal, but she wasn't planning on connecting the dots.

And so, you see, the idea of actually getting a tattoo has been on my mind a long time. I even drew up a custom geometric design for a small one a few years ago. And this week, on Monday, one day after Cindy passed away, I took my design down to Imperial Tattoo here in Sugar Land and a young tattoo artist named Cristyan inked my first, and maybe last, tattoo. Here is why and what the design means to me.

Many years ago, in my late 20s, I had a malignant melanoma removed. I went for follow up visits monthly, then quarterly, then semi-annually, and now annually. At some point in that first year of check ups they removed the mole on my right hand. It was a bit of an adjustment, and I had to actually start thinking about right and left without my cheat sheet, but I eventually adapted.

This week, on Monday, I woke up and realized that I had lost my right hand. She was literally gone. There was this missing part of me and I know from seeing others deal with this sort of loss that it can be disorienting and dangerous. I know that many people are concerned about me, about how I am handling this change, this stress, and that getting a tattoo for the first time ever might indicate some sort of crack in my mental health, but I want to assure anyone who is concerned that this is not me jumping off the deep end. It's me doing something tangible to remind me of Cindy, my missing piece. It's an odd place to be, but everyone throughout humanity's existence has muddled their way through this sort of loss. I intend to at least muddle through, but I don't want to forget that once upon a time I had a perfect right hand.

As for the design, it's a simple cross, or it could be seen as an 'X' ... my favorite letter, of course. The long part of the cross points to my heart. It covers the scar from my trusty old mole. There's a gap in the cross, an empty space between the Up & Down part, which symbolizes our relationship with God, and the Back & Forth part, which symbolizes our relationships with each other. I didn't make that up ... that's something that has long been a part of Christian thought, the symbolism of The Cross. In my cross, the gap represents the place I want to be, the nexus, with one part of me focused on my God relationship, and the other part focused on my relationship with people. It's the sweet spot and it's empty because try as I might, it's hard to stay in that space, perfectly balanced between this world and the Kingdom of God.

And yes, I realize that most of the above might be concerning if you are monitoring my mental health, however, I think, for this week at least, I'm allowed.