My First Tattoo! 

Last month, just before my birthday month came to a close, I got my first tattoo. It wasn’t something I ever thought I would do, but after my grandmother passed away, I decided to place three meaningful letters on the inside of my forearm—Oma. 

During the last two years of my grandmother’s life in long-term care, she held my hand each night during my visits. I would feed her dinner, and afterward, we would break into song, singing her favorites from Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra, my hand entwined in hers until she drifted off to sleep. I cherish those moments and think of them often.

After her passing, I considered getting a tattoo as a permanent reminder of the special moments we shared. I spent plenty of time researching where to get my tattoo and who should do it, asked countless friends who had tattoos about the experience, and scrolled through many different styles on Instagram. 

My grandmother had incredibly neat and fine handwriting, which was documented on a card she had sent me for my 16th birthday. The fine-line, single-needle tattoo style resembled the look I was hoping to achieve, and I found an artist on the Lower East Side—ironically near where my grandmother grew up—to do it.

While I researched the tattoo process extensively, I didn’t give proper consideration to the location on my body where I wanted to get it. Fortunately, my artist helped me find the perfect spot (even if it took almost as long to decide as it did for him to ink the three letters on the inside of my forearm). After about an hour, I had my first tattoo—a small, delicate piece that resembled my grandmother’s handwriting preserved on the card from 22 years ago. 

What struck me the most about the experience was the irony of it all. I found myself in the city where my grandmother grew up, a place she often described while sharing stories about her childhood after the Great Depression. I was alone, which reminded me of the solitude I experienced during my caregiving journey, and I chose to get a tattoo—a decision I made independently. Within this observation lies a deeper story, but for now, that’s all I have.

Now that my tattoo is a couple of weeks old, I’m still getting used to seeing it on my skin. However, it has brought a new sense of peace to my grieving process, for which I am deeply grateful.