Indelible: A Memoir

By Sami Moses

Tattoos represent something that will last a lifetime, not something fleeting.

In Indelible: A Memo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indelible Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088127834

Book preview

butterfly tattoo

Chapter One

The Butterfly

Learning to play musical instruments was a part of my life growing up. I took piano, guitar, and alto saxophone lessons throughout my childhood. Though I was never particularly amazing at it, my favorite instrument was the guitar. I thought it was what the cool kids played. I took weekly guitar lessons between ages seven and ten, and my mom would always pick me up after class. There was a grassy patch outside the red brick building where I would sit patiently if she were running late. On one of those days when I had some time in that grass, my mom and brother walked up and sat in the grass with me instead of pulling up with the car for me to hop in.

She asked how my lesson was as she got comfortably seated. I went on and on about my lesson and got more comfortable as well. She then paused for a minute and said she needed to tell us something that was going to be hard to hear.

She looked at us seriously and told us she was very sick. She explained that her illness was not a type of sickness you get better from; instead, it was the kind of sickness she would die from at some point. She had metastatic breast cancer.

Doctors originally diagnosed her with breast cancer when she was thirty-one years old, and she had been in and out of remission since then. She was now in her early forties and had already started chemotherapy and radiation. Our mom was telling us now because she was losing her hair, and we were bound to notice. She pulled some out as she explained, and I thought, wow—what a weird thing, and even tugged on some of my hair to see if I was losing mine, too.

The thing I knew for sure when I was seven or so was that I was called and supposed to respond to Sami. I had a mom, a dad, a younger brother, two dogs, and a cat/mouser. We lived way up in the mountains, far from where we got food, played sports, or went swimming. Many of my friends lived closer to those things. We lived in a house with a blue roof, and it was a place that anyone who came to visit seemed to like. To me, at this age, it was a sanctuary full of forts and toys that I loved to play with. I had my own room, a wood loft bed, and a crazy amount of polar bear stuffed animals—and it was all mine! Life was good. My only complaint was that we were a twenty-minute drive from friends, a far distance for a child.

That day outside of my guitar lesson, my little world changed greatly.

We drove home with tears still falling, although many were falling for fear of the unknown more than from understanding the diagnosis. When we got home, several of my mom’s friends were waiting, ready to help ease the pain of her hair loss and our new knowledge that life would not always be as it had been. They had scissors, razors, paint, hair dye, and more. We were going to PLAY!

First, we all decided what we must see on mom’s head before there was no more hair to see. We dyed it multicolored. Then cut it short, then cut it into a Mohawk, before finally shaving her entire head. After it was all gone, we painted it before we looked into the mirror. Each of us created a masterpiece on her head and, of course, on our cheeks. We took pictures and laughed through each phase. It was a party.

We washed the paint away and tried on hats of all sizes, bandannas, and fabrics tied differently to see what we each liked the most. It made us feel like there was no loss, only change. Not a tear fell down my mom’s cheek, and all was going to be okay, even though each of us knew that feeling was temporary. We committed to each other that we would take on a life full of love and laughter and not waste a second of our time together.

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When my mom was sick, one thing she (and therefore we) leaned on to help us process her dying was Tibetan Buddhism. This practice of Buddhism aligned with her core before she began studying it - always working to live in the present moment with the people around her.

Through the years, as she got sicker and sicker, we would discuss together how we should not fear death and should instead live for today. Living today to the best of our abilities, being good to all of which we encounter (trees, animals, people, the ground we walk on), choosing how we leave footprints, and moving accordingly. We discussed how she would always be with us, deeply rooted in our souls and memories.

To this day, when someone asks me if I am religious, I tell them, If anything, I am Buddhist, but I call myself spiritual, not religious.

Through the spiritual practice of meditation and acceptance of her time on this earth not being as long as she had imagined, her Buddhist practice helped turn the facts into manageable feelings and helped her discuss what was happening with my brother and me. Through this acceptance, it made it possible for me to be with her through my childhood, my preteens, and on throughout each period of my life. Without the practice of Buddhism, there would be so many questions without answers, and it would be much harder for me to swallow that I would not get one more dinner with her. She would not be by my side when I got married or had my own children.

My mom gifted each of us and others she loved deeply with jewelry that had a Tibetan endless knot on it. She and I had necklaces and my brother and dad had bracelets. It was something we could wear when the going got tough to remember she was always with us. We discussed it as a symbol to help us understand that our love was lasting and would be there even after death. I knew we were all connected through the endless knot and would always stay connected through life and death. To this day, I wear a Tibetan knot around my neck often and have it tattooed on my body always for those times when I forget to breathe (more on that later).

Years passed as my mom’s cancer ravaged her body and slowly brought her fight for this life to an end when I was thirteen and she was forty-seven. I clung to different understandings of life and death through each phase of her death. Nature and love. Physical and spiritual. What it meant to combine my heart, head, and soul.

Through her passing, I discovered a different way of accessing her—through taking a moment to breathe—opening my eyes to the nature around me and slowing down. I could slow down enough to feel her presence in high-stress moments in my life as I moved forward without her physically there. But there was only one thing that pushed my thoughts straight to her without questions every time—and it was the butterfly.

Something about the carefree spirit of a butterfly encompasses what I imagine my mom as today. They are both beautiful and graceful. Nowhere and everywhere. Delicate and quick. Every time I see a butterfly flit past, I know she is smiling with me through that moment. There in my soul.

Reborn somewhere, somehow.

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The butterfly symbolizes beauty, life, and, in some cultures, souls. My butterfly tattoo means those things and many more to me. I grew up surrounded by animals, mountains, wildflowers, love, and adventure. Each spring, I would lie in a field of wildflowers, hoping that a moose would cross my path, reflecting on how amazing this life can be—how massive moose are and how everything in nature has a place—including me.

Before she passed, my mom wrote and discussed many things that she wanted me to remember if I needed to access her knowledge or my wisdom. One of these things was to trust that my father’s intentions were sound and that he was always on my team, even when it was not obvious to me. This was something that I had a tough time comprehending, especially in my teens.

My father was a well-known physician who always seemed short on time. He was a hard worker, and that was clear. But the way he showed his love was often less clear to me. He was tough on me and had high expectations. I felt like he did not understand me and, on many occasions, never would. Although we weren’t on the same page, I still respected his opinion and would try to work with him. Yet as a teenager, I did not always succeed in this.

One of the many things I brought to him during those more challenging years was that I wanted to get my first tattoo. I wanted it before I turned eighteen, and I wanted it badly. I told my father I wanted to get a butterfly tattoo to represent my mom, and that I wanted the eternity knot somehow also intertwined with the butterfly. I explained my why and waited to hear his judgment.

He said plainly, I understand your reasoning and think it is a nice sentiment that can wait until you are eighteen.

I cried and tried harder to push for a yes, as I needed him to sign the paperwork because I was underage. I fought until he reluctantly conceded.

He said, I understand and will support any decision you make as it is your body, but I really wish you would wait. Wait to see if it transforms in any way, or maybe you decide you don’t want a tattoo at all. And if you still want it the way you’ve described it or another way, once you are eighteen, I will be excited for you.

I stomped up to my room with the signature I needed for his approval in hand but with a heavy heart, knowing I had won, but not in the way I wanted.

I spent hours pondering whether I would take my next step with him in full support or if I would claim my body and do what I wanted now. I went through the many mementos that my mom had left me. I had kept and read journal entries from my mom to find answers in those. Based on that time of reflection, I finally decided that I wanted to have a better relationship with my dad—one full of mutual respect, honesty, and love. And I knew I had an opportunity to change our path right then and there. I went back downstairs with the signed paper in hand and returned it to him, saying only, I will wait.

Weeks went by, and we did not talk again about my request. Nothing changed, really, and I assumed we wouldn’t discuss it again until I was eighteen.

One day, I returned home from school to find a little black box sitting on the kitchen counter with a small piece of paper with my name on it. In it, there was a beautiful butterfly necklace. My father had taken my idea and created a necklace that resembled what I had described. It was beautiful, and I could not believe it—he had heard me! Understood me! His words with the gift were simple: Thank you for waiting, and I hope this brings you the same sentiment in the meantime.

From then on, our relationship blossomed. We found things we both enjoyed doing, and we started choosing to spend time together. We even started taking a photography class together.

And when I finally turned eighteen, I didn’t rush to get the tattoo. Giving myself a few months to have the complete image in my mind of how I wanted my first tattoo to look. It ended up being very close to what I had described to my father that day.

What I learned through that waiting period was confirmation that he did support me, just like my mom had told me. He did want me to be happy. He did love me. I did love him in return. I did want a relationship with him that was stronger, better, and smoother. I did want a butterfly tattoo with an eternity knot inside it to symbolize my mom. I did have the ability to wait.

She had done it again—helped me make my decision—even after she was gone.

phoenix tattoo

Chapter Two

The Phoenix

The death of my mother left me reeling. There were moments where I felt a pain that I could not describe with words, moments where I felt sadness like my heart was no longer in my chest, and even moments where I felt relief because the weight of her slowly dying was finally complete. All these feelings required a lot of processing and a lot of putting on a straight face to get through the day.

Overnight, everything changed. I now had to figure out how to wake myself up for school, get my brother ready and fed, make sure we had groceries and plans for lunch, and figure out how to get myself and my brother to and from our after-school activities and then home. These things individually were not rocket science, but they sure as hell felt like it sometimes. I was thirteen years old and felt thirty as I opened my eyes the next day.

Over time, I practiced my methods of communication, both new and old, with all the adults in my life, including asking for help. Bus drivers, parents, and neighbors helped us get to and from things. They helped make sure we had lunch money and casseroles in the fridge. Those closest to us physically and emotionally made sure we were safe, calling to check in, always answering when we called, and reminding us we would be okay even when we did not feel like we would.

Our dad was navigating an even bigger nightmare in addition to a doctor’s schedule. He was suddenly in charge of everything our mom took care of, no questions asked. He was grieving and parenting in a way he had never had to do before. Where we lived made it hard for us to get home and to and from our sports and activities by ourselves. Eventually, we decided a nanny was required.

The phoenix in this story was a mix of all of us picking ourselves up from the ashes of grief and learning to be a family in our new form.

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When I was eight years old, and my brother, Michael, was five, doctors diagnosed him with type 1 diabetes. Each day was a challenge as we learned how and when his little body needed things. It came with rapid mood swings, lots of orange juice offerings, and pricking our fingers to help support him in testing his blood sugar.

One day, about a year after our mom passed, my two best friends were over, and we were obsessing over our new ear piercings. We desperately wanted to go to the local jewelry store before it closed to buy new earrings. We convinced the nanny to drive us but had to convince my brother to come along. This was not easy as he had zero interest in getting into a car with talkative older girls to buy earrings. Let’s just say we don’t blame him in hindsight.

He kicked, screamed, and begged to stay home. We debated, checked his blood sugar, and decided he would be okay for the forty-five minutes we would be away. We convinced the nanny of the same, and the four girls got in the car to set out on our journey.

Before leaving, I made Michael promise to answer the phone no matter what he was doing.

Ten minutes later, we were in the car, driving across a mountain pass between two canyons to get to the freeway and head to the mall. Suddenly, I had a funny feeling that I should check on my eleven-year-old brother, so I called him. I first tried his cell. My call went straight to voicemail, which immediately annoyed me. Michael promised he would answer!

I then called the house phone, but it didn’t even ring, it just went straight to the busy tone. I started to freak out and told the nanny to turn around. I kept trying to call as we headed back to the house, all talking about how annoying Michael was for not doing what he said he was going to do … boys! Our earring mission had officially failed as there wasn’t time to get there after checking on him, as the store was close to closing.

We got home as the sun was going down. We had been gone for less than twenty minutes at this point. As we pulled up to the house, we could see that all the lights in the house were on (a good sign in our minds as they were off when we left). I jumped out of the car, ready to find him and yell at him for scaring me. We got inside and immediately noticed things weren’t quite right; all the cupboards were open, the home phone was off the hook, the TVs and radios were all on, and Michael was nowhere to be found. The four of us started searching for him everywhere, and by now, we were very worried.

I stopped in the kitchen area after checking everywhere I could think of, covering my face with my hands, taking a deep breath