Funny Foreheads Tattoos

Day 8 on the Journey of slow death. Its hard not to laugh at the peculiar things Mother says and does. At 2 am, she asks for lunch. Convinced that she’s hungry, I rush to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. Unfortunately, we couldn’t bring Mum up to a seated position. Eating a meal is now a thing of the past. But, looking on the bright side, we know that liver malfunction has diminished her appetite for food, so we can rest our hearts knowing that she’s not hungry. But, it seems as though she intends to bring a sense of normalcy back into her being alive. At 4 am, she asks for tea and a breakfast sandwich, forgetting that she cannot eat or drink. I can’t help but grin at the peculiarity of the situation.

“Sandra, I can see a ball floating above my head” Mum says.

“Illusions are signaling that a fall into coma is nearing” The Nurse explains. But, I stopped believing.  

“Remove the ball please! Khalas…it’s gone” Mother continues.

An uncontrollable grin surfaces my face.  Everyone else’s face is solemnly bleak. Carol tries hard to wipe the smirk of her face. We look at mum, at each other and away. How can we bring humor back into this house while respecting the wills of the older solemn generation? I bet they’ll all wear black in the funeral. I refuse. I think I’ll wear an orange skirt, my favorite colour and mum’s too. Or perhaps I’ll wear a suit and a tie and pretend to be the second ‘man of the house.’ Two daughters in a Middle-eastern household bring shame to a family, although I never sensed to be lesser in any way. Tears will less likely flow down the cheeks of a girl with hair tied back dressed in a suit. Rather than tattooing the words “no hugs please” on my forehead, a suit ensures that women will keep a 70-80 cm distance when they offer their condolences. A handshake? Yes. A hug? No thank you.

“Get it on you’re forehead” replied dad when Mother asked him if she could get her own Tattoo. She liked the tattoos that Carol and I had chosen whilst on a family trip in Amsterdam. If memory serves me correctly, I was 16, Carol, 14. Dad didn’t have a problem with tattoos or tongue piercings, but he did have one with Mother. A year after I got my belly pierced, Mother followed suit. She was like our middle sister. My Coptic orthodox Father had unorthodox views. He always was our primary source of mixed signals.